The Lavender Patch

 

 He thinks to himself “Alright Clay, this is it, no more waiting,” as he runs his rough fingers through his thick mess of hair. It’s a glistening shade of sandy blonde, just like his mother’s. He had attempted to flatten it down to his head before leaving the house, but Clay Walker’s hair has a mind off its own. He wishes for the comfort of his old hat as he approaches his destination, but this is not an occasion to wear a hat. This is the day he will ask his sweetheart, Emmy Jo Farmer, to be his wife. Clay takes a deep breath as he bends to brush the dust off his boots. He has worn his best pair, black leather with laces up to the ankle. His manner of dress is not what most would call fashionable, but he wears it well. His pants are grey wool, and about two sizes too big, their only support coming from the hand-me down belt he wears across his narrow hips. His shirt, a light blue button up the same color as his eyes, with a crisply starched collar. The top button is undone, to accommodate his formidable neck; arms toned from endless hours of labor give shape to the sleeves of his shirt. With a smile hopelessly plastered to his face, he makes his way toward the walkway of his future wife, and crosses his fingers, just for luck.

 

The hot Tennessee sun is just beginning to set, casting its red-orange halo along the horizon. To Clay’s delight, the deep, sweet aroma of Mrs. Abigail’s lavender patch finds his nose. “Thank God for Mrs. Abigail.” Clay says as he crosses through her well-manicured yard, stopping to pick a sprig of lavender for Emmy Jo. Mrs. Abigail is sitting on her old wooden porch swing, which is about half the width of her rickety front porch. She gives Clay a wave, which he gladly returns as he continues on his way. He can see Emmy Jo’s house from here, a two story white farmhouse with brick red shutters on the windows. A great wooden porch extends from the front of the house, and wraps itself around the sides. Clinging unusually tight to the sprig of lavender in his left hand, Clay makes his way up the porch stairs, wipes the sweat from his palms, and knocks on Emmy Jo’s door.

 

“Why, hello Clay.” Says Emmy Jo’s mother, Elsie.

“Good evenin’ Mrs. Farmer, is Emmy Jo home, can I speak to her?” He says in a rush as Elsie Farmer studies the 18 year old who has come to court her daughter. She has seen Clay hanging around her little girl for some time, but has always had higher hopes for her daughter’s future than marrying a laborer. “Well, sugar, you just missed her. Bobbie Noel just came by and picked her up for a movie.” Mrs. Farmer’s words grab hold of the muscles in Clay’s stomach. He wants to say something, but can only manage a blank stare and gaping mouth.

“Would you like me to let her know you called?” she adds.

“N..no.” Clay says, “I don’t figure it’s much important anymore.” He turns, and heads down the stairs, back the same way from which he came. His head hangs, defeated. “I should have known!” He curses himself under his breath, “Bobbie Noel of all people? What could she possibly see in that loser?” He drops the sprig of lavender on the sidewalk as he leaves Emmy Jo’s yard a broken man.

 

Inside the Farmer residence, Elsie Farmer is sitting in the study. She is working on her knitting when her daughter comes down the stairs. “Was that just someone at the door, momma?” asks Emmy Jo.

“No dear, it was nobody.” Replies Elsie with the slightest lift at the corners of her lips.

“Well, I was expecting Clay Walker. I guess he changed his mind.” Emmy Jo can’t hide her disappointment, “Momma, I thought he might be the one.”

“Oh sweetheart, there are plenty of nice young men out there, don’t you worry. That Bobby Noel sure is a nice boy, you know.” Elise says to her daughter with no shame in her eyes.

“Alright momma, I’m going to go out for some air.”

“Don’t go too far, dear.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

As Emmy Jo is leaving her yard, she notices a beautiful sprig of lavender lying along the sidewalk. The stem is a little crushed, but the smell is just as intoxicating as if she were standing in Mrs. Abigail’s lavender patch. She thinks she just may go visit Mrs. Abigail, who has been a friend of her mother’s since they were schoolgirls. She makes the short walk in no time, and sees Mrs. Abigail sitting in the very spot she was when Clay passed by her twice earlier.

 

“Evenin’ Mrs. Abigail.”

“Evenin’ child, what brings you about?”

“Oh, I just wanted to stop by and see how you’ve been getting on.”

“Pretty well, I reckon. Better if you young’uns quit picking at my lavender.” Mrs. Abigail said, pointing at the sprig in Emmy Jo’s hand. “That Clay Walker come through here pickin’ at my lavender earlier, but he is a nice boy so I let him at it.”

“Wait, Clay was here?” Asks Emmy Jo.

“That boy come through here twice. First time he was happy, second time he looked like somebody done let the air out of him.” Upon hearing this, Emmy Jo throws her arms around Mrs. Abigail’s neck.

“Thank You, Mrs. Abigail!” She kisses the old woman on the cheek and starts running as fast as she can down the street, right toward Clay Walker’s door.