Sweet as Honey (Aster Valley 2)

Truman continued. “But once this meadow starts flowering for real, there’s usually a cluster of elephantella and purple coneflowers that obscures the view.” He looked at me with pinkening cheeks. “Or maybe they just distract me from it.”

I realized it wasn’t necessarily the town that provided his favorite view, but the open meadow leading down to it, no doubt the blank canvas on which he could plant any number of things. His backyard was a wide swath of land he clearly set aside just for wildflowers.

Just to make him happy.

“I’ll bet it’s gorgeous in full bloom,” I said softly, imagining it in the late-afternoon sun.

He looked back out at the land where only a scattering of pale purple and tiny yellow flowers covered most of the area. Most of the expanse of clear-cut space was still winter-ragged and barren, but I could tell Truman didn’t see it that way. He saw it covered in a riot of summer color.

“It’s amazing,” he said with a sweet smile. “I can’t wait to show it to you. I mean, if… if you come back for a visit. With Mikey and Tiller.”

“I’ll bet it’s stunning.” I wanted to reach out and pull him close, nuzzle into his neck, and plant kisses along his smooth skin. But I knew that if I started something now, there’d be no dinner. “Tell me more about the shop. What got you interested in spices?”

I made my way over to the table and took a seat before sipping more of the wine. Truman followed me and took a seat as well.

“I took over the cooking after we moved to Durango,” he began. “It was one of the, um, extra chores that my parents decided I needed to do for the family.” He quickly waved that conversational direction away with a flick of his wrist. “Anyway, I really didn’t have access to much in the way of flavors. Money was tight, so we couldn’t get premade marinades or spice blends. I ended up growing some herbs the way I’d learned from Aunt Berry. My mom was really impressed when I made rosemary chicken one night using herbs I’d planted and grown myself.”

His smile was nostalgic as he remembered. “You couldn’t have been old enough for all that?” I asked.

“I was probably seven.”

“Jesus,” I muttered, thinking about the boxed Kraft Mac and Cheese and frozen pizzas I made at that age.

“And I loved it. Probably at first it was because it seemed to make my mom happy, but then I just really liked the challenge of growing obscure spices that I could use in cooking. As I got into growing the plants, I reached out to Berry for advice and remembered the medicinal ones she always had on hand. So I began to grow those, too.”

“Do you sell that stuff at the shop as well?”

Truman nodded. “Yeah, actually, I still produce and distribute several homeopathic products Berry was famous for. There’s an arnica salve that I can barely keep in stock. It’s been flying off the shelves for years. There’s also an antioxidant tea blend, but I don’t grow it. I order the leaves and make the blend. What else…? Oh. There’s a hypoallergenic organic soap I still make from her recipe, as well as a spray household cleaner. Some women’s remedies,” he added with a blush, “and nutritional support blends.”

“How do you manage all of this with so little help?” I worried about him. I knew from Mikey that Truman had a little part-time support at the shop, but it didn’t seem like he had help here at the farm itself. That was a ton of physical work for such a small man who also needed to be in two places at once and manage the accounting and everything else.

Truman peeked over at me, hesitating. “It’s not easy.”

I wanted to laugh at the understatement, but he seemed worried about my response. “No,” I said instead. “I can’t imagine it is. Why don’t you have more help? You seem to be successful. Hell, Mikey heard about the shop before he even came to Aster Valley the first time.”

He tapped the side of his wineglass with a fingernail. “I tried to hire help when I was first starting out. No one wanted to work here. With me.”

My jaw ground tight. “That’s bullshit.”

Truman’s eyes widened in surprise. “No. It’s true.”

“I don’t mean it that way. It’s ridiculous that these dumbasses would let ancient history get in the way of decent employment. I don’t get it. You were five fucking years old, for fuck’s sake!”

As my voice raised, Truman leaned farther away from me until his chair was practically tipping over. “I’d better go check on dinner,” he said quickly before scrambling for the house.

I’d scared him.

I’d scared him after he’d done absolutely nothing wrong. I was a fucking monster. He deserved better than someone with an anger problem. Better than someone like the Stanners.