Free The Taste of Lavender by Emma Shane Page A

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.

November
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