Chapter 18 The Toilet Paper Fairy
THE TOILET PAPER FAIRY
RIPLEY
Do I have a lot to do at the farm?
You bet.
Am I going to get it all done?
No problem.
But am I still going to find new ways to drive Banks crazy?
Of course I am. A challenge is a challenge is a challenge.
After I walk the dog (with Banks), do the Saturday-morning chores (with Banks), hop on my computer in my makeshift office on the living room couch in the farmhouse to pay some invoices, review production plans, and check in with the stores around the area that carry our lavender oils, soaps, sachets, lotions, and potions (without Banks, who’s presumably skulking around the lavender maze, checking for hidden cameras in its coils and twists of hedges), I grab my phone.
Make an appointment for this afternoon. Then, I text my girls as I trot upstairs to grab the laundry.
Ripley: Guess who has a plan to drive her bodyguard crazy?
Then, I tell them about the plan and the appointment I made. But Chloe’s not interested in my evil genius, evidently.
Chloe: Um, can we hear more about the hot bodyguard instead of your plans?
Bridget: As in, where can I get one?
Chloe: What she said!
Bridget: Honestly, all innkeepers should henceforth have bodyguards. Let’s make it a new town ordinance.
Chloe: I’d be all over that vote. Solidarity!
Ripley: Excuse me, can I get a word in edgewise?
Chloe: Better text faster, girl.
Bridget: Yeah, we have town bylaws to pass, Ripley. Hear ye, hear ye—I hereby declare all the women of Darling Springs who want a bodyguard shall have one.
Chloe: Some men might want them too.
Bridget: Good point. Come and get ’em! Hot bodyguards for sale here at my hot bodyguard stand!
Ripley: It’s not all it’s cracked up to be!
Chloe: La, la, la, la, la. I can’t hear you.
Ripley: He follows me everywhere!
Bridget: To the bathroom? To the shower?
Ripley: No, and no.
Chloe: To your…bedroom?
She finishes that text with the wide-open-eyes emoji. I laugh as I dump the clothes and towels in the washing machine, voice texting my reply.
Ripley: No!
Chloe: Then I’m not seeing the problem.
Bridget: Me neither.
Ripley: Why am I cursed with loving you two so much? You never see things my way.
Bridget: Because your way is wrong. And, also, my inn is all booked out for the next month! My bank account is happy!
Chloe: Things I’ve never said in my life.
I shift gears instantly as I set the timer on the machine. Chloe works at the doggie daycare in town. She loves it since she loves dogs, and moonlights as a dog trainer, but money has been a constant struggle for her.
Ripley: I heard Sheriff Simmon’s family adopted a new old Chihuahua from Little Friends. The Sheriff herself is too busy to train him and he seems to be driving her bananas. Maybe he needs some training lessons from you?
Chloe: Oooh! Because you know what I say—you can teach an old dog new tricks.
We chat about potential work for her as I rush through the house, tidying up as I go.
They tell me how much they’re keen to catch up with Haven again, since it’s been so long as I pop into the kitchen to clean coffee cups—everyone who works here, from Cyrus and Ramona to the farmhands, wander into the kitchen throughout the day to grab a cup or two or three.
But the sink is shining and empty. I didn’t expect that.
I spin around, opening a cupboard. All the mugs are put away.
That’s a surprise too. But a welcome one.
The kitchen is more immaculate than it’s ever been.
I finish my chat with my friends—finally telling them about my plan for the afternoon—when Grandma breezes in, looking fabulous in linen pants with a tie waist and short-sleeve blouse.
Dropping my phone into my shorts pocket, I whirl around, grateful for her magic touch here in the kitchen.
“Thank you for cleaning. You didn’t have to, but I sure appreciate it,” I say.
She’s retired, and I want her to enjoy her life, not clean up after me.
“Wasn’t me. Maybe the kitchen fairy came by.”
I laugh, then stop at the counter to meet her gaze across from it. “And the toilet paper fairy is still going strong.”
“The toilet paper fairy never misses a beat. She popped by this morning.”
Grandma’s been stocking all the bathrooms with toilet paper forever.
She did it when Haven and I were in high school.
When she came home from shopping, she’d drop off rolls in every bathroom.
We never once had to hunt for a roll under the cabinet because Grandma was the toilet paper fairy.
And often, the bed-making fairy, the laundry fairy, and the straightened-up-your-desk fairy. “I don’t deserve you,” I say.
“You do,” she says, then comes around the counter and drops a kiss to my forehead. “Also, I’m going to Petaluma today to see some friends. Translation: have a long lunch and get day-drunk.”
I wag a finger. “Don’t drive.”
“Please. Daisy’s picking me up in a few minutes. She’s our DD and always has been.”
“God bless Sober D.”
“Indeed.”
I shoo her out of the kitchen. “Now go enjoy your wine and girl time. You deserve it.”
“I do. But so do you,” she says, then waves goodbye.
I check the time on my phone. A zing of anticipation thrums through me.
Only twenty more minutes till our appointment.
As I grab my canvas bag from a hook in the foyer, a name I haven’t seen in more than a year flashes in my texts.
My ex, Eric Patrick. Intrigued, I click on it.
Hey, hey! How’s everything, Ripley? Looks like Darling Springs is about to become the darling of the movies.
Maybe I should open another fusion café there after all!
Would love your thoughts on that! You know the town so well.
Um, no.
I stare at the message for a beat longer. The guy ditched me because he was tired of small-town life. Now he wants to profit from it. I do have a terrible track record with men, but I also know how to use the delete button.
I lift a finger and with much fanfare, I send his text to the trash, then move on to the next one.
I tap out a text to Sheriff Simmon about her new pup, then head to the little shop on the farm.
Ramona wanted to talk to me yesterday about how to handle a complicated situation with a friend, who lately only ever talks about herself.
I rap on the door even though it’s open and she’s organizing shelves of lavender lotion. “So how are you feeling today about our chat?”
She blows out a thoughtful breath. “Well, it’s just a lot. On the one hand, do I say something the next time we’re hanging out? On the other hand, what if she’s going through something, and this is her way of coping?”
I nod sympathetically. “You never really know what someone’s going through. But maybe you can try and ask that?”
Ramona seems to consider what I’ve said. “Maybe I will. Thanks, Ripley,” she says, then nods to the gate. “Where are you and the sexy warden going?”
I smile at the nickname, then tell her my plans.
“Oh! I want a boyfriend who does that with me,” she says, a little impressed.
Better squash that notion, stat. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
She snickers.
“He’s not,” I say, more insistent.
“I mean, maybe not yet.”
“See if I get you a treat again,” I tease, then I turn around and head toward the sexy warden.
He’s waiting for me.
At the gates.
With our bikes.
But I like to keep him on his toes. Literally. “Guess what?”
“You signed us up for that pole dancing class after all and you’ve got spike heels in that bag?” he says, nodding toward my shoulder.
I pat the bag, making sure he can’t see it. “Good guess.” I mean, he’s not far off when it comes to what I’m carrying with me. “But that’s not what I was going to say.” I gesture toward my pickup, parked down the road. “We can use my truck today.”
He holds out his hand, clearly asking for keys. “I’ll drive.”
“My truck?”
“Presumably it has a steering wheel, brakes, and gas?”
“Yes,” I grumble.
“Then I’ll drive,” he says.
“But it’s my truck.”
“What if there are paps in town and we need to lose them?”
“There’s not going to be a high-speed chase.”
“You never know.” He’s not joking.
“Banks,” I press.
He sighs, then relents. “Fine,” he says, then rolls his shoulders, like he’s mentally girding himself for the indignity of being the passenger.
My mind flashes back to yesterday at the coffee shop. To him not liking naps. To him liking control. Then to now—the kitchen being pristine. “Did you clean the kitchen?”
“I did,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say genuinely. “That was thoughtful.”
“Happy to do it.”
“You don’t like messes, do you?”
“I do not,” he says.
But it’s more than that. Banks Kendrick likes to be in control of his life, his environment, his job, the premises. He likes to handle things. But people are who they are for a reason. Maybe that’s just his nature.
Or maybe once upon a time, he wasn’t able to control a damn thing.
I hand him the keys. “You can drive,” I say.
He clutches them like they’re a precious gift, then we head to my wheels.