Read Lavender Dreams free: the opening chapter
A free sample of Lavender Dreams: A Small Town Romance. About 13 minutes of reading.
Empty Spaces: Arrival | The Cottage
The gravel crunched softly under the tires as Leo pulled the car onto the drive. Havenwood. Even the name felt… gentle. He cut the engine and sat for a moment, just breathing. The air smelled of pine and something else, something sweet and floral. Lavender, he realized. It drifted on the breeze, a calming balm after the long drive. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding onto the steering wheel until his fingers started to ache.
He needed this. Needed the quiet. Needed to be somewhere that wasn't filled with the echoes of what had been. The divorce had been…civil. Painfully so. No shouting, no accusations, just a slow, quiet drifting apart. Ethan had wanted different things. A faster pace, a bigger city, a life centered on ambition. Leo had wanted… this. Or, he was beginning to think he had. He hadn’t fully understood it until it was gone.
The cottage was smaller than he remembered from the photos. A little weathered, a little overgrown. But charming. Definitely charming. It had belonged to his grandmother, Elsie. He hadn’t been back since she passed, nearly ten years ago. It felt strange, being here again. Like stepping into a faded photograph.
He killed the engine, then sat a moment longer. He really needed to get out of the car.
He swung open the driver’s side door and stretched, easing the kinks out of his back. The sun was warm on his face, a welcome change from the gray skies he’d left behind in Seattle. The cottage was a simple structure, built of weathered wood with a steeply pitched roof. Lavender bushes lined the walkway, their purple blooms swaying gently in the breeze. It looked…peaceful.
He hauled his first bag out of the trunk, then another, and another. A weekend bag, a duffel with clothes, several boxes of books. He'd brought more than he thought he would, a small library of comfort to fill the empty spaces. He really needed to get organized, but the idea felt overwhelming.
He paused, leaning against the car, and just looked. The garden was a wild tangle of flowers and overgrown shrubs. It needed work. A lot of work. But it had potential. He imagined himself spending afternoons out here, weeding and pruning, coaxing it back to life. Maybe that was what he needed to do with himself, too. Coax himself back to life.
He spotted a faded wooden sign hanging on the porch. “Elsie’s Haven,” it read, the paint chipped and peeling. A smile touched his lips. She always had called this place her haven. He hoped it could be his, too.
The key was where she’d always left it, tucked under a ceramic frog on the porch. The frog was chipped, its paint faded, but still undeniably cheerful. He inserted the key into the lock, and the door creaked open with a protesting groan.
The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of old wood. It smelled like memories. He stepped inside, and the light shifted, dimming as he crossed the threshold. The cottage was small, cozy. A living room with a stone fireplace, a small kitchen, a narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. He could see Elsie in every corner, in the mismatched furniture, the floral wallpaper, the collection of teacups on the shelf.
He dropped his bags near the doorway and took a deep breath. It felt…sad. Not heartbreakingly sad, just a quiet melancholy. A reminder of all that had passed. He needed to open some windows, let in some fresh air.
He started with the bedroom. Boxes crowded the small space, filled with the remnants of a life he’d carefully packed away. Clothes, books, kitchen things. Things that felt…distant. Things that belonged to another version of himself. He lifted a box labeled “Linens” and set it on the worn quilt covering the bed. The scent of lavender, faint but present, rose from the fabric. A ghost of his grandmother’s perfume, perhaps.
He began to unpack, folding the soft cotton sheets and tucking them into the drawers of the antique dresser. Each item he touched seemed to hold a memory, a whisper of a life lived within these walls. He found a box of photographs tucked beneath a stack of towels. Old black and white images of a young woman with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. His grandmother, Elsie.
He sat on the edge of the bed, sorting through the pictures. Elsie gardening, Elsie baking, Elsie laughing with friends. She'd been a force of nature, a whirlwind of energy and kindness. He remembered her always having a warm smile and a plate of cookies ready for him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her until now.
He paused on a photo of Elsie standing in front of the cottage, her arms outstretched. The lavender fields were in full bloom behind her, a sea of purple stretching to the horizon. She looked radiant, happy. It was a beautiful picture. And it reminded him of something he'd forgotten. Elsie hadn't just lived in this cottage. She'd thrived. She'd made it a place of joy, a place of belonging.
A tear slipped down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, feeling foolish. He hadn't cried this easily in years.
He continued unpacking, slowly, methodically. He found a box filled with Elsie’s gardening tools, rusty but well-loved. He ran his hand over the smooth wooden handle of a trowel. He hadn’t gardened since he was a child, helping his grandmother plant seeds and water flowers. He hadn’t realized how much he’d enjoyed it.
The kitchen was next. He opened the cabinets, revealing a collection of mismatched dishes and chipped teacups. He found a cookbook, its pages stained with grease and handwritten notes. Elsie’s recipes. He flipped through it, pausing on a page for lavender shortbread. He remembered the smell of those cookies, warm and buttery and infused with the scent of lavender. He'd have to make them.
He glanced out the window, and his gaze fell on the lavender fields. They stretched out before him, a sea of purple swaying in the breeze. They were beautiful. And they reminded him of Elsie. Of her love for this place, her passion for life.
He felt a stirring within him, a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could find that same joy here. Maybe he could rebuild his life, piece by piece, like a carefully tended garden.
He was tired. Exhausted, really. But it was a good kind of tired. The kind that comes from physical work, from being present in the moment. He closed the cookbook and leaned against the counter, listening to the quiet hum of the cottage.
Suddenly, a voice startled him. “Well, now. Looks like someone finally decided to come home.”
He turned around and saw an older woman standing in the doorway, a warm smile on her face. She was carrying a plate of cookies, lavender shortbread, their scent filling the kitchen.
“Mabel Bellweather,” she said, extending the plate. “I live just down the road. Elsie always said you'd be back someday.” She paused, her eyes twinkling. “And she also said you make a terrible cup of tea.”
Leo accepted the cookies, the warmth spreading through his hand. "It's been a long time," he said, his voice a little rough.
"Indeed it has," Mabel said, stepping into the kitchen. "But Havenwood has a way of drawing people back. It’s in the air, you know. The lavender, the sea breeze…it just settles into your soul.” She looked around the kitchen, her gaze lingering on the faded wallpaper and chipped teacups. “Elsie would be pleased to see someone taking care of this old place again."
He took a bite of a cookie. It tasted exactly as he remembered. Warm, buttery, and infused with the delicate scent of lavender. “It’s…perfect,” he said, a genuine smile finally reaching his lips.
Mabel chuckled. "She made the best shortbread in the county. Though I might argue with her on that point." She paused, her expression becoming a little more serious. “You've come at a good time. The Lavender Festival is just around the corner. The whole town is buzzing with excitement."
"The festival?" he asked.
“Oh, yes. It’s our biggest event of the year. Everyone comes out to celebrate the lavender harvest. Music, food, crafts…it's a wonderful time." Mabel glanced at the clock on the wall. “I should be going. I promised to help Mrs. Henderson with her prize-winning zucchini bread." She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “Welcome to Havenwood, Leo. We’re glad to have you back.”
He watched her go, a wave of warmth washing over him. He was still tired, still a little lost. But for the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope. A sense of possibility.
As Mabel disappeared down the path, Leo noticed a small, overgrown flower shop just across the street. A colorful sign hung above the door: "Petal & Pine." He hadn’t seen it before. Or, maybe he just hadn't looked. A figure was inside, silhouetted against the window, working with flowers.
He found himself drawn to it, a quiet curiosity tugging at him. Something about the shop, about the figure inside, felt…intriguing. He finished his cookie, set the plate on the counter, and walked towards the door. He had a feeling his quiet retreat might not be quite as quiet as he’d expected.
Unpacking & Discovery
Leo stepped back into the cottage, the smell of Mabel’s lavender shortbread still warm in the air. He set the empty plate on the kitchen counter and began to unpack. Boxes held his life, or what remained after the divorce, and filled the small space. He started with clothes, toiletries, a few books. But unpacking his feelings felt impossible, so he set that aside for now.
He opened a box marked “Attic, Grandmother Elsie” and memories came flooding back. Elsie gardened, baked, and found joy in simple things. He remembered summers at the cottage, helping her with the lavender, learning each flower and herb’s name.
The box held treasures. Old photos, their edges softened with time. Gardening tools, smoothed by years of use. Recipe cards, stained with flour and vanilla. He picked up a faded photo of Elsie, smiling as she held lavender. He hadn’t realized how much he missed her.
He carefully lifted a small, leather-bound sketchbook from the bottom of the box. It was tucked away, almost hidden. He opened it, and the scent of dried lavender filled the air. The pages were filled with sketches, not grand scenes, but studies of lavender. Different types, different stages of bloom. Individual petals, drawn in pencil and watercolor.
It was a quiet focus, captured on paper. He flipped through the pages, tracing Elsie’s hand. She found beauty in everyday things, a quality he felt he’d lost. He recognized she especially loved the ‘Munstead’ variety. He almost felt her beside him, guiding his hand.
He found a sketch from a few months before she died, a detailed study of a single lavender stem, its petals starting to wilt. Below it, Elsie’s delicate handwriting read: “Even in fading, there is grace.” The words touched him. He hadn’t felt much lately, except a dull ache. Elsie’s sketchbook felt like a gentle invitation to open up again, to find beauty even in sadness.
He closed the sketchbook, the lavender’s scent lingering. He needed air, needed to see what Elsie had loved. He grabbed his jacket and stepped outside, following a path away from the cottage. Soon, the small garden opened into something vast.
Rows and rows of lavender stretched out before him, a sea of purple rippling in the breeze. The scale was breathtaking. He’d seen pictures, but they couldn’t capture the perfume, the bees, the way the sunlight painted the landscape in violet and gold.
It was overgrown. Not neglected, but wild. Weeds tangled among the lavender, some taller than him. The neat rows he’d imagined were blurred, softened by nature. He ran a hand over the leaves, feeling the sun-warmed petals. It was beautiful, untamed and unpolished.
He walked further, the scent of lavender growing stronger. He noticed a weathered bench beneath a willow tree. A perfect spot to sit and be. He settled onto the bench, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The air was clean, carrying the scent of lavender and earth.
He relaxed, letting go of the tension that had built up for months. He imagined Elsie sitting beside him, her hand on his. He could almost hear her voice, gentle and reassuring. “You were always a city boy, Leo. You needed to come back here. Back to the land.”
He opened his eyes and looked out over the lavender field. It was more than flowers. It was a legacy, a connection to his past, a promise of hope. He wondered if he could cultivate it. It felt daunting. He was an architect, not a gardener. He built with steel and glass, not soil and sunshine.
A movement caught his eye. He turned and saw a man walking towards him through the lavender rows. He carried pruning shears, dressed in jeans and a faded flannel shirt, his hair tousled and sun-streaked. He had a kind face, etched with laughter.
As the man drew closer, Leo recognized him. It was the florist, the one from the shop across the street.
“Lost?” the man asked, smiling.
Leo chuckled. “Not lost, exactly. Just…exploring.”
“It’s easy to get lost in here,” the man said, gesturing with his shears. “It’s a bit of a maze, if you’re not careful.”
“I can see that,” Leo said, glancing at the overgrown rows. “It’s…wild.”
“That’s how Elsie liked it,” the man replied, as if reading his mind. “She believed a garden should be a little unruly. A reflection of life, you know?”
Leo nodded, surprised by the man’s insight. “She was a remarkable woman.”
“She was,” the man agreed, his smile softening. “I’m Finn, by the way. Finn O’Malley. I own Petal & Pine.”
“Leo Maxwell,” he said, extending his hand. “I just moved into the cottage.”
Finn shook his hand, his grip firm and friendly. “Welcome to Havenwood, Leo. Elsie’s cottage has been empty for too long.”
“Thank you,” Leo said. “It feels…good to be back.”
“She’d be happy to hear that.” Finn glanced at the sketchbook peeking out of Leo’s bag. “Is that her sketchbook? I remember her working on those for years. She was a talented artist.”
Leo hesitated, then pulled the sketchbook out and showed it to Finn. “I just found it. It’s beautiful.”
Finn flipped through the pages, his expression wistful. “She loved lavender. It was her passion.” He paused on a sketch of the ‘Munstead’ variety. “She always said it reminded her of resilience. Even when it’s been cut back, it always comes back stronger.”
Leo felt a connection to this man, a sense of understanding. He wondered if Finn knew how much he needed to hear those words. “I’m an architect,” he offered, trying to change the subject. “I design buildings.”
“That’s different from growing things,” Finn said with a chuckle. “But both require a bit of vision, don’t they?”
“I suppose so.” Leo looked at the overgrown lavender field. “I’m not sure I have much of a vision for this, though.”
Finn smiled. “Maybe you just need a little help. It takes a community to keep a place like this thriving.” He pointed towards the town. “Havenwood is full of people who care. People who are always willing to lend a hand.”
He paused, looking intently at Leo. “Tell you what. I’m helping Mabel with the lavender harvest for the festival tomorrow. Why don't you join us? Get your hands dirty. See what this place is all about."
Leo considered the offer. He hadn’t done manual labor in years. He was used to blueprints and deadlines, not soil and sunshine. But something about Finn’s invitation felt…right. A chance to connect, to belong.
“I think,” Leo said, a small smile playing on his lips, “I’d like that very much.”
Finn’s smile widened. “Good. Tomorrow, then. Be prepared for a bit of work.”
He turned to go, then paused. “Oh, and Leo?”
“Yes?”
“Elsie would have liked you.”
Finn disappeared back into the lavender rows, leaving Leo alone with his thoughts. He looked down at the sketchbook in his hands, tracing Elsie’s drawings. A sense of peace settled over him. He wasn't sure what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, he felt a glimmer of hope. He looked towards the town, wondering what tomorrow would bring. And for the first time since arriving in Havenwood, he knew he wasn't alone. He thought of Finn's words. It takes a community.
He closed the sketchbook, a sudden thought occurring to him. He hadn't noticed before, but the lavender plants nearest the cottage seemed…different. A slightly deeper shade of purple. More vibrant. He knelt down for a closer look, noticing a tiny, hand-carved wooden marker hidden among the leaves. It was barely visible, but he could make out a single word, etched into the wood: Munstead. Elsie’s favorite. He knew, with a sudden certainty, that this overgrown field held more secrets than he could have imagined.
The sample ends here.