Burning Up by Anne Marsh Page B

were a simple purchase away.
    Illusion wasn’t always a bad thing. She knew that. She’d coaxed magazine readers into looking deep inside themselves to find their fantasy lives. And then she’d broadcast those fantasies across the printed page, making the imagined real.
    When had she realized that she wasn’t chasing any of her own dreams, was too busy creating fantasies for other people? Working the farm had given her the chance to create her own line of lavender products, including the soaps displayed on the counter of the florist’s shop. The whimsical, simple packaging made it clear what she sold. Her soaps offered a moment of beauty and self-indulgence for the woman who was working her ass off to keep her family and her home together. A whiff of remembrance. Calm. And a moment of peace and tranquility. She sold more than a bar of lavender soap—she promised a frivolous, stolen moment for women who deserved a lifetime of such moments but had too many other responsibilities. That might seem a lot to lay on a little bar of soap, but damned if she wasn’t going to try.
    Miriam called a greeting from the back alley. “You bring that lavender on back here, honey. I’m just about done with this first lot.”
    Married for twenty years, Miriam always doubled up plastic chairs before she’d take the weight off her feet. “I’m too much woman for just one of them,” she’d say with a laugh. Miriam was a large, comfortable woman with a pretty face that still lit up when her man, Daniel, came through the door. Those warm eyes watched Lily now while her hands continued to strip leaves off the long ends of the lavender stems.
    Dropping onto the plastic chair next to her, Lily pulled a bucket toward herself. The thing she loved about lavender was the plant’s live-and-let-live attitude. Lavender didn’t mind a little benign neglect. You could plant the hardy purple bushes just about anywhere, leave them baking for sun-soaked hours in clay or sand. But to get the best blooms, you had to feed them, water them, to coax those woody stems to burst into flower. Lavender should have been the official flower of Strong, if the town had been large enough to merit an official flower. People here seemed a little dry and straggly and worn-down, but if you paid them a little attention, took the time to figure out what they needed, they burst right into bloom like her plants.
    Like her body insisted on doing at the simple promise of Jack Donovan.
    â€œI heard Jack Donovan came knocking on your door.” Miriam’s hands kept right on moving, four quick slices to strip the leaves and a twist of her wrist to wrap the rubber band around the ends. Miriam didn’t have to help. This was Lily’s job, but the last-minute order from the Sacramento florist was good money, and Miriam knew Lily needed the cash. So she’d pulled up a chair and grabbed a bucket.
    â€œYou don’t have to do this.” Lily indicated the buckets with a wave of her scissors.
    Miriam just shook her head. “UPS man will be here in two hours. There are a lot of empty buckets here,” she pointed out. “Plus, Mr. UPS is mighty fine-looking.” Deliberately, she winked. “This gives me an excuse to have a look.” Only a blind man could miss the love she had for her husband. “But you were telling me about Jack Donovan and this thing he has for you.”
    â€œAll he did was come by the house. Why shouldn’t he? There’s nothing more to it than that.”
    â€œNo reason at all why he shouldn’t.” Miriam’s rapid-fire work rhythm didn’t break. “But that boy had a thing for you before you took off for the city all those years ago. Can’t imagine he would be knocking on your door now just because he happened to be in the neighborhood.”
    â€œHe’s a firefighter. You know I don’t have any interest in a summer fling.”