“Banks here,” I say.
Tabitha wastes no time. “Change of plans. We need to get you started, stat. There’s a situation.”
8
GOOD-ISH
RIPLEY
I’m riding toward Main Street on my purple beach cruiser, with a bike basket of lavender bouquets slated for the gourmet market. I told Salma, the owner, I’d have this delivery to her by 2:00 p.m.—fresh and on time—for the early Thursday evening wave ofwhat’s for dinnershoppers.
Ordinarily, I’d send Cyrus with the delivery, but he took a mental health day. Which is fine. I’m all for mental health days. It’s a little annoying when healsoposts pics on social about how great the waves are at the nearest beach.
Which I only know he posted about because Ramona stomped out of the shop earlier, waggling her phone, her curls wild, her dark eyes determined to get her due, declaring she wanted to go surfing, too, like Cyrus and his boyfriend. But like a good girl, she was waiting for her day off.
“And I appreciate you coming to work,” I told Ramona.
“Thank you,” she said with a proud lift of her chin.
“I’ll get you a treat,” I said.
“That would be great,” she said, and I gave myself a mental note to thank Chloe for that tip since she’s a self-proclaimed practitioner of treat culture, getting herself rewards when she finishes errands and such.
As I near The Sweet Spot, the scent of cinnamon banana bread wafts out the open door of the white storefront that’s decorated with pink polka dots. I’ll snag some for Ramona on my return.
I’m nearly past the shop when someone shouts: “Ripley!”
I slam on the brakes, then turn toward Katrina, the makeup-free and ever-so-casual owner of the bakery. Except, now she’s the owner of the longest lashes and reddest lips I’ve seen. But the change in her makeup routine aside, maybe she sensed I was entering the treat zone. She races to the curb, where I stopped my bike.
“Hi, Katrina. I was just inhaling the banana bread,” I say, tipping my forehead to the storefront.
“Great. Awesome. So good. That’s fantastic,” she says at the speed of a locomotive as she brushes her hands over her white apron with, you guessed it, pink polka dots all over it. “I’ll get you some right away. But first, is he here? Is it true? Is he with her?” She flaps a hand in front of her face and takes a deep breath, settling her obvious excitement. “Because if he’s not, I think it might be my chance.”
But what the heck is she talking about? “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Chris Carlisle,” she says reverently, her voice breaking.
Suddenly, the makeover makes all the sense in the world. “I don’t think he’s in town yet.”
“Does he like banana bread? Will you take some to him? Tell him it’s from me. I think he’ll like it. I went to Tell Me Your Tarot and she said the man of my dreams was coming to town soon. And I am sure it’s him. But if he’s involved with your sister, I take it all back,” she says, then holds up her flour-covered hands in surrender. “I would never go after your or her guy or anyone’s guy.”
This is more info than I expected at one forty-five in the afternoon. But everything comes into focus now—why she burst out when she saw me. Like I’m the keeper of all the intel. “I have no idea if he likes banana bread, but who doesn’t like it? Also, I don’t think he’s involved with Haven.”
She squeaks. That’s the only way to describe the high-pitched sound that exits her mouth. “Be right back.” She flies into her shop and returns with a white paper bag seconds later, thrusting it at me. “Take it. In case you see him. Tell him it’s from Katrina Goldstein, owner of The Sweet Spot.”
“But what if I don’t see him?”
“Then it’s yours, and I’ll make you more tomorrow for him.”
It does smell good. Maybe Ramona’s not the only one who deserves a treat. “Okay, thanks.” I take the bag and set it in the basket next to the bouquets of Grosso, a type of French lavender that’s among the most popular.
I thank her, then shake my head in amusement as I leave. Is this the town’s new norm—obsessing over New Chris?
After I pedal across the street, I pull over by a parklet for thebreakfast café that’s now closed for the rest of the day. Jamming a hand into my back pocket, I grab my phone right as it rings with Haven’s ringtone.
“Hey. Is there something you’ve been meaning to tell me?” I ask playfully.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” she says.
