24. Cat
CAT
The harvest begins on a Thursday.
I wake before dawn, the way I have every day this week, my body tuned to the rhythm of the farm.
Iris is still asleep beside me, her face soft in the gray pre-morning light, one hand curled beneath her cheek like a child.
I watch her for a moment—the slow rise and fall of her breathing, the way her lips part slightly, the impossible length of her eyelashes—and I feel something expand in my chest.
Love. Still strange to name it. Still terrifying to feel it. But there it is, undeniable.
I slip out of bed without waking her and pad out to start the coffee. The kitchen is cool and dim, the stone floors cold under my bare feet. Through the window, I can see the first hints of pink on the horizon, the lavender fields still shadowed and waiting.
Today we begin the work that Marguerite did every summer of her life. The work that Hélène watched from these windows, painting the harvest in those bold strokes I've come to love. The work that I learned as a child and have been waiting twenty-four years to return to.
By the time Iris comes out, I have breakfast ready—eggs and bread and strong coffee, fuel for the long day ahead.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Terrified." She takes the coffee I offer, wrapping both hands around the mug. "What if I mess something up? What if I cut the stems wrong, or damage the plants, or—"
"You won't. And even if you do, it's not the end of the world." I kiss her forehead. "This is supposed to be fun, remember? The culmination of everything we've been working toward."
"Fun," she repeats skeptically. "Standing in a field for twelve hours cutting plants is fun."
"Trust me."
It is, in fact, fun.
The harvest crew arrives at sunrise—a mix of locals and seasonal workers, people who've been doing this for years and people who are learning alongside us.
Jacques directs the operation with military precision, assigning sections, demonstrating techniques, making sure everyone has the tools they need.
And Iris—my beautiful, terrified, perfectionist Iris—takes to it like she was born for this.
I watch her work her way down her assigned row, the sickle moving in smooth arcs, the lavender falling in neat bundles at her feet.
Her brow is furrowed in concentration, her movements careful and deliberate, and every few minutes she looks up to check that she's doing it right. She is. She's doing it perfectly.
"Your woman works hard," Jacques observes, appearing at my elbow.
"She's not my—" I start, then stop. Because she is, isn't she? My woman. My partner. My person. "Yeah. She does."
"Marguerite would be proud."
I blink against the sudden sting in my eyes and turn back to my own section, letting the rhythm of the work carry me through.
Cut. Bundle. Tie. Move. Cut. Bundle. Tie. Move.
The sun climbs higher. The air fills with the scent of lavender, so thick and sweet it's almost overwhelming. My shoulders ache, my back protests, and sweat runs down my spine in a steady stream.
I've never been happier.
By late afternoon, we've cleared a third of the fields. The barn is filling with bundles of lavender, hung to dry in the traditional way, and tomorrow we'll start the distillation process. But for now, we're done—exhausted, sunburned, covered in dust and plant matter.
"Bath," Iris groans as we stumble into the house. "I need a bath. Several baths. A lifetime of baths."
"There's a tub in the master bathroom. Big enough for two."
She stops walking and turns to look at me. "Is that an invitation?"
"It's whatever you want it to be."
The smile that spreads across her face is slow and warm and full of promise. "Then yes. It's an invitation."
The bathroom attached to the master bedroom is one of my favorite spaces in the house—original tile, a clawfoot tub that's big enough to swim in, windows that look out over the lavender fields.
I run the water while Iris peels off her work clothes, adding lavender oil from our own distillery because we have it and because it feels right.
"Get in," I say. "I'll be right there."
She sinks into the water with a groan of pure relief, tipping her head back against the rim. Her hair fans out around her, dark against the white porcelain, and her body is a study in shadows and light beneath the surface.
I strip off my own clothes and climb in across from her, our legs tangling in the middle. The water is hot, almost too hot, and it feels like heaven on my aching muscles.
"Today was good," Iris says, her eyes still closed. "Really good."
"You sound surprised."
"I am, a little." She opens her eyes, looking at me through the steam. "I've never done anything like that before. Physical labor. Working with my hands. Being part of something bigger than myself."
"And?"
"And I loved it." She laughs, a little breathless. "Is that crazy? That I loved spending twelve hours in a field cutting plants?"
"It's not crazy. It's exactly how Grand-mère wanted you to feel."
"She planned this too, didn't she? The timing. The harvest. She wanted us to experience it together."
"Probably." I shift closer, my hands finding her ankles beneath the water. "She was always playing the long game."
Iris is quiet for a moment. Then: "Cat?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you. For being patient with me while I figured all this out. For teaching me about the lavender and the farm and—" She gestures vaguely. "Everything."
"You taught yourself most of it. I just pointed you in the right direction."
"That's not true. You showed me what it looks like to love this place. To belong somewhere." Her voice goes soft. "I never knew what that felt like before."
I move through the water until I'm beside her, our shoulders touching. She turns her head to look at me, and her eyes are dark and deep and full of something that makes my breath catch.
"I want to stay," she whispers. "Not just for the ninety days. Not just for the inheritance. I want to stay forever."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She reaches up to touch my face, her wet fingers cool against my cheek. "I want to run this farm with you. I want to watch the seasons change. I want to grow old in this house, the way Grand-mère and Hélène did."
"That's a big commitment."
"I know. I'm making it anyway." She smiles, and there's no fear in it, no hesitation. "I choose you, Cat. I choose this life. I choose all of it."
I kiss her before she can say anything else. The water sloshes around us as I pull her close, as her arms wrap around my neck, as the kiss deepens into something hungry and urgent. She tastes like lavender and sunshine and everything I've ever wanted.
"Bedroom," I manage against her lips. "Now."
We barely make it. We stumble out of the tub, dripping everywhere, too desperate to bother with towels. I push her down onto the bed—our bed now, really ours—and cover her body with mine, and the sound she makes is better than any symphony.
This time is different from our first. There's no nervousness, no hesitation, no careful checking in every few moments.
We know each other's bodies now—know what makes the other gasp, what makes us moan, what pushes us over the edge.
I use that knowledge ruthlessly, drawing it out, building her up, bringing her to the brink and then backing off just to hear her beg.
"Cat, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please, I need—"
"Tell me what you need."
She does. In hot, desperate detail. And then I give her exactly what she asked for, watching her face as she falls apart, feeling her body shudder against mine, hearing my name torn from her throat like a prayer.
When she recovers enough to move, she flips us over with surprising strength, pinning me to the mattress with a look in her eyes that makes my stomach flip.
"My turn," she says.
And then she proceeds to take me apart piece by piece, her hands and mouth learning every inch of me, finding places I didn't know were sensitive, drawing sounds from me that I've never made before.
She's thorough and relentless and surprisingly creative for someone who claimed to have no idea what she was doing.
"Where did you—" I gasp as she does something particularly devastating with her fingers. "Where did you learn—"
"Research," she says against my hip. "I like to be prepared."
"God, I love you."
"I know. Now stop talking."
I stop talking. I stop thinking. I stop everything except feeling—her hands on my body, her mouth following the trail of her fingers, the slow inexorable build toward something I can feel gathering at the base of my spine.
When it breaks, it breaks hard. I cry out—her name, or maybe just a sound that doesn't have words—and she holds me through it, her body pressed against mine, her voice murmuring soft things I can't quite hear.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the fading light, the sheets a disaster, our bodies still humming with aftershocks.
"I meant it," Iris says quietly. "About staying."
"I know."
She shifts to look at me, propping herself on one elbow. "I've never chosen anything before. Not really. I just did what was expected."
"And now?"
"Now I'm choosing what makes me happy." She traces a finger along my collarbone. "You make me happy. This place makes me happy. The life we're building—it's the first thing that's ever felt like mine."
"It is yours. Ours." I catch her hand and bring it to my lips. "And no one is taking it away."
"You really believe that?"
"I really do."
She's quiet for a moment, her eyes searching my face. Then she smiles—a real smile, the kind that transforms her whole face, the kind I would do anything to see.
"Okay," she says. "Then I believe it too."
We fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other, the scent of lavender drifting through the open windows. Tomorrow we'll wake before dawn again, work until our bodies ache, collapse into this bed exhausted and satisfied.
Tomorrow we'll keep building this life.
Tonight, we just rest in what we've already made.