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 tocatch 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 akiss 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.”
