The Scent of Lavender

The sun’s dipping low, casting the vineyard in shades of red and orange, long shadows stretching over the rows of heavy vines. I walk the grounds slowly, feeling the soft dirt shift under my boots, breathing in the earthy scent of the grapes and soil. This place—my place, if you want the truth—stretches as far as I can see. It’s mine because I’ve worked every inch of it, felt every vine under my fingers, knew each grape before it was plucked. Renaud might own the title to it, but he’s just a name on a deed. I’m the one who knows this land, the one who tends it, shapes it.

And Isabelle… she ought to be mine too. She just doesn’t know it yet. Or perhaps she does. Yes. She must. I mean, it’s so obvious we were meant to be together.

“Marcel!”

Her voice floats toward me, soft and sweet, lilting through the vines. Isabelle’s voice. I turn slowly, keeping her waiting, savoring each second. Let her think I’m deep in my work. Let her think she’s interrupting something important. She’s coming down the hill, her auburn hair catching the last of the sunlight, her cheeks flushed, her smile warm and easy. She’s carrying a basket filled with lavender, the blooms spilling over the edge in a tumble of purple. That scent, sweet and almost sickly, reaches me even before she does, mixing with the smell of the vineyard, filling my lungs.