Butter You Up: A Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy

1. Molly

The signfor the city limits flashes past like a green UFO in the dark—Welcome to Fork Lick. Population: 4,356. I’m not even on the highway, just a little two-lane road in upstate New York, far from my hometown in Washington.

I’m late—much later than I thought I would be. The sun had set long ago, and I had to pull over twice to let Ethel, the woman who was letting me park Vaniel on her property for the summer, know that I was running late.

Her messages back were concerning.

Ethel

It’s no trouble at all. These old bones keep me awake most nights, anyway.

I’ll watch for your lights.

And please, dear, keep an eye out for Baabara. She likes to roam at night.

There are no context clues as to who Barbara is, but I’ll keep an eye out for anyone “roaming” at night. A sleepwalker? Or is she Ethel’s family? Friend? Partner? That’s a weird typo, too. Why wouldn’t the phone autocorrect to Barbara?

I toss the thought aside and shake my hands out from their death grip on the wheel. I’ve driven thousands of miles, but I still don’t enjoy driving at night. Maybe it’s trauma from encountering too many drunk drivers, or maybe it’s me losing faith in Vaniel, my trusty ten-year-old Ram van.

He’s not doing so hot right now, which is why I’m going to park at Bedd Fellows Farm for a while. I had to pause my quest to visit every lower forty-eight state when I realized my batteries would not make the trip.

Boondocking, legally parking my van for free in the wilderness, is my preferred way to spend the night, but I needed somewhere to stay with proper facilities. I found Bedd Fellows Farm on an app called Roots2Roam, which connects vanlifers with people who will let you park on their property. While some places you pay to stay, Ethel and I have arranged a deal: I’ll be mooch-docking instead, meaning I get to park for free in exchange for working eight hours a day Saturday and Sunday on their strawberry farm. Plus, I get to use their facilities,and Ethel said I’ll be parking right next to a full bathroom in their barn.

Finally, I see the Bedd Fellows Farm entrance. There’s a wooden sign hanging off a post with a row of silhouetted barns above the farm name. There’s a freshly painted matching addition hanging off the bottom that says, “Pick Your Own Strawberries.”

As I turn up the driveway, I notice a big house off to the left with lights still on, casting shadows over the lawn—I assume that’s where Ethel is. Suddenly, there’s a sharp bend around a cluster of trees, and my headlights catch on a shape right in the middle of the road. I slam on my brakes before I hit it, causing a bunch of shit in the back to slam forward.

I hope to god that my laptop’s okay.

A dust cloud catches in my headlights and gives the lump on the road a bit of an ethereal glow. The lump stares at me, jaw working and tail flicking.

A fucking sheep.

There’s a goddamn sheep blocking the road.

A door slams. “Colleen!” A woman’s voice calls out. “Baabara’s blocking the driveway again!”

The shout has come from the house, and there’s an older woman taking the steps down from the front door. She’s pronounced the name with a bleating “baaa” at the beginning. Maybe Baabara wasn’t a typo after all?

Beyond the few stairs, on the other side of the lawn, is what looks like a small building. I squint to make out what it is in the dark, but I can’t tell. It’s too big to be a doghouse. Maybe a shed? Or a child’s playhouse?

By the time the woman is halfway to my van, the house’s screen door opens again, and a younger woman about my age comes out. She’s wrapping a bathrobe around her pajama-clad body and hustles to catch up with, I’m assuming, Ethel.

I eye Baabara, and debate the possibility of a guard sheep trained to attack strangers. Before I decide, Ethel and Colleen are at my door, and I roll Vaniel’s window down. I’m sure I look like shit—it’s late and I’m tired. I haven’t had a proper shower in a few days, and my long, curly hair is up in a messy bun at the top of my head. My pale skin probably looks ghostly in the dark recesses of my van.

“You must be Molly,” the elderly lady says. She introduces herself and her granddaughter, who’s too busy staring at the sheep with her hands on her hips.

“I think I’m going to have to call Ethan,” Colleen states.

Ethel makes a tsking noise while Colleen pulls her phone out of her pocket and steps away to make the call.

“How was your drive, dear?” Ethel asks.

“Good. Sorry I’m so late.”

Ethel waves my apology away and smiles. “We’re so glad to have you here. You’re our first vanlifer!”

“I am?” That surprises me. Sure, there were no photos of vans or RVs on the site’s pictures and no reviews, but Roots2Roam is kind of a new thing. I’ve been driving around for six months, and a lot of these places are still pretty old school, getting business by word of mouth or the forums.

“Well, I saw the TikTok videos, and we have so much space here, so I thought, why not? I sure did like the look of that lake you camped by in New Hampshire.”

“Yeah, it was really pretty in the White Mountains. I miss it already.” I miss the temperature, too. The rolled-down window lets cold air in, so I pull my jacket tighter around myself. Upstate New York’s May weather is chillier than I was expecting.

Our attention is drawn past the hood of my van, where Colleen is simultaneously talking on the phone and trying to tug Baabara out of the road.

“Can you just—Well, I can’t pick her up. You don’t want Molly to drive her van over the lawn, do you? So put some pants on!” She grumbles and hangs up the phone, glaring at Baabara since she can’t glare at this guy Ethan, I suspect.

“Have you ever met a sheep, dear?”

“No, I have not.”

“Baabara’s a merino—the finest wool you can get. She’s practically my sixth grandchild. Ethan is going to come over here and complain that we spoil her, but my husband gave me Baabara, and well, maybe we spoil her a bit. After all, my Eugene did leave her some money in his will.”

A sheep inheriting money? Wow.

My headlights catch movement, and a tall figure strides out of the shadows: presumably the mysterious Ethan. He squats with his knees, wrapping both his hands around the sheep, and lifts her straight up. She blinks, completely nonplussed, as Ethan carries her and deposits her…at the child’s playhouse? What the hell?

Dusting off his hands, Ethan strides back into the darkness, shouting, “You’re welcome” over his shoulder.

“Where is he off to in such a rush?” Ethel asks when Colleen rejoins us.

“I don’t think you want to know, Gran.”

“Ah,” Ethel says with a knowing smile. She turns to me. “His ex-sweetie is back in town helping us out on the farm. Lovely woman.”

“Gran, I’ll show Molly where to go. Why don’t you go back inside?” Colleen suggests.

“Fine, fine. Molly, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She pats Vaniel’s doorframe and walks back up to the house.

“How far is it? You want a ride?” I gesture to the passenger seat.

“Sure.”

I unlock the doors and Colleen climbs in beside me. She directs me to my parking spot right next to the equipment barn, points to the door to the bathroom, and wishes me a good night before climbing out of Vaniel and walking back to the house, leaving me to get settled in.

I turn off the engine and sit for a few minutes. It’s not quiet; the sounds of early summer in upstate New York surround me, bugs chirping and leaves rustling. But I can’t even see the big house from here, just the pole barn. After a few minutes, my headlights click off, and I’m alone in the dark.

Bedd Fellows Farm isn’t quite what I envisioned. In our conversations, Ethel had made no mention of animals, talking instead about strawberries and soybeans and other crops, so encountering the sheep blockade was unexpected. Ethel seems nice, though, and Colleen might be someone I can befriend so it’s less lonely out here in the boonies. Ethel, too, I suppose. One of my many skills is making friends, regardless of age. While driving Vaniel, I meet all kinds of people but don’t hang around for long. I have to establish friendships quickly.

Finally, I get out of my seat. I flip on the single light above the kitchen and survey my home. I bought Vaniel from a couple in San Diego. Well, technically, I bought it off the woman after her partner had stomped off, declaring that van life sucked and he wouldn’t drive another inch.

The van was perfect—exactly what I’d been looking for…except that it would have taken twenty-one hours to drive it back to Spokane. Dad insisted that I start my trip from San Diego instead of bringing Vaniel back home, so my dad—who was the whole reason I was doing this trip—has never even seen my van.

Now, I’ve got fifteen states left before I hit all forty-eight continental states. I’ll hit those last fourteen states on my drive back home to Spokane, where my dad will finally get to see Vaniel in real life.

And then we’ll drive down to Oregon, to hit that final, 48th state.

I almost quit. I told Dad I was going to sell the van and fly home. The flight would be expensive, but not as expensive as Vaniel’s new batteries.

His electrical system, the one Vaniel came with when I bought him, has been limping along. I haven’t been able to boil water for my tea unless I start my engine, and that’s pretty bad. To top it off, I thought long and hard about it, and decided that the more expensive lithium batteries are the way to go–they last twice as long and increase my power storage. It’s a better option for me in the long term, and it will improve the resale value when I decide to sell Vaniel.

I’m still hoping I can get this van back to Dad, and we can do some road trips of our own.

To upgrade, I have to swap out most of the electrical system, and that’s beyond my DIY comfort level. Not only do I need to pay for the more expensive batteries, but I also need to find someone to perform the upgrade for me.

Hence, I’ve made plans to stop for the summer here. With the free parking and work on the weekends, I can pick up another part-time job to earn some money and replenish my savings. Ethel even has a lead on a job for me.

The batteries can’t wait any longer. I hope I can find a job in this small town.