One yearon
A fat bumble bee buzzes drunkenly by, spoilt for choice thanks to a garden that’s a profusion of summer blooms. It lands on a blowsy cabbage rose, one of hundreds twining the arbor.Agapanthus, nigella, Dahlias, hydrangeas, aster, and Chrysanthemum.
I’ve come to know the names and natures almost by osmosis. It’s what happens when, one year on, you decide to surprise your bride with a day to commemorate a wonderful year of marriage. A year of laughter and love, of hand holding, and shared meals, of kitchen dancing, and long walks that lead nowhere but are filled with the contentment of just being together. A year of lazy Sundays in bed and pancakes that land in your face. Of snatched moments and sex in crazy places. Of disagreements faked just for the pleasure of making up.
The day was a surprise to Lavender, though we had decided we’d hold an anniversary party.Because I’m not a complete monster.Busy with a thriving gallery, she’d happily handed the planningover to Polly. Then, behind the scenes, Primrose and the rest of the Whittington crew conspired to make the day what it has been.
A celebration of our love.
We didn’t make vows a year ago—neither of us thought to take it seriously. Yet, for the whole year we’ve lived by the code of promises never spoken.
I guess I wanted to voice my commitment, to have our family and friends bear witness to the strength of my pledge.
Lavender, my love, I vow to love you passionately. Fiercely. With everything I am and everything I have, for now and forever. This once in a lifetime love will be the focus of my exsitence and I promise to choose you every day, over and over, and forever.
She’d cried. And then she punched me in the shoulder. But the highlight was when she threw herself into my arms.
“You’re sneaky,” she’d whispered, pressing her lips into my neck. “But I’m glad you chose to do this here. In our home.”
Our home.
A place that used to stand empty much of the year, but now teems with life and family. Those of us who live there and those who just drop by. Polly calling in for Daisy’s weekly knitting lesson or Primrose “I was just in the neighborhood” when in reality it’s about snacks and the use the basement pool.
Whit and Mimi, Archer and Heather and their broods are often here, sometimes picking up when Daisy is invited to cinema trips and playdates. And sometimes, they’re just dropping off. Those are the days when the house is noisiest. The days whena full larder, fridge, and wine cellar are useful to feed the Whittington army dinner.
Sam is always more than up for the challenge, though Lavender likes to cook too, often insisting on making me her sous chef.
She loves when I play the subordinate.
The house is rarely quiet and Lavender is rarely still, but when the door closes to our bedroom in the evening, I get her once more all to myself.
Not that I mind sharing. Lavender’s family love her, and she loves them in return. By extension, I do the same. Of course, there are some family members I prefer over others… naming no names.
I never realized I was lonely before Lavender. I only know now because I feel her loss every time she isn’t near.
And there go my pretty flowers, walking across the lawn, hand in hand. Daisy, the first girl to change my life. And Lavender, my sweet, pricky cactus, who ultimately changed it forever.
She is a picture. A work of art, her dress very different to the one she wore a year ago. She looks like a woodland fairy, all billowing gauzy lace and seed pearls, her thick, dark hair curling in soft waves down her back. I close my hand around the phantom sensation of it wrapped in my fist, my cock pulsing as though the recipient of its feathering caress.
I can’t wait to see what my love is wearing under her dress this time.
Can’t wait to peel her out of it, more like.
Her eye catches mine and she smiles a secret smile. I raise my glass to her across the garden and swallow a mouthful of elderflower spritz; Polly’s signature drink for the event.
Fuck.
Tastes like flowers and fizz. Medicinal, almost. Turning, I furtively tip my glass over a pot of Gypsophila.
“Uncle Raif. Are you peeing on the plants?”
I turn to the strident voice for one so small.
“No, Gus. I was not.”
“Daddy and me pee on the plants. We call it watering the garden.”
“That’s… a visual I didn’t think I’d be cursed with today.” Lifting my gaze, I scan the garden for Whit, Gus’s father. “Remind me to decline your dad’s next invitation when he fires up the grill.”
