Chapter 6 Ms. Fix It
MS. FIX IT
RIPLEY
A week later, Hudson trundles through the emerald hills covered in lavender bushes, a used and abused tennis ball in his mouth.
I’m carefully snipping sprigs of Otto Quast lavender under the midmorning sun, phone pressed to my ear as the fast-talking, high-strung location scout at Ruby Horizons Productions rattles off not her schedule, but her sked, as if the two-syllable version takes too much time to say.
“I have a Zoom, then I review some photos from another location. And I seriously need to find a kale smoothie with oat milk, not almond milk,” she says, like that last one won’t be possible here in Darling Springs.
Oh, ye of little faith.
“Go to The Oasis. It’s a cute little smoothie shop just past the community center.
Get the Kale Yeah. It’s exactly what you’re looking for, and you can add honey or hold the honey—whatever works for you,” I say as I take the gift of the slobbery tennis ball and lob it down the hill for my Manchester-terrier-meets-cattle-dog mix with maybe some lab thrown in, but who really knows?
He shoots off chasing it, all floppy ears, wagging tail, and endless drive.
“They do?” It’s asked with utter astonishment.
Yes, and we have Wi-Fi and electric cars here too. “Yup. And, fun fact—the kale comes straight from the Simmon family gardens on the outskirts of town. It’s run by the Darling Springs sheriff’s husband. He supplies some of the best restaurants in the city.”
“Oh!”
I’ve got Juniper’s attention now—now that she knows Darling Springs exports things to the big city of San Francisco.
“And where is The Oasis?” She stops herself. “No worries. I’ll just plug it into my GPS. That works here.”
Technology is truly amazing. But her this-town-is-Podunk-USA attitude aside, I’m happy to help the gal from Los Angeles. “I can take you on the way to our tour,” I offer.
“That’d be great. Haven said you were helpful, but that’s above and beyond.”
Today, I feel above and beyond, having smashed my to-do list. I’ve already fixed the floorboard in the farmhouse where key members of the cast and crew will stay (no falling through the boards here, thank you very much), emailed security and property specs to the logistics producer on the film, prepped the Loddon Blue bunches for the farmers market this afternoon, and updated the spreadsheets for Ramona to work on later when she reviews the books to see what we can’t keep in stock in the cute little on-site shop she runs, and what else is dragging us down.
Like the lavender maze off in a corner of the farm.
Hardly anyone comes to that, which needs to change.
I could add fairy lights at night and make it a fun date destination.
It’s a twisty, curly series of hedges, with dead ends and paths that lead to a clearing in the middle.
We seriously need to get more tourism going to keep this place afloat when it’s not summertime.
I also want to start promoting have-your-own-picnics here.
Some of my lavender farm friends in Washington State have been making extra money by charging a few bucks for folks who want a nice place to enjoy a picnic lunch—in this case, in the lavender fields.
It’s an easy way to make money off our best asset—the flowers in bloom.
For now, though, best I stay focused on the film prep.
The crew arrives in three weeks. Only twenty-one more days.
Today’s tour is yet another item on my get-ready-in-record-time list. I’ve been busier than ever since Mister Ditch-A-Girl-In-Seconds-Flat sent the desk clerk to do his bidding last week.
I’ve been nothing but nonstop energy. I haven’t even thought about the ghoster.
I don’t have time. Not when the climactic wedding scene in Someone Else’s Ring is going to be shot here on the farm, as well as, oh, about ten others.
Today’s goal? Keep Juniper happy. She’s my main contact with the production company.
If she’s happy, she’ll—I hope—say nice things to Tabitha, the logistics producer, then Vega, the director, about this town.
If the director’s in a good mood, that’ll help the shoot.
If the shoot goes well, my sister’s happy.
When my sister’s happy, she can pour her big, squishy heart into her role.
Not to mention what it’ll do for the farm. But Haven first.
As Hudson artfully lopes through the blue and purple flowers that form the world’s prettiest outdoor carpet—he’s learned to run through the bushes like it’s an obstacle course for big mutts—I tell Juniper I’ll be there soon.
I finish clipping the Otto Quast and take it to Cyrus in the shop, who’s rocking out to something from the looks of it, his shaggy head of hair bobbing.
He’s got sunscreen streaks all across his pale arms. He’s as religious about applying it as he is about worshipping the sun.
When I reach him, he turns down his music. He’s listening to the Bob’s Burgers soundtrack. Again. “Thanks, bro,” he says, since he calls everyone bro, regardless of gender. “I’ll add it to the herb stash. But not my personal herb stash.”
“Appreciate that,” I say dryly, hoping he’s not seriously considering smoking the product.
I peel off my purple gardening gloves and head inside the farmhouse, lured by the yummy scent of butter and dough, and a cheery voice echoing from the kitchen.
“On n’est pas des robots.”
My grandmother repeats the French phrase in her warm, husky tone as she rolls out dough for croissants. “On n’est pas des robots. We are not robots.”
I arch a dubious brow. “Do you really think you’re going to vouch for your humanity in Paris someday?”
She looks up from her rolling pin, giving a you never know shrug. “It’s possible, love.”
“I don’t know if you’re open-minded or prepared for anything,” I say as I head to the big sink to wash my hands.
“Both,” she says, and that is my grandmother in a nutshell.
“Je suis un docteur,” the app singsongs.
Over my shoulder, I side-eye her phone. “I am a doctor?”
“Some doctors might be using this app to learn French too,” she says.
I turn off the water and dry my hands. “Even if you were a doctor, would you be spouting that phrase in Paris?” I raise an arm grandly, like I’m marching through town. “Attention! Je suis un docteur.” I come around, squeeze her shoulders. “Maybe time for a new French app, Grandma?”
But the robotic voice chatters on, saying, “Je mange du beurre.”
My grandma’s blue eyes brighten, crinkling at the corners. “Ooh! I knew it. That one is useful. I am eating butter.”
I use the diversion to pinch off a sliver of the dough and pop it in my mouth. “Me too.”
She waves a blue-and-white-striped kitchen towel my way, shooing me out of there. “You were never able to wait, Ripley,” she tuts.
“Why should I?”
“It tastes better when it’s, you know, done.”
“I guess I just like to live dangerously,” I say.
“And the gray hairs on my head are proof.”
“You don’t have any gray hairs!”
She shakes her head of platinum-blond hair like a shampoo model. “Only my stylist knows the truth.”
I bring a finger to my lips. “And Kyle never tells.”
“Exactly.” She points to the door. “Now go, you croissant thief.”
I flash her a gotcha smile. “Bet you’ll need to say that in French.”
She rolls her eyes. “Au revoir!”
“Bye, Grandma,” I say, shifting to practical mode now. “I need to take Juniper around town, but I’ll be back in a few hours. Also, when you see Ramona, remind her we need more bottles of lotion for—”
“The Slippery Dipper,” she supplies. “I know. I used to run this place.”
She ran Lavender Bliss Farms for years, before my parents died, and after too. Much longer than she planned to. Now, she takes care of the bees. She loves bees, and bees are cool. Also, they get along great with flowers, so we like to give bees a good home.
“And now you get to make croissants and study French and possibly go to Paris,” I say, hoping she hears the gratitude in my voice for all she’s done.
“Peut-être,” she says. I’ve learned by osmosis that means both perhaps and maybe. I prefer perhaps since that’s more hopeful. Grandma wants to spend the fall in Paris with her boyfriend, Laurent, a handsome Frenchman she met on a cruise last year.
And dammit, she will. As long as I can keep this place in the black.
The film should help that if everything goes as planned.
After grabbing a canvas bag, I stuff it with some lavender goodies, then head out to the garage.
I hop into my pickup truck—electric, Juniper, imagine that—and drive off to the inn a couple of miles away.
I trot up the steps and dart into the lobby, ready to say hello to Bridget, one of my besties and inn owner extraordinaire, but my plans are thwarted when the businesslike-during-the-day brunette is chatting amiably with a guest. “Of course we’ll make sure you have hot towels in your room every morning,” Bridget tells the man.
I walk behind the guest, furrowing my brow and mouthing, “Hot towels? WTF?” at Bridget, but she keeps smiling, masterful at ignoring my shenanigans.
I beeline to the lobby library, where a woman with bright-blue hair, a porcelain complexion, black glasses, and a camera slung around her neck stands against a tall bookshelf. She’s bent over a phone, swiping across the screen. “Ready for some Kale Yeah?” I ask Juniper.
She smiles. At least, I think it’s a smile. The corner of her lips moves maybe a millimeter. “Yes. Just checking my Helios Pro,” she says, her brow creased with worry.
“Cool,” I say, because I have no clue what that is.
“It’s an app that tracks the sun at different locations,” she adds, like she needs to justify what she’s up to. Maybe she’s under a lot of pressure for this film shoot too. That makes sense.