Read Lavender Fields free: the opening chapter
A free sample of Lavender Fields: Purple Embrace. About 16 minutes of reading.
New Soil: Dust & Clay
The rearview mirror offered a shrinking panorama of Seattle. Gray buildings blurred into a hazy sky, the constant thrum of the city fading with every mile. Elara didn’t look back for long. Not because she was eager to forget, but because lingering felt… exhausting.
She adjusted the worn leather of the steering wheel, her fingers tracing the grooves. The old Volvo, affectionately nicknamed “Dusty,” rattled a comfortable protest with each bump in the road. It wasn’t fancy, but it was hers. And for the first time in a long time, she felt like something truly was.
A chipped mug warmed her hands, filled with lukewarm chamomile tea. She’d brewed it hours ago, before even loading the last box into the car. It tasted faintly of cardboard and the lingering scent of packing tape, but it was soothing nonetheless.
She hadn’t planned on leaving. Not exactly. Life, as it often did, had simply… shifted. The gallery, once a vibrant hub of her energy and creativity, had become a source of quiet pressure. Daniel, her partner, hadn’t meant to stifle her, but his ambitions had slowly, subtly, begun to define her work, her days. He’d envisioned a certain kind of success, a certain kind of artist, and she’d found herself molding herself to fit his vision, smoothing the edges of her own voice until it was barely a whisper.
A flash of memory: Daniel, brow furrowed, examining a piece she’d just finished. “It’s good, Elara, really. But maybe a little… less abstract? Something with broader appeal?” She’d smiled, a tight, brittle thing, and gone back to the wheel, trying to coax the clay into a shape that felt less her and more… marketable.
She took a slow sip of the tea, the chamomile doing little to calm the ghost of that feeling. It hadn't been a dramatic explosion, no shouting or recriminations. Just a slow erosion of joy, a quiet realization that she was building a life that didn’t quite fit.
When the offer came, a small, dilapidated storefront in Havenwood, Washington, it felt like a lifeline. A tiny, dusty lifeline, but a lifeline nonetheless. She’d pictured the space, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with the scent of clay and the soft hum of the potter’s wheel. A place where she could simply create, without the weight of expectation.
Dusty coughed and sputtered as she climbed a particularly steep hill. Elara gripped the wheel tighter, glancing at the fuel gauge. She’d meant to fill up in Burlington, but had been too eager to get on the road. Now, the needle hovered dangerously close to empty.
“Just a little further, old girl,” she murmured to the car, as if it could understand. “Just a little further.”
The landscape began to change. The dense urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills, blanketed in shades of green. Pines and firs rose like silent sentinels, their branches filtering the sunlight. The air smelled cleaner, fresher, infused with the scent of pine and damp earth.
She passed a sign: “Welcome to Havenwood: Where Lavender Blooms and Dreams Grow.” A slightly cheesy slogan, perhaps, but it made her smile. It felt… hopeful.
A wave of fatigue washed over her. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of activity, sorting through her belongings, packing boxes, untangling herself from a life she’d built over years. She’d sold most of her furniture, donated clothes, and said goodbyes that felt both liberating and heartbreaking.
Her phone buzzed on the seat beside her. A text from Daniel. She hesitated before unlocking the screen.
“Just checking in. Everything okay? Long drive.”
She stared at the message for a moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. What did he want to hear? That she was miserable? That she missed him? That she was regretting her decision?
She typed a simple reply: “All good. Drive’s going well.”
It wasn’t a lie, exactly. The drive was going well. She just wasn't sharing the full story. The story about how her chest felt lighter with every mile, about how the ache of leaving was slowly being replaced by a flicker of anticipation.
She silenced her phone, tucking it back into its holder. She needed this space, this time, to focus on herself. To rediscover the artist she’d almost forgotten.
As she neared Havenwood, the scent of lavender became more pronounced, a sweet, floral perfume that filled the car. Fields of purple stretched out on either side of the road, swaying gently in the breeze. It was a breathtaking sight, a vibrant splash of color against the green hills.
She followed the directions Beatrice Hawthorne, the woman she’d been communicating with about the studio, had sent. The town itself was small, charmingly so. A main street lined with quaint shops and cafes, a town square with a gazebo, and a general sense of peacefulness that settled over her like a warm blanket.
“Clay & Bloom” was located on a side street, tucked away behind Petal & Stem, the local flower shop. It was even more dilapidated than she’d imagined. The paint was peeling, the windows were grimy, and the front porch sagged precariously.
But it had potential. She could see it, even through the layers of neglect. A cozy, inviting space, filled with light and the smell of clay. A place where she could create, teach, and connect with the community.
She parked Dusty in front of the studio and cut the engine. Silence descended, broken only by the chirping of birds and the distant hum of a lawnmower.
She sat for a moment, just breathing. The air felt different here, cleaner, slower. It was a world away from the frantic energy of Seattle.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the car door and stepped out, her legs feeling a little wobbly. She reached into the backseat and pulled out a box labeled “Essentials”, mugs, tea, a small toolkit, and a worn copy of Mary Oliver’s poems.
As she carried the box toward the studio, she noticed a woman tending to the flower shop next door. She had a cascade of fiery red hair, a bright smile, and a pair of gardening shears in her hand. She looked up and caught Elara’s eye.
“You must be Elara,” she called out, her voice warm and welcoming. “I’m Juniper. Welcome to Havenwood!”
Juniper began walking toward her, shears still in hand, a hopeful glint in her eyes. Elara managed a smile, suddenly feeling a little less alone. A little less lost.
“It’s good to be here,” she said, her voice a little shaky.
Juniper laughed, a cheerful, melodic sound. “Good. Because we’ve been waiting for you.” She paused, glancing at the dilapidated studio. “That place has been empty for far too long. It’s about time someone brought a little clay and bloom back to Havenwood.”
But as Juniper gestured toward the studio, Elara noticed something else. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway, watching them. He was tall and gaunt, with a weathered face and a wary expression. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on her, a silent, unsettling presence.
Elara felt a prickle of unease. Who was he? And what did he want?
“It’s good to be here,” she said, her voice a little shaky.
Juniper laughed, a cheerful, melodic sound. “Good. Because we’ve been waiting for you.” She paused, glancing at the dilapidated studio. “That place has been empty for far too long. It’s about time someone brought a little clay and bloom back to Havenwood.”
But as Juniper gestured toward the studio, Elara noticed something else. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway, watching them. He was tall and gaunt, with a weathered face and a wary expression. He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He simply stood there, his gaze fixed on her, a silent, unsettling presence.
Elara felt a prickle of unease. Who was he? And what did he want?
Juniper, seemingly oblivious or perhaps accustomed to his standoffishness, continued, “That’s Old Man Hemlock. Silas Hemlock. He’s…a fixture around here. Don’t mind him. He mostly keeps to himself.”
Silas didn’t react to being mentioned. He just watched.
“Come on,” Juniper said, looping her arm through Elara’s. “Let’s get you settled. I brought over some peach cobbler this morning, still warm. We can have tea in the studio once you’ve had a chance to peek inside.”
The offer was a welcome distraction. Elara allowed Juniper to steer her toward the studio, shooting one last glance at Silas. He hadn’t moved.
The inside of the studio was exactly as she expected: dusty, cluttered, and full of potential. Sunlight streamed through the grimy windows, illuminating floating dust motes. There was a large pottery wheel in the corner, covered in a tarp. Shelves lined the walls, mostly empty, but with a few forgotten bits and pieces of clay and tools.
As she walked through the space, a fragmented memory surfaced. A brightly lit, sterile gallery. A demanding voice. “More contrast, Elara. More drama. People want to feel something.” It was her former gallery owner, Arthur, pushing her to create pieces that weren’t her. Pieces that sold, yes, but at the cost of her joy. Another flash: Arthur, frowning at a delicate porcelain bird she’d painstakingly crafted. “Too…sweet. It needs an edge.”
She shook her head, trying to dislodge the memories. This was different. This wasn’t about pleasing anyone but herself.
Juniper set the covered cobbler on a small table and began opening windows, letting in a rush of fresh air. “It needs a good cleaning, of course. But look at this light! You’ll be able to do amazing things in here.”
Elara managed a genuine smile. “I think you’re right.”
She unpacked her essentials, carefully arranging the mugs and tea on the table. The weight of the Mary Oliver book in her hands felt grounding. She hadn’t had time to read in months. It had been all work, all pressure, all Arthur. The relentless demand to produce. The constant need to be seen.
Seattle hadn't felt like home for a long time, not really. Not since… well, not since it had become a battlefield of expectations. The gallery, the art scene, even the apartment she’d shared felt less like a life and more like a performance. A performance she was exhausted from maintaining.
She’d sold everything, packed Dusty with the bare minimum, and simply driven. No grand plan, just a desperate need to escape the suffocating weight of it all. Beatrice’s listing had been a lifeline. A tiny beacon of hope in a sea of uncertainty.
“So,” Juniper said, pouring tea into the mugs. “What kind of pottery do you do?”
Elara hesitated. “I…I used to do a lot of functional ware. Mugs, bowls, plates. Things people could use every day.” She avoided Juniper’s gaze. “I also like to sculpt, smaller pieces. Birds, flowers, things like that.”
“Sounds lovely,” Juniper said warmly. “We don’t have much in the way of art around here. Mostly just…practical things. It’ll be nice to have some beauty.”
As they sipped their tea, Elara glanced back at the studio door. Silas was still there, a silent sentinel. This time, however, she noticed something else. He was holding a small, wooden bird carving in his hands, turning it over and over as if studying it.
A flicker of curiosity replaced her unease. Perhaps he wasn’t just a grumpy old man. Perhaps there was more to Silas Hemlock than met the eye.
Havenwood First Impressions
Juniper gestured toward the window. “Come on, I want to give you the grand tour. Havenwood isn’t big, but it’s got character.”
Elara set her mug down, a surprising lightness lifting in her chest. “A tour sounds…wonderful.” It felt strange to accept an offer of kindness. It had been a long time since anyone had offered anything without expecting something in return.
They stepped out into the afternoon sun. The air smelled different here, cleaner, sweeter. It wasn’t the salty tang of the Puget Sound, or the exhaust fumes of the city. It was… lavender. A soft, floral scent drifted on the breeze, growing stronger as they walked.
“The lavender farms are what Havenwood is known for,” Juniper explained, her voice bright and cheerful. “Bea Hawthorne owns the biggest one, Hawthorne Lavender. She’s a local legend. Been growing lavender here for over fifty years. She’s got all sorts of products. Oils, soaps, lotions… you name it.”
They strolled along a wide, tree-lined street. Small, colorful houses lined the sidewalks, each with a well-tended garden. Window boxes overflowed with petunias and geraniums. People waved as they passed, offering friendly nods and smiles. It wasn’t the polite, distant acknowledgment of city dwellers. It felt…genuine.
“Everyone knows everyone here,” Juniper continued. “Which can be a good thing, and sometimes… a little much. But mostly, it’s a good thing. We look out for each other.”
Elara found herself smiling again, a small, hesitant curve of her lips. “It seems…peaceful.”
“It is. Most of the time,” Juniper chuckled. “We get the occasional tourist during lavender season, but it’s usually pretty quiet. We’ve got a bakery, a bookstore, a little diner… all locally owned, of course. And the town square is the heart of everything.”
They reached the town square. It was smaller than Elara had imagined, but charming. A weathered gazebo stood in the center, surrounded by benches and flowerbeds bursting with color. A small fountain trickled softly, providing a soothing background noise.
“This is where the farmer’s market is held every Saturday,” Juniper said, gesturing around. “It’s a big event. Everyone comes out. Fresh produce, baked goods, handmade crafts… it’s a good time.”
Elara noticed a group of people gathered near the fountain, chatting and laughing. An elderly woman was knitting, her needles clicking rhythmically. A young boy chased pigeons, his face alight with joy. It was a scene of simple, everyday happiness.
“It’s…lovely,” Elara admitted, her voice softer now. She was starting to feel a flicker of hope. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a mistake after all.
Juniper beamed. “I knew you’d like it. It’s a special place, Havenwood. It just…draws people in.” She paused, looking thoughtfully at Elara. “You seem a little…lost, though. If you don’t mind me saying.”
Elara stiffened, instantly retreating into her shell. “I just…needed a change.”
“A change is good,” Juniper agreed quickly. “But it’s okay to be a little lost. It’s okay to not have all the answers.” She touched Elara’s arm gently. “We all need a little help sometimes.”
Elara looked down, avoiding Juniper’s gaze. She wasn’t used to this kind of openness, this kind of empathy. It felt…disarming.
“I’m used to doing things on my own,” she mumbled.
“That’s admirable,” Juniper said, “but even the strongest trees need roots to hold them steady.” She pointed toward a building across the square. “That’s Owen’s bookstore, ‘Between the Lines’. He’s a good friend. A little bit of a bookworm, but a good friend. You should stop in and say hello.”
As they continued their tour, Juniper pointed out the local diner, “The Cozy Kettle,” and the bakery, “Sweet Surrender.” The aroma of freshly baked bread hung in the air, making Elara’s stomach rumble.
“Everything is made from scratch,” Juniper said, reading Elara’s expression. “Old Man Hemlock, Silas, he gets all the produce for the diner from his garden. It’s amazing what he grows. He's a bit gruff, but he has a heart of gold.”
Elara remembered seeing him standing by the studio. She wondered about the little wooden bird he’d been holding.
“And over there,” Juniper said, gesturing toward a field in the distance, “are the lavender farms. Miles and miles of purple. It’s breathtaking, especially at sunset.”
The field stretched out before them, a vast expanse of vibrant color. The air was thick with the sweet, calming scent of lavender. It was a sight that stirred something deep within Elara, a sense of peace she hadn’t felt in years.
“It’s…beautiful,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Juniper smiled. “It is. Lavender has a way of doing that. It’s a healing plant, you know. Calming, soothing… good for the soul.”
As they walked back towards the studio, Elara found herself relaxing, her shoulders loosening with each step. She was starting to see Havenwood not just as a place to escape, but as a place to…belong.
“So,” Juniper said, stopping in front of the studio. “What do you think? Are you starting to feel a little more settled?”
Elara hesitated. “I…I think so. It’s a lot different than Seattle.”
“Different good?” Juniper asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Different…promising,” Elara admitted, a genuine smile spreading across her face. “Thank you, Juniper. For showing me around.”
“Anytime,” Juniper said warmly. “I’m glad you’re here, Elara. Havenwood could use a little more art.” She glanced back at the studio. “And I have a feeling you’re going to bring a lot of beauty to this town.”
Juniper waved and turned to go, then paused. “Oh, one more thing. Bea Hawthorne, she’s having a little gathering at her farm tomorrow afternoon. A welcome party for you. Everyone will be there. You should come.”
Elara’s stomach tightened. A party? With people? She wasn’t sure she could handle it.
“I…I don’t know,” she stammered. “I’m not very good at parties.”
“You don’t have to be good at them,” Juniper said, her voice gentle. “Just be yourself. That’s all anyone wants.” She smiled again. “See you around, Elara.”
As Juniper walked away, Elara stood in front of the studio, watching her go. The scent of lavender filled the air, a comforting embrace. She glanced at the studio door, then at the lavender field in the distance.
Silas Hemlock was standing by the edge of the field, watching her. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile. He just stood there, a solitary figure against the backdrop of purple blossoms.
Elara couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. And for the first time since she’d arrived in Havenwood, she felt a prickle of unease. Something felt…off. It wasn't the quietness of the town, or the friendly faces. It was something else. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And it had nothing to do with lavender.
It wasn't the quietness of the town, or the friendly faces. It was something else. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And it had nothing to do with lavender.
Silas turned and walked away, disappearing into the rows of fragrant blooms. Elara shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. She told herself it was just her anxiety playing tricks on her. Years of city life had made her wary, hyper-aware of potential threats. Havenwood was different, though. Wasn’t it?
She pushed the uneasy feeling aside and unlocked the studio door. The space felt instantly calmer, a sanctuary of creativity. She needed to focus, to lose herself in her work. Maybe that would help dispel the lingering sense of being observed.
Havenwood wasn’t large. A single main street, lined with charming shops and cafes, ran through the heart of the town. Most of the residents lived on small farms surrounding the center, many dedicated to lavender cultivation. There was Old Man Tiber’s farm, known for its robust, intensely fragrant ‘Hidcote’ variety. Then there was the sprawling Hawthorne Lavender Estate, a multi-generational operation run by Bea, who Juniper said was the heart and soul of Havenwood. Smaller, boutique farms dotted the landscape, each with its own unique character and approach.
The town’s rhythm was slow and deliberate, dictated by the seasons and the needs of the lavender. During harvest, the whole community seemed to come alive, working together to cut, bundle, and distill the precious flowers. The scent of lavender permeated everything, the air, the shops, even the baked goods at Millie’s Bakery.
Juniper had explained that Havenwood had a long history as a haven for artists and creatives, drawn by the peaceful atmosphere and the natural beauty. It was a place where people could escape the pressures of modern life and reconnect with their passions. And, quietly, it had become a safe space for LGBTQ+ folks seeking community and acceptance. Juniper hadn’t explicitly said so, but Elara sensed it in the easy comfort between people, the lack of judgment, the quiet pride displayed during the annual Pride picnic.
The sense of community was palpable. Everyone seemed to know everyone else, and there was a genuine warmth and friendliness that Elara found disarming. People waved as she walked down the street, offering smiles and greetings. Millie, the baker, insisted on giving her a complimentary lavender scone, warm from the oven. Even the gruff-looking hardware store owner, Mr. Abernathy, offered a nod and a curt “Welcome to Havenwood.”
Elara spent the rest of the day unpacking and organizing her studio. She arranged her paints, canvases, and brushes, creating a space that felt both inspiring and comfortable. As she worked, she kept glancing out the window, towards the lavender fields. The colors shifted with the changing light, deepening from vibrant purple to soft lavender as the sun began to set. It was mesmerizing.
She tried to convince herself that Silas Hemlock was simply a hardworking farmer, minding his own business. That his gaze hadn’t held a hint of…something else. But the unease lingered.
Later, as dusk settled over Havenwood, Elara ventured out for a walk. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the scent of lavender and damp earth. She strolled along the main street, admiring the twinkling lights and the cozy glow emanating from the cafes.
She passed Bea Hawthorne’s farm, a sprawling estate bathed in the soft glow of string lights. Laughter and music spilled out from a large barn, clearly the source of tomorrow’s welcome party. Elara hesitated, her anxiety bubbling up again.
Juniper’s words echoed in her mind. “Just be yourself.” It sounded so simple. But being herself felt like a forgotten art. Years of hiding, of conforming to expectations, had left her feeling lost and uncertain.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the calming scent of lavender. Maybe, just maybe, Havenwood could help her rediscover who she was. Maybe, with a little courage, she could actually enjoy herself at this party.
But the lingering image of Silas Hemlock, standing alone in the lavender field, kept her cautiously optimistic. Something wasn't right. And she couldn’t shake the feeling that her arrival in Havenwood had stirred something up, something hidden beneath the town’s idyllic surface.
The sample ends here.