Chapter 1

Immediately following my father’s funeral, I fucked a stranger at a rest stop a mile from our lavender farm.

The week leading up to the funeral proved horrendous. Dad’s death sent my mother and I into a fugue. We wandered around the farmhouse like untethered specters, unable to cope with his sizeable absence. She wrung her hands and I chewed my nails.

She’d found him in the lavender, the sun dipping below the horizon, the fields on fire with sunset reds and blazing oranges. She’d hoped to share the moment with him. The heart attack had other ideas.

Tears, endless pacing, muttering in French, and vacant staring into the violet-streaked fields consumed her time. No amount of hugging, holding, and comfort eased the sorrow. Impotent and grieving, we recoiled into solitary shells.

The funeral consisted of local well-wishers offering condolences, sweets, and casseroles. Around us, the black mass moved among the lavender.

“They just don’t know,” she whispered.

“No, they don’t,” I agreed. “Go inside, let me handle the rest.”

She shook her head. “I won’t leave you to the Crows or the monks.”

“Kind of them to come.”

“Monks sense death.” She didn’t share my father’s religious pursuits, preferring more reserved, private expressions of faith.

Brother Lucius caught my eye. I looked away. My body ached and my head throbbed. I needed a man.

“That old sewing machine,” my Uncle Dart said, wrapping his hands around mine. “It really belonged to our mother. Your cousin Shell would love—”

Startled, I jerked from his grasp. “What?”

“Take the sewing machine,” Mom said, “and leave.”

Dart backed away. “We’re family, Lu. You’re as much a Crow as anyone.”

No one called Mom “Lu,” except Uncle Dart. She hated him and most of Dad’s simple, uncultured family.

“‘Vulture’ is more like it,” Mom spat. “Circling, always circling! Take the sewing machine and get off our land.”

Uncle Dart looked as though he wanted to protest, but thankfully, remained silent.

“Come, Law,” Mom said.

“I was hoping Law would bring out the sewing machine—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mom, I don’t mind helping—”

She smiled at me, then turned on Dart. “I want youto have to take it from your brother’s house—be the vulture you really are.”

I shrugged at my uncle’s shocked face. “She’s grieving.”

“We’re all grieving,” he retorted. “I lost my brother.”

Dart left with the sewing machine, and my cousins in tow. I waved but didn’t care if I ever saw them again.

Inside, Mom stared out the windows at guests as they got into their cars and drove off.

“Your father didn’t care about anything but us,” she whispered. “All this, we built for you. The farm is yours.”

The memory of my father prostrate beneath the waving lavender stems rose up like a wave. “I have to go…”

She didn’t move, or speak. I left her staring at the empty gravel parking lot and the lavender fields.

I stumbled along the long dusty driveway onto the street. Black limousines snaked by, kicking up dust as they passed. My suit smelled of lavender and dirt. I couldn’t wait to shed the clothes and get off.

Piano music played in my head, the song Dad insisted I learn, mastered days before he died. He loved hearing me play.

“Play that song again, Law,” he’d said, whisking Mom across the creaking floorboards.

Dad called me Law; the dreaded “Lawrence” came out only when I was in trouble.

The blaring of a car’s horn killed the music. The driver leaned on the horn, and gestured. I moved closer to the side, not realizing how far into the road I’d strayed, uncertain how much I cared.

Twisted and dangerous, the road wound through the mountain towns like a dusty serpent. Tourists stopped at scenic rest spots to take pictures and stretch their legs.

Sweat streamed from my armpits and back. I shed my blazer and slid off my suspenders, leaving wet stripes down my chest. The suspenders hit my legs as I walked. I pulled the sweat-damp shirt from my pants and tore the tie from my neck.

The first rest area proved unlucky as a noisy family had stopped and was eating lunch and taking pictures.

I threw my coat over my shoulder and kept walking. The second vista point/rest area was more secluded and only those who were looking for action, or seriously lost tourists, wound up there. I rounded the sharp curve in time to see a car swing into the parking lot.

I walked to the rotting wooden tables designated for picnics. Beyond this, a slatted fence of dubious repair urged people to watch their step. The other side dropped off into a pine forest. This didn’t stop me from climbing and sitting atop the rickety fence. I flung my coat and watched the jacket plummet, catch wind, and sail to its grave amid the trees.