Chapter 25
Elsie
Some summer evenings just feel so perfect, I wish I could bottle them up to pull out later in the year, when snow blankets the ground and the trees are barren.
If I could open a bottle and have a warm breeze, seagulls crying and the feel of sand beneath my toes in the dead of winter, the long season might not be so bad.
Tonight is one of those nights, the kind I want to savor, and it’s hardly even begun.
I sing along with Jo Dee Messina while I set the breakfast nook in my tiny kitchen, a catchy song about giving someone a lesson in leaving.
The setup feels very summertime in Maine: blue and white floral placemats, yellow plates, a vase of hydrangeas I snipped from the backyard earlier this afternoon.
I love a good tablescape, even if it’s just for a casual dinner with Grace and Olivia to go over wedding plans.
The ancient radio fixed to the bottom of my kitchen cabinets crackles now and then, but I’ve gotten used to it over the years. I prefer it to the Bluetooth speaker I keep tucked away on the bookcase in my living room.
There’s something about cooking in my dated kitchen while nineties country plays on the radio that makes something deep inside my chest ache, but in a way I don’t completely mind.
Like being wrapped in my favorite old blanket, the one that smells a bit like mothballs but still keeps me warm.
It’s equal parts comfort and nostalgia, the kind that makes the backs of your eyes prick when you least expect it.
While I stir the sauce for the lemon parmesan pasta, Jo Dee’s voice fades out and one of my favorite Shania songs comes on next.
I can’t help smiling and singing along while I do a quick kitchen cleanup.
I wipe down the counters, wash the few dishes in the sink, and put the ingredients I’m finished with back in the fridge.
There’s a warm breeze outside this evening, and the smell of lavender floats in from the open windows. I’d been planning to light the blueberry cobbler-scented candle on the counter, but I don’t think I need it tonight.
I’m never happier to live where I do than on peaceful summer evenings like this one. I love when every inhale smells of the lavender that fills my view every time I look out my kitchen window. I love crackly old songs on the radio, and dinner simmering on the stove, and fresh flowers on the table.
I don’t know how long I’ll get to live here, but boy, do I cherish this tiny little slice of heaven while I’m able to.
A quick knock draws my attention to the front door a second before it’s thrown open and Grace strides through it with her arms full of wine.
“Elsie, darling, thank you for having me,” she drawls dramatically. “I’ve brought beverages.”
“And by that, she means that she cleared Marty’s out of their entire stock of rosé,” Olivia says, following Grace through the door and closing it behind her.
Marty’s on Main isn’t the only liquor store in town, but it’s the one we’ve been going to since we were eighteen years old and Grace’s boyfriend would sell us alcohol underaged.
His uncle, the original Marty, had to have known what was going on, but he never said anything.
We owe them a lifetime of gratitude, so we’d never dream of going to one of the other, newer stores in town.
“Drama queen,” Grace scolds, unloading her haul onto the counter by the fridge. One by one, she begins loading them into the fridge. “I grabbed one of each kind because I can never remember which ones we actually like.”
“That’s fair,” I tell her. “Open one up and we can have it with dinner.”
Grace grabs glasses from the cabinet and fills them each with a heavy pour while Olivia scours the checklist she keeps at the front of her wedding planning binder.
I’ve never met a more organized person in my life, and I know this wedding is going to go off without a hitch.
Trying to convince Oliva of that is proving impossible, though.
She’s officially reached the frazzled stage of wedding planning. With four weeks left until the big day, the panic is starting to set in.
Not about marrying Cam. God, the two of them are soulmates in every universe.
But my girl is type A through and through, and she thrives on checklists and planning.
She wants the wedding to be flawless, because she’s the one planning it.
She’s been carrying that crazy binder everywhere she goes for months now, just in case an idea comes to her and she needs to jot it down, or to double- and triple-check something when she suddenly can’t remember if she already took care of it or not (she did).
I grab the plates from the table so I can dish up our meals and hear a muttered, “Favors. What am I going to do about the goddamn favors?”
I wince on my way back to the stove. She did have the favors all planned out, until the winery she was ordering them from suddenly closed its doors without warning.
She and Cam were going to have an assortment of small bottles of wine and sparkling grape juices with custom labels.
They’d had it planned for months, but when she called the winery last week to get an update on her order, she found the line had been disconnected.
A quick Google search showed the dreaded Permanently Closed.
The one silver lining is that the winery didn’t require them to put down a deposit for their order, so at least they don’t have to beat any doors down to get their money back.
Honestly, I’ve been impressed with the way Olivia hasn’t completely spiraled yet. I’m sure Cam’s calm energy has a lot to do with it. If she’s type A, he’s type… H, maybe? Much further down the alphabet than A or B. He balances her out in a way she didn’t realize she needed until meeting him.
As I’m dishing up the chicken cutlets – which turned out perfectly crispy, for once – along with the pasta and asparagus, a strong breeze makes the curtains flutter and I’m hit with a wave of lavender again. Despite my stress on Olivia’s behalf, it makes me smile. It always does.
It’s not until I’m walking back to the table with Grace and Olivia’s plates in hand that an idea takes hold.
Lavender.
I set my friends’ plates in front of them at the table and grab mine from the counter before sliding onto the bench beside Olivia.
“I have an idea.”
Grace takes a big gulp of her wine and looks at me expectantly while Olivia slides her plate closer and grabs her fork. “Let’s hear it.”
“Your signature drink is going to be a blueberry gin and tonic, right?”
“And blueberry lemonade for the non-drinkers,” Olivia adds, shoveling a forkful of pasta into her mouth.
“Lori makes a blueberry lavender jam that’s absolutely to die for,” I tell them.
Lori, who owns the lavender farm I’ve been living on for the last few years, makes all kinds of lavender-infused products: soaps and lotions, jams and jellies, teas, potpourri.
She sells them at the farmers market in the summer and at several of the shops in town.
Now that I’m thinking of it, I should really see if I can get some stock to sell at The Floral Chic.
“Hmm,” Olivia says around a mouthful of pasta. “That could work.”
“Ooh, what about including a cute little drink recipe with it?” Grace suggests. “I bet the jam would be delish in a cocktail.”
“Maybe you could even have some at the bar for people to mix in with the gin and tonic or lemonade,” I suggest. I cut off a piece of chicken and dredge it through the creamy sauce before popping it into my mouth.
I nearly groan at the taste. I’m not the world’s best cook, but I have a solid rotation of meals I can make well, and this is one of them.
“Okay, I’m liking this idea,” Olivia says, pushing her plate away to grab her binder again.
She flips through to the section for favors and begins jotting down some notes.
“What about the labels? The winery had a contact they were going to use for the custom labels. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. ”
“Georgia has a friend who just designed some greeting cards for me to sell at the shop, and she mocked up some business cards for me. Hang on, let me find them.” I slide out of the bench and grab my purse from where it hangs by the front door.
I rifle through it, looking for the four business cards I tucked away in a side pocket.
I find them and bring them back to the table for Olivia.
“Her calligraphy work is incredible, but she’s great at drawing and design, too. ”
Olivia examines each of the cards and I can tell by the way her eyes light up that she’s in.
“These are beautiful,” she says, handing them across the table to Grace, who has finally swapped out her wine for some actual dinner.
“Love these,” she says immediately, examining the floral pattern on my favorite one. The detail on the tiny petals is stunning. “If she can design something and get us a digital file, I bet we can find somewhere in Portland to print the labels.”
Olivia nods along, her pen scratching furiously across the paper. “Elsie, can you get me contact info for Georgia’s friend?”
“Absolutely.” I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find her number, then read it off to Olivia. “I’ll send her a text to let her know you’ll be reaching out.”
“And I’ll stop by Lori’s tomorrow and see if I can put in an order for her jam,” Olivia says, finally closing the binder and setting it on the bench on the other side of her. “We’re expecting about 125 guests, so maybe I’ll order 150 to have some extra, just in case.”
“Perfect,” Grace agrees. She nibbles on the end of an asparagus spear and grins. “I can’t believe you’re about to be a whole wife.”
“Same,” Olivia says, grinning right back at her. “I can’t wait.”