Chapter 3: Roots and Receipts
The farmhouse kitchen smelled of dust, old wood, and the faint, ghostly hint of her mother's lavender soap. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains Sarah had loved, dappling the worn linoleum floor. The silence inside felt different now – no longer just oppressive grief, but charged with the distant, vital chug-chug-chug of Old Bessie working. It was a lifeline pulsing through the old bones of the house.
Liam's words echoed: "Check the mail. Bills, probably." They sat like cold stones in Elena's stomach as she stood before the scarred oak table, piled high with the detritus of her mother's final, overwhelmed weeks. Envelopes spilled from a cracked ceramic bowl meant for fruit. Flyers advertising feed sales and equipment auctions were stacked haphazardly. A layer of fine, pale dust coated everything.
Taking a deep breath, tasting the dry air, Elena pulled out a chair. The scrape of wood on linoleum was jarringly loud. She began sorting, methodically separating obvious junk mail from the more ominous-looking official envelopes. Utility bills – electricity, water, propane – each thicker than she expected. A notice from the bank regarding the farm's operating line of credit, the words "Overdue" stamped in stark red ink. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it, skimming the figures. The sum took her breath away. How had her mother managed? The lavender farm had always seemed idyllic from afar, a passion project. She hadn't realized it teetered so precariously on the edge.
She remembered Sarah's emails, growing increasingly vague about finances over the last year, brushing off Elena's concerns with "Just a lean season, sweetheart," or "Investing in some new plants, it'll pay off!" Had she been hiding the truth? Protecting Elena? Or simply overwhelmed? The guilt twisted deeper, sharpened by the cold reality of numbers on paper.
Buried beneath a grocery store circular, she found a plain white envelope, hand-addressed to Sarah Hayes. No return address. The postmark was local, dated just two weeks before her mother passed. Inside wasn't a bill, but a simple invoice printed on slightly faded paper.
Wildhaven Blooms
To: Dr. Alistair Evans
Services Rendered: Consultation & Diagnostic Testing - Lavandula angustifolia "Hidcote"
Amount Due: $1,500.00
Terms: Net 30 Days
Elena stared. Dr. Alistair Evans? She'd never heard the name. Consultation? Diagnostic testing? On lavender? Her mother had always relied on her own decades of experience, local wisdom, maybe the county extension office for basic soil tests. Paying a private consultant, especially $1,500, felt wildly out of character, especially with the other bills piling up. And why Hidcote? That was one of her mother's oldest, hardiest varieties. What could have been wrong with it specifically?
The mystery added another layer of unease to the already crushing weight. Was this connected to the fields dying? Had her mother known something was terribly wrong and sought expert help? Why hadn't she mentioned it? And why was the invoice unpaid? Had things spiraled too fast?
A sharp rap on the screen door startled her, making her drop the invoice. She looked up to see Liam silhouetted against the bright afternoon light. He held two glass bottles dripping with condensation.
"Thought you could use this," he said, his voice slightly muffled through the screen. "Sun's a brute today." He lifted the bottles – homemade lemonade, pale yellow and inviting.
Elena quickly swept the invoice under a utility bill, a reflex she didn't fully understand. "Come in," she called, her voice sounding strained. She stood, brushing dust from her jeans.
Liam pushed the door open, stepping into the cool dimness of the kitchen. He placed the bottles on the table, his gaze taking in the chaotic spread of papers, the worry etched on her face. "Found the mail, I see," he observed quietly.
"Yeah," Elena sighed, picking up one of the lemonade bottles. The cold glass was blissful against her palm. "It's… a lot." She unscrewed the cap, the tart-sweet scent instantly transporting her. Lemonade on blistering days. Liam's words from the pump house echoed. Was this Sarah's recipe? The first sip was pure, bracing nostalgia, cutting through the dust in her throat and the tightness in her chest. "Thank you. This is exactly what I needed."
He nodded, leaning against the counter, his own bottle untouched for the moment. His eyes, that warm, observant brown, lingered on the stack of bills, then flickered back to her. "Sarah… she was proud. Didn't like asking for help. Especially with…" He gestured vaguely, encompassing the farm, the finances. "Things got harder these past couple years. Drought hit before this one. Prices fluctuated."
Elena traced the rim of her bottle. "She never told me how bad it was. Not really." The admission felt like a betrayal, both of her mother and herself. Why hadn't she pushed harder? Visited more? "I was so caught up in my own world…"
"Don't," Liam said, his voice firm but gentle. He pushed off the counter, taking a step closer. "She loved you fiercely. Talked about you all the time – your smarts, your drive. She was proud of the life you built." He met her gaze, holding it. "She wouldn't want you drowning in guilt on top of everything else. She'd want you fighting for this place, like she did. Even when it seemed impossible."
His words, simple and direct, landed with surprising force. They didn't erase the guilt, but they offered a different lens. Her mother's fierce love, her stubborn pride. Fighting for her, not just burdened by her legacy. Elena took another long drink of lemonade, the cold sweetness fortifying her.
"You're right," she said, setting the bottle down with a decisive click. "Fighting." She looked at the daunting piles of paper, then back at Liam. "The water's flowing?"
"Making its way," he confirmed. "Cleared a couple blockages. Reaching the north fields now. It'll take time to soak in deep enough to matter."
"And the plants? The ones you said might be too far gone?"
"Some are." His honesty was brutal, but necessary. "Mostly on the western slope, takes the worst of the sun. But others… we'll see green in a few days if their roots are still alive. Takes patience."
Patience. Elena wasn't sure she had any left. She had spreadsheets and deadlines and quarterly reports. Nature operated on a different, slower, crueler clock. "What do I do? Now? Besides…" She gestured helplessly at the bills.
"Learn," Liam said simply. He picked up his lemonade, finally taking a sip. "Walk the fields. Really look at them. Not just the grey parts – look for signs of life, even tiny ones. See where the water's pooling, where it's not reaching. Sarah knew every inch. You need to start knowing it too." He paused, studying her. "After you've tackled that," he nodded towards the table, "and cleaned up." His gaze dropped pointedly to her hand. The scrape was angry-looking, rimmed with dried blood and grime. She'd forgotten it entirely.
Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. "Right. The first-aid kit." She remembered his earlier instruction.
"I'll be checking the lower orchard irrigation," Liam said, moving towards the door. "Trees are thirsty too. If you want… later… I can show you what to look for in the lavender. The signs." He stopped at the threshold, the screen door casting striped shadows across him. "One thing at a time, Elena. Roots before blooms."
He stepped out into the blinding sunshine, leaving her alone again with the papers, the lemonade, and his words. Roots before blooms. Learn the land. Fight for it.
Her eyes drifted back to the stack of mail, the corner of the mysterious invoice just visible beneath the utility bill. Dr. Alistair Evans. $1,500. Another unanswered question, another root of her mother's struggle she needed to understand. But Liam was right. First things first.
Elena picked up her lemonade bottle, the cold a comfort. She took a deep breath, tasting dust, lavender ghosts, lemon, and a newfound resolve. She walked to the sink, ran the water cool, and methodically began to clean the dirt and dried blood from her scraped knuckle. The sting was sharp, grounding. One thing at a time. Clean the wound. Face the bills. Then, walk the fields. Learn the language of the dying lavender, word by painful word. The fight for Wildhaven Blooms, for her mother's soul's patch of earth, had truly begun.