"She's not my—" I start, then stop. Because she is, isn't she? My woman. My partner. My person. "Yeah. She does."
"Marguerite would be proud."
I blink against the sudden sting in my eyes and turn back to my own section, letting the rhythm of the work carry me through.
Cut. Bundle. Tie. Move. Cut. Bundle. Tie. Move.
The sun climbs higher. The air fills with the scent of lavender, so thick and sweet it's almost overwhelming. My shoulders ache, my back protests, and sweat runs down my spine in a steady stream.
I've never been happier.
By late afternoon, we've cleared a third of the fields. The barn is filling with bundles of lavender, hung to dry in the traditional way, and tomorrow we'll start the distillation process. But for now, we're done—exhausted, sunburned, covered in dust and plant matter.
"Bath," Iris groans as we stumble into the house. "I need a bath. Several baths. A lifetime of baths."
"There's a tub in the master bathroom. Big enough for two."
She stops walking and turns to look at me. "Is that an invitation?"
"It's whatever you want it to be."
The smile that spreads across her face is slow and warm and full of promise. "Then yes. It's an invitation."
The bathroom attached to the master bedroom is one of my favorite spaces in the house—original tile, a clawfoot tub that's big enough to swim in, windows that look out over the lavender fields. I run the water while Iris peels off her work clothes, adding lavender oil from our own distillery because we have it and because it feels right.
"Get in," I say. "I'll be right there."
She sinks into the water with a groan of pure relief, tipping her head back against the rim. Her hair fans out around her, dark against the white porcelain, and her body is a study in shadows and light beneath the surface.
I strip off my own clothes and climb in across from her, our legs tangling in the middle. The water is hot, almost too hot, and it feels like heaven on my aching muscles.
"Today was good," Iris says, her eyes still closed. "Really good."
"You sound surprised."
"I am, a little." She opens her eyes, looking at me through the steam. "I've never done anything like that before. Physical labor. Working with my hands. Being part of something bigger than myself."
"And?"
"And I loved it." She laughs, a little breathless. "Is that crazy? That I loved spending twelve hours in a field cutting plants?"
"It's not crazy. It's exactly how Grand-mère wanted you to feel."
"She planned this too, didn't she? The timing. The harvest. She wanted us to experience it together."
"Probably." I shift closer, my hands finding her ankles beneath the water. "She was always playing the long game."
Iris is quiet for a moment. Then: "Cat?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For being patient with me while I figured all this out. For teaching me about the lavender and the farm and—" She gestures vaguely. "Everything."
"You taught yourself most of it. I just pointed you in the right direction."
"That's not true. You showed me what it looks like to love this place. To belong somewhere." Her voice goes soft. "I never knew what that felt like before."
I move through the water until I'm beside her, our shoulders touching. She turns her head to look at me, and her eyes are dark and deep and full of something that makes my breath catch.
