Prologue
Marigold Jane Lavender escaped into her fictional world at every possible chance. Regularly unleashing her imagination, she explored made-up cities, embarked upon perilous missions, and more commonly lived out the most romantic moments between herself and her dream woman du jour. There was no doubt about it. She was a dreamer and proud of it, counting the moments until she could sneak away from the rest of civilization with a killer coffee or gourmet sandwich and lose herself in a scenario of her own making. She preferred make-believe, where everyone was funny, romantic, playful, and dramatic. Who wouldn’t want to watch their favorite self-constructed moments play out over and over again with little tweaks to make each time even better than the last? They offered her a break from day-to-day reality, calming her soul and exciting her spirit. Her daydreams would blossom, wander, and linger deliciously. They got her through the more mundane have-tos in life and offered her hope that her future would usher in a lot more excitement than her present.
Marigold was proud of all she could accomplish with just a little scenery and her unencumbered thoughts. Did that give real life an awful lot to live up to? In more ways than she could count. It was likely the reason she was still single. No real person could possibly make her feel what imaginary Marigold experienced when she was in fake love, all starry eyed and goose bump laden. How could she not be, when she’d been wined, dined, and taken up against the wooden dresser, before waking to a trail of rose petals leading to a perfectly cooked breakfast on a terrace somewhere in Europe with a monument looming out her window and a violin underscoring all of it. Ooh la la. In her daydreams, she was always smiling, perpetually gaga for her significant other, and often kissing the face of that special woman, whoever she turned out to be that particular day. And there had been many she’d cast in the role.
She had the perfect fantasizing spot, too. Her go-to sit-and-dream location was the old wooden footbridge just outside of her hometown of Homer’s Bluff. It didn’t have a name these days, but a little research had taught her that it had once been known as the Chapman Bridge, named after the family who had once owned the land. She’d been visiting the Chapman Bridge, dangling her feet over its edge, watching the river float peacefully by below ever since high school when she’d saved enough to buy a clunker of an Oldsmobile and explored every inch of town, even the outskirts, her way of getting away from the demands of high pressure teenage life. Grabbing space for herself was still a common coping skill.
When she thought about it, each of the Lavender siblings had their own way of unwinding. Her brother, Sage, threw himself into work as his escape, riding his tractor through the lavender fields for several more hours than necessary. Her younger sister, Aster, found a quiet bench and a good sci-fi novel to drift into. Violet, the oldest of the Lavender kids, busied herself worrying about the people she loved and inserting herself into their conflicts to escape her own. She grew more and more like their mother as time went on, self-sacrificing and helpful. Marigold? She dreamed her troubles away on a gorgeous, empty footbridge and wondered about a life a little bit bigger than this one. She wanted to catch flights, brunch with friends, join the board of some important charity, and land that hard to get reservation at the fanciest restaurant in the most exciting city.
She wasn’t complaining about her current existence. Not really. Her life came with plenty to smile about. In fact, she considered herself lucky in the grand scheme. Blessed, even. She liked Homer’s Bluff, Kansas, and its petite size. The simplicity of small town life allowed her to focus on enhancing the details. There were no surprises, missed opportunities, or strangers. The dependability delivered a peaceful night’s sleep because there was safety in repetition. At least, that’s what she told herself today as she dipped a toe in the cold water skating by.
The highlight for Marigold? Her family. The Lavenders were known throughout the neighboring towns for owning and operating one of the largest independently
owned lavender farms in the country. In fact, her great-grandfather had changed their last name to make it memorable. It had worked. They had the farm of forty acres, the family’s home where her dad still lived, and the store—and their products were in a rather large distribution channel. For her part, she and Violet managed The Lavender House, the on-site store that sold just about any lavender product one could dream up, most made with lavender straight from the farm just a few feet away. People seemed to really like that component and were willing to pay premium prices for local and fresh. The log house structure that housed the store smelled heavenly upon entry, and Marigold basked and danced every time she walked through its heavy door. Home. The scent of lavender would always mean home for her. Speaking of which, she checked her watch. Dammit. She’d lost track of time. Her extended lunch was coming to a close, and she would have to say good-bye to her friend the Chapman Bridge and the sound of water heading downstream, music to her ears.
“You’re back. How was Bridgerton?” Violet asked, wrapping bars of soap in purple tissue paper so she could tie them neatly with twine. They were nothing at The Lavender House if not cute and rustic at the same time. Yes, we will wrap your pretty soap with on-the-nose paper, and we will tie it up with tree parts like the forest nymphs we are.
“Ah-ah.” Marigold shook a finger. “You know that’s not its name. Its name has been long forgotten by people around here. That’s part of its beauty and mystery. Only I know.” She booped her sister’s nose because it semi-annoyed Violet, and Marigold lived for their sisterly back-and-forth, rooted in love but thriving on shenanigans.
“Any specific revelations today?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” She logged into the point of sale station so she’d be ready to assist the next customer. Business tended to pick up after lunch, and getting the little things accomplished early set them up nicely. “I’ve decided I should be named town princess and gifted a tiara. I’ve dropped it into the suggestion box at city hall. Now it’s just a waiting game.”
“You beat me to it. I was hoping for princess status.” Violet slid a strand of her dark hair over one ear. She’d cut it noticeably shorter a month ago. It hung several inches shy of her shoulders now, sophisticated as well as gorgeous. Her sister was a force and carried her eldest sibling status with grace. It hadn’t always been that way, but when they’d recently lost their mother, she’d naturally assumed a more ever-present role in the lives of her siblings. Marigold loved her for that.
“You were too busy with soap, and now you’re in the princess cold.”
“Damn. Cursing myself for it.”
“Next time, you’ll be faster. Did Aster come by while I was gone?” Their younger sister, an impressive chef with her own restaurant just outside of town, was the only Lavender not involved in the family business. It just hadn’t been for her, but it made for excellent guilt trips.
“Negative.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And I have the moisturizer Brynn likes set aside behind the counter for when she does, so don’t sell it.” Aster was wildly in love with her fiancée, Brynn Garrett, one of the town’s two veterinarians. They were expecting a child in just a couple of weeks, and Marigold couldn’t wait to get her hands on the wedding plans once the two were ready to set a date.
“We should toss in some of the essential oil, too. Aster said it helped
Brynn sleep now that she’s so uncomfortable.”
Violet reached behind her and grabbed a bottle, launching it to Marigold, who caught like a WNBA superstar. “Why haven’t they recruited me yet? I keep waiting.”
“On Bridgerton. Staring off into the wonderment of the horizon. Probably reciting sonnets.”
“Stop it. My poetry never rhymes.”
“Are you two fighting again?” Aster Lavender appeared next to them like a ninja, never one for grand entrances. She was quiet, thoughtful, and brilliant. With her dark hair pulled into a low ponytail, she was the more youthful version of Violet.
Aster looked from Violet to Marigold and blinked with her customary slight head tilt. It wasn’t always easy to tell when Aster was joking, but this had to be one of those times. Marigold and Violet rarely fought. She’d even let go of that time when she was thirteen and Violet read her diary entry about how she didn’t know how to kiss and told Sage, who mercilessly teased her.
She did now. Thank God. Even if she was short on recent practice. Something to work on.
“Fighting? Yes,” Violet said blandly. “I’m sending Marigold to work the fields with Dad and Sage.”
Marigold laughed. “That’s literally the worst thing she could think of. That tells you how opposed she is to manual labor.”
Violet studied her manicure. “Imagine the abuse one’s nails would take.”
“Poor runner-up princess. Don’t do that to yourself,” Marigold said with an empathetic pout. She swiveled to sister number two. “We have wares for you. It’s a good day.” She bent under the counter and popped up with the bag. “Here.”
“Oh.” Aster brightened. “Thanks to you both. Brynn is going to be so relieved to see more of the oil. It really did help her relax.”
“Anything for my future niece and her gorg mother,” Marigold said with confidence.
“Or nephew,” Violet tossed in. “We don’t know yet. You can’t just proclaim.”
“Speak for yourself.” Marigold placed a hand on her heart and smiled. She’d always trusted her intuition when it came in as strongly as this inkling. She was having a niece. No one could convince her otherwise. “I still don’t understand how you’ve gone so long not knowing.”
“We like the idea of finding out when we meet them,” Aster said.
Violet raised her shoulders and dropped them. “You have willpower of steel.”
Aster shrugged. “We just want a happy baby and a safe delivery for Brynn. That’s all that matters.” She blew out a slow breath, a signal she was uneasy. “I’ve been reading up on the process. There’s really a lot involved and a number of different variables for both patient and doctor to consider.” Aster was nothing if not thorough. She did her research on, well, everything. A gift and a curse as far as Marigold could see. But Aster’s impressive brain had to be fed, and for her that meant gathering information.
“You’re diving deep on childbirth?” Marigold asked and gave Aster’s hand a squeeze. “Are you sure you want to overrun your brain with all that? Let the
doctors worry.”
Violet was immediately at her side. “Plenty of time to create a list of things to worry about.” In actuality, however, the baby could arrive anytime now. They were not far from Brynn’s due date.
Aster leaned against the counter. “I’m keeping it all in perspective. The odds are in our favor for a smooth delivery. I’ve checked on those, too. Ran all the statistics.”
Marigold squeezed her hand again. “Of course you have. If you’re worried, let us know. Big sister rescue squad over here ready to shake you up a martini of joy.”
Aster laughed. “I’ve had your joyful martinis, and they aren’t for the weak. Knocked on my ass after two last time. I went home and told Brynn that if she loved me deeply, she would play with my hair and sing me Taylor Swift songs in a whisper voice until I fell asleep. She still hasn’t let me forget.”
“Now, nor will we,” Violet said sweetly.
“People go to amazing lengths when they’re in love.” Marigold sighed dreamily. “How do I get in on that?”
Aster grabbed that one. “Well, if you’re me, you pine after the same woman for years until you royally screw it up before she sweeps you off your feet forever. Now I rub her feet while she reads, and we debate baby names. It’s rad.”
“Timing is everything,” Violet said with a nod.
“Speaking of which, I have news besides the impending arrival of a child.” Aster’s eyes flashed, which said this was big. She didn’t dole out eye flashes over mundane tidbits.
“Perched and ready,” Marigold said, offering her full attention.
“I’m going to imagine you’re familiar with Alexis Wakefield.”
Marigold frowned. “Is she on a soap opera? I’m obsessed with those with no time to watch.”
“If we were on a soap opera,” Violet noted, “I could smack you in the middle of the workday.” She pretended to do so, and Marigold fell right over, not one to miss a chance for a little dramatic action.
“Perfectly timed!” she said, popping back up. They needed an Oscar.
“Okay. Are we done being weird?” Aster asked. Her mouth pulled, but she held back the grin, probably because she knew better than to encourage them.
Violet checked her watch. “Yes. Sorry. Tell us what you have cued up.”
“Alexis Wakefield is a very popular food critic, the one everyone talks about for both good and terrifying reasons. Pretty famous, actually.”
“Vaguely sounding familiar,” Marigold said. She offered the gimme-more gesture. “Keep going.”
“She has a column with the San Francisco Journal, ...
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