The Taste of Lavender
The Taste of Lavender
(a novella)
by Emma Shane
P
ROLOUGE
Every person, no matter who they are or how well you think
you know them, has at least one deep dark secret. Something you’d never suspect
if you sat behind them in church or made idle chit-chat in the grocery line.
Your accountant. Your sister. Your boss or your spouse.
Somewhere, hidden under protective layers of normalcy is
something straight out of left field. An obsession, an addiction, or a
carefully concealed past. Chanting in the nude under a pregnant moon. A hidden
stash of vodka behind a collection of early American literature. Hiding the
bruises behind an unfortunate string of so-called clumsiness. Coveting thy
neighbor’s wife.
That last one? Yep, that's all mine.
Surprised? I sure was.
I'm thirty. Married. Very straight—or at least I was until
Lucas and Maribel moved into the neighborhood last April. And like the
changing season they arrived under, life as I knew it bloomed into something
else entirely.
(Two Years Ago)
“H
oney, could you let the dog out?” I
called to my husband of nine years. And like every day for the past eight
years, he ignored me. “Honey!”
A deep voice grumbled from the den. He
was, no doubt, at a crucial stage of video-game warfare. Seriously.
“Fine,” I shouted. “C’mon Skippy.”
Our lazy beagle regarded me for a minute
before getting to his feet begrudgingly. His nails ticked-tacked across the
hardwood floor as he ambled over to where I stood at the open front door. As he
trotted out to the front yard, I noticed a big yellow van parked across the
street.
“Honey, did someone finally buy the old
Ames place?” I watched as a wiry, tanned man carried box after box into the
neglected Cape Cod. Crisp shirt sleeves rolled up over his wiry forearms gave
me the impression he was more of the scholarly type than a blue collar worker.
A Professor, maybe?
Definitely a foreigner. The olive skin
and Indiana Jones attire gave off the “not from here” vibe, but then again,
America was the great melting pot. He was probably from Wisconsin. Or Scranton.
I paced to the den and leaned against
the doorway. Red-faced and zeroed in on the television, Paul was jerking the
game remote around, his fingers busy punching buttons as the sound of gunfire
echoed throughout the room.
“Hon, did you hear me?” I asked between
machine gun taps.
“Sure.” he grunted in typical response.
He could have been Tim Allen’s stand in.
I chewed on my lower lip. “Sure, what?”
He glanced over his shoulder in my
general direction, like he was waiting for a hint as to what, exactly, we were
discussing.
I gave up and returned to the living
room, where I could watch our new neighbors from behind the curtained windows
in protected anonymity. I felt a little like Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched as I
poked my nose through the wispy fabric. Oh well, at least her life gained some
excitement when Samantha moved next door. If only I could be that lucky.
I stood there for a few moments longer
dissecting the lives of our new neighbors, one piece of furniture at a time.
Eventually I found myself drooling over their monstrous carved headboard and I
knew it was time for me to get back to work. I snagged a semi-frozen can of
cola out of the fridge, a bag of sea-salt pita crisps and headed for my cramped
office at the back of the house.
I know I shouldn't complain. A lot of
people would kill to be able to work from home. And even more to get paid
working in the book industry. So I knew how lucky I was, but still, I looked
around my large-pantry-turned-small-office and shuddered at its confining four
walls. I'd even gone so far as to paint a fake window with a view of Tuscany on
the wall over my desk in an effort to make it feel more inviting.
It didn't work. From my lack of artistic
skill to the scarred brown laminate floor, my office was nothing like those
awe-inspiring offices that I routinely drooled over online.
I spent the next few hours editing a
cheesy romance novel by a well-known author. The novel was good, as good as a
bodice-ripper can be I suppose, just not my cup of Spiced-Chai. There were more
than enough mentions of heaving chests and sweat-glistened abs to last me
several lifetimes. Not to mention the level of frustration I achieved after
several hours of pouring over the words, only to find my husband loving up on
his video game instead of me. But I'd worked with the author before and her
novels put food on my table quite regularly, so I couldn’t complain.
I finished up the chapter I'd been
working on and emailed the file to the author, anticipating her response to be
yet another debate over the Oxford comma. All in a day's work I guess. It beat
clocking a regular nine-to-five, that’s for sure.
I stood and stretched. My body had
become stiff and tight as I'd hunched over my keyboard. I decided to get a
little fresh air by taking Skippy for a walk. It was either that or subject
myself to more of the punctuating gunfire still coming from the den. No
contest. Besides, maybe I could catch a glimpse of the new neighbors while I
was out and about.
My sweet pooch ignored me, preferring to
chase rabbits in his dreams instead. I let the sleeping dog lie, slipped on my
tennis shoes and stepped out into the golden afternoon sun. My mood lightened
as my skin warmed in the light.
I walked and thought; thought and
walked. I let the crisp autumn air energize my spirits as I crunched over the
fallen leaves. To get it out of the way, I mentally ran through my waiting list
of upcoming jobs and filed them away in the multi-tasking part of my brain. Then
I’d move on to the bigger issues.
I had a great job, but it was a bit of a
bore. Trim, cut, switch-around. Argue grammar versus "artistic merit"
and repeat. On the plus side, it was a job that I could do from anywhere and in
theory I should be able to travel the world like I'd always wanted to do.
In theory, my husband would also be more
of a wave-surfer than a couch-surfer. Hence why I hadn't been so much as out of
state in the last eight years. Almost daily I'd scout the best travel deals
from Bombay to Provence, but I never booked. I was too introverted to travel
alone and who else was I supposed to take with me? Skippy?
I laughed, picturing myself holding a
beagle at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe I'd put a little black beret on
him. Give the tourists something to different to photograph.
"Do all American's amuse
themselves, or is that talent uniquely your own?" A voice came from my
left. It was feminine and heavily-accented, which matched the woman who spoke
the jest.
My new neighbor, the one I'd not seen
and only surmised existed through the things being carted inside, was sprawled
lazily on a patchwork quilt under a willow tree to the side of the house. Her
thin cotton sheath rippled in the breeze, while tanned limbs snaked out from
under the fabric. Her dark, wild hair floated freely out behind her. A
Botticelli painting came to mind, if his models had been more of the svelte
kind, that is.
I wasn't sure how to respond. Me, the
grammar police, was at a loss for words. I smiled, feeling just as awkward as I
probably looked. Attractive women made me nervous; I always measured up short.
And frumpy.
“Come, sit.” She patted the quilt beside
her. “Let us get to know one another.”
I did as she asked, folding myself down
beside her.
She told me her name was Maribel. She’d
been born in western Spain, but had grown up in an Ambassador family and had
moved frequently around Europe and Asia. Her husband was Lucas and they'd been
married for only a handful of years.
In turn, I ran down my pertinent details
and we soon discovered common ground. She loved to travel and I'd always wanted
to. I was in the publishing industry and she dabbled in the literary arts. We
both craved books like an Alcoholic does a Martini and our husbands were often
left to their own devices while we drifted around in our own heads.
She told me of her plans for her new
garden: mounds of colorful flowers, pots overflowing with herbs, butterflies
lilting about lazily. I offered to show her my garden before the last of the
vegetables died off (making a mental note to do a heap of weeding before then)
and she offered to show me how to make cold frames for growing greens well into
the winter.
We talked until my voice became hoarse
and darkness drifted down like a cloak. I didn't want to leave my new neighbor,
but eventually I did. As I walked down the road to my house, I smiled and
realized just how long it had been since I had an actual, honest-to-goodness
friend.
2009
––––––––
M
y mind was a frantic mess as I scurried
around the house tidying up. I only had a few minutes to spare before Maribel
arrived and I'd yet to check myself in the mirror. That would have to wait. I
thought as I put away the dry dishes, cleaned up Skippy's random kibble from
around his bowl and generally tried to make my home more presentable.
I checked the time, like I had done for
the past two hours and hurried to the living room window. Just as I thought, I
could see my neighbor leaving her front porch. I mentally cursed and sprinted
to the mirror over the mantle. I did my best thirty-second smoothing of my run
away locks, straightened my blouse and pulled in a few cleansing breathes.
I had no idea why I was so worked up
over a simple brunch, but ever since we'd made the date a week earlier I had
been on edge and distracted. I just wanted everything to be perfect. I finally
had a friend.
As lame as that sounded, it meant more
to me than anything had in a long while. I'd been a loner most of my life and
had lost contact with most of the people I'd been close with. But Maribel was
different. We connected on some wacky, cosmic level. The thought of losing that
connection sent me into a tizzy. Just like it was doing at that moment.
A knock sounded from the door. I turned
from the mirror to see Maribel smiling at me through the warped antique glass.
Even when she looked like something Van Gogh would have painted, she was still
stunning.
I pulled open the door, attempting to
wear an easy smile, but my skin felt tight like I was wearing an avocado mask.
"Right on time!"
"It's a first, I assure you."
she joked. "I am not known for my punctuality, you see.”
We laughed together as she came into the
house. I closed the door and without thinking, I locked it. Why did I do that?
It must have been a force of habit and I found a new reason for the adrenaline
to course through my veins. Had she noticed? Did she think I was a
psycho-stalker trying to lure her into my lair?
Ye Gods, I was losing it.
"I brought some scones,"
Maribel held out a basket covered in a floral towel. "I wasn't sure what
you'd like so I went with my favorites instead."
Trying to pull myself together, I leaned
over the basket and inhaled the baked goodness."Mmmm. Lemons? Some sort of
berry?"
"Lemon Poppy seed and cream-filled
Raspberry." Maribel uncovered the pastries while nodding.
My stomach growled audibly and a flush
colored my cheeks. "Come on, I've got tea waiting in the sun room."
Maribel followed me through the kitchen
and into the converted back porch. A few years earlier we'd closed it in with multiple
banks of windows. Now it served as my space to relax and read. And have brunch
with my exotic neighbor.
"What a lovely space!" she
said gesturing to the white-washed wrought iron table and then over to the
seating area; with its overstuffed white couch and colorful throw pillows.
"The light, the colors! It's so inviting. So you!"
"Thank you. It's the one room that
feels right to me. That sounds silly, I know." I blushed yet again, and
found myself wondering how many times I could do that without having permanent
rosy cheeks?
Maribel took a seat at the bistro table
and motioned for me to join her. I hesitated briefly. I really wanted to sit
right beside her. Maribel was that kind of woman- she exuded her own
gravitational pull. Instead I sat down directly across the table from her.
"Nonsense," she replied.
"I know exactly what you mean. Every woman needs a room of her own to
allow her true self time to just be. And this is your room; every inch your
reflection."
I shook my head instinctively. I wanted
her to go on, to describe what the room said about me. But part of me was
scared that all she'd see was a scatterbrained housewife with an average
intellect, zero creativity and a painfully boring life.
"Yes, it is true." She poured
herself a glass of tea and I mentally kicked myself for forgetting my manners.
"In this room I see a creative, lovely soul who appreciates beauty in all
its forms."
My face must have been bright red. I had
no idea exactly what she'd meant, but whatever it was made me feel all fuzzy
regardless. I decided to change the subject. "So, how's the book
coming?"
She leaned back lazily. "Oh, you
know. It goes. Slowly, as the usual."
I poured my own cup of tea and wished
I'd made it decaf. I had enough trouble keeping my composure without the added
jitter. I loved spending time with Maribel, but I always found myself on edge.
It was like her opinion mattered too much to me. But I didn’t feel like
analyzing that just yet.
"Tell me about it your book."
I said.
Her expression clouded over and for a
second I wondered if I'd crossed some sort of personal line. Writers could be
odd like that, not wanting to bear their souls by speaking about works in
progress. I, of all people, should know that. But then she smiled at me, her
white teeth exposed.
"I don't usually, you know, discuss
my work. I don't ever intend to publish, for anyone to read it—ever. But with
you I think it is okay. We have a connection, yes?"
I nodded, unable to respond. My words
had forsaken me, once again. We both reached for a lemon scone, brushing our
hands together.
Her skin was somehow cool yet warm at
the same time. Lovely, it was, and I felt the absence of her touch as she
withdrew. For a moment she sat silent, lost in her own thoughts. Then she took
a tiny bite of her scone, set it down and began to tell me about her novel that
no one would ever read.
"The book I'm working on is about a
young woman on a journey. What she seeks, I do not yet know. Nothing terribly
creative or original I'm afraid."
I took a bite of my scone—and lord it
was pure baked heaven—before nodding to Maribel to continue.
"Well, I've thought about it and I
seem to keep giving her things to overcome. Some she gets past and is rewarded,
while others tasks just leave her empty and sad. Her journey is like life; good
and bad moments that matter only in that everybody has them."
I listened intently as she delved deeper
into the meaning behind her work and after a time the sound of her voice drew
me in. It’s cadence like a song, the melody so hypnotic that you don't even
notice the words. I did notice her lips, however. They were pink and full and
drawn up into a Cupid's bow. They looked so incredibly soft.
"Oh, I didn't know you had
company." My husband-of-impeccable timing stood in the doorway. Seeing him
there irritated me, which confused me even more.
"Hon, you know Maribel, from across
the street?" I said, while wondering what he was doing home in the middle
of the day.
"Right," he said. "We met
a couple of weeks ago while you were showing her the garden."
Maribel smiled in his direction and
sipped her tea. The silence stretched on, well into the awkward phase before I
managed to speak.
"Maribel brought over these
delicious scones. You want one for the road?"
"Just save me one for later. I just
stopped in to grab my wench. Johnson got the bobcat stuck again," he said
before waving goodbye to Maribel and disappearing back into the kitchen. A few
moments later I heard the front door shut.
"Sorry about that. Where were
we?" I asked Maribel, who was staring off into the garden.
"What does he do?" she asked.
Irrationally, I was a little jealous
that Maribel was interested in learning more about my husband. "He's got a
landscaping company. People pay him to update their yards, install trees and
flowers. Sometimes it involves putting in patios or water features."
"Sound interesting." she
smiled at me over her coffee mug. "Very manly."
I laughed before thinking. It was him
being described as manly by someone else. I guess I'd gotten so used to seeing
him as the pubescent video game-nerd that I'd forgot some might see him as the
macho-man type. Maybe that's because the macho man type never did much for me.
"Did I say something funny?"
Maribel's eyes twinkled. "Or remind you of something?"
I popped the last of my scone in my
mouth, savoring it. "No, I'm just odd," I said. "Hang around me
long enough and you'll see."
Maribel clasped my hand over the table.
"Good, we can be two odd peas in a pocket-thing."
God, I hope so...