He’d taken a plot of less than ideal land and turned it into something spectacular. Though I hadn’t seen it for some time, I’d heard about the combination house-warehouse that was almost finished and the rows of healthy, purple-flowered lavender plants that rolled idyllically up the short hillside. Allison had described it as a modern-ish storybook setting, a place where you felt like you could grab a book and stretch out on a giant, soft purple comforter for a few hours. As I pulled my truck to a stop on the side of the road, I concurred with her assessment. The lavender was truly beautiful, something that belonged in a Van Gogh painting, a purple escape on a sunny day. The wide, two-story house had modern lines, but they were mellowed by green clapboard siding and wide white window shutters, creating a charming new twist for the old farmhouse. The house was big, but I knew the living space took up only about half of it. The other half was a work space for Ian’s yard art and his multifaceted lavender business.
