Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“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?”