The Lavender Distillery – Part 2: Distilled

"Yes," said Chloe. "Very much."

The kiss was gentle and sweet. Remy's hand, warm from the copper, rested at the side of her face. She kissed him back, and the fragrance of lavender seemed to close around them like a blanket. A bee droned past. The still murmured behind them.

"The last batch comes off at sunset," said Remy. "After that, it is only cooling and waiting."

"We could wait together."

"I would like that very much." He grinned, a little shy. "My cottage is in the field behind the barn. There is a bed. There is a window. There is no one for two kilometres."

"Is that an invitation?"

"It is a very honest one."

They watched the last oil drip clear into the jar, golden-green, flawless. Remy sealed it with a waxed cork. Then, hand in hand, they walked through the lavender rows in the long evening light, the purple stalks brushing their knees. The sun slid down behind the hills in orange and rose. Insects hummed.

The cottage was small and whitewashed, with a blue door and a bed under the window. They undressed slowly, laughing at dusty boots and straw-stuck hair, with the scent of lavender drifting in from the fields. The night was warm. His hands were patient, hers curious and sure, and everything between them was tender and unhurried, with only the cicadas and the open window for company.

In the morning light poured gold over the fields. Chloe woke to the smell of coffee and found Remy at the stove in his old blue shirt, holding up a tiny glass bottle.

"The first oil of the harvest," he said. "For your thesis."

She took it, turned it in the light, and unstoppered it. It smelled of the whole summer.

"I'd like to name it," she said.

"What would you call it?"

"Remy's Hands." She smiled. "Or Distilled. I'll decide in October. When I come back."

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