Approaching Lavender
Rhetta’s husband Scott teased her for bringing her sketchpad along on their honeymoon: “I thought this was supposed to be just you and me. Not you, me and your hobby.”
She felt heat rise in her sunburned face at his ha-ha-only-serious tone. It wasn’t a hobby, and he knew that. Or she’d thought he did. He’d never complained about her working on her art when they were dating. He’d praised her paintings and cheerfully accompanied her to gallery hops and art shows. It had even been his idea to stop to see the Van Goghs at the museum when they drove through Cincinnati.
“I wanted to get some details of the ocean and the palm trees,” she replied.
He waved a cheap digital camera at her. The lens was smeared with sunscreen. “That’s why we have this. Put that down and let’s
