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The point is, they’re great friends, and very understanding. More understanding than my parents, in a way. Mom and Dad are very strait-laced, or more strait-laced than me. Mom’s got an artsy side, which she shows by making cutesy bulletin board displays for her elementary school classroom, or seasonal wreaths for the front door, but Dad’s all logical brain as an accountant. Still, they love me unconditionally. Mostly. When I told them I was opening up my goat shop, there was some doubt. Some questions about how I’d pay for health insurance or how I’d save for retirement or what I’d put on my résumé. But still, they did their best to support me. Mostly, I think, they were just happy that I had a goal and a dream. Mom even bought my first product, and it was her idea to put the secret ingredient into my oil mixture.
Speaking of. I’m still not totally certain that I can salvage that last batch of soap. I got it into the molds, but it seemed like it might have gone dry. Only time—twenty-four hours, to be exact—will tell if it’s up to Reindeer Falls Goat Farm standards.
At least it’s an excuse to focus on making another batch of one of my other favorites, Blizzard and Bliss. It’s super-soothing to make since it fills the air with lavender and vanilla. For these, I even add in a sprig of dried lavender to the edge, which has to be perfectly cut and tucked into each bar of soap.
Oh, God. I’m going to have to quadruple my output, and my sales, if I actually have to pay for land somewhere. In this economy? Outrageous. Besides, this spot is so perfect. The Cass river runs right through the property, the area is lined with trees and I’ve dangled solar lanterns from the branches to create the perfect goat yoga ambience. And I’d really hoped to offer goat retreats next summer. After all, only through a diet of goat cheese, a regimen of goat yoga, and doing light chores (like helping me make soap) can a person truly achieve goatvana.
Okay, so the slogan is a work in progress.
“Still, doesn’t that seem outrageous?” Lexi’s saying. “I mean, I can’t be the only one who thinks that. Right? Sutton, are you listening to me?”
Shit. I’m doing it again. Spacing out because my life is too jam-packed, even more so now that my entire livelihood’s been threatened.
“No, totally,” I say, pretending that I definitely heard what Lexi said. “Outrageous.”
“Thank you,” Lexi says. “Now, as I was saying…”
I swear I’m listening. Or, okay, I’m half-listening. It’s not my fault that this is a key time in the soap-making business and I have to make sure this batch transitions perfectly into the proper glossy-mashed-potato texture. Soap-making is a science, sure, but it’s also an art, and it’s an art that funds my life. And the goats.
While Lexi continues talking, I dip a pH stick in the mix to make sure it’s below ten. When I get a seven, I let out an excited yip that alarms both Linus and Lexi.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just agreeing with you, Lex.”
“Of course,” Lexi says, diving back into her story. Something about her volunteer work at the animal shelter, I think. At least, there’s lots of talk about leashes and walks.
With the pH balance at the right spot, I add in my essential oil blend, stir, and then pop it into the mold. It looks perfect already, only more so after I add the sprigs of lavender to each section that will become a bar of Reindeer Falls Goat Farm soap.
“Perfect,” I say.
“Right!” Lexi agrees. “God, thanks, Sutton. I really needed to work that out. Talk later, okay?”
And then the line clicks off. Oh, well. At least I was helpful, right? I swear sometimes the universe just works things out for you while you’re only partially paying attention.
I’m still admiring my newest batch, breathing in the calming scent of lavender, when suddenly I hear it again.
The goats are ruckusing, and by the sounds of it, they are not amused.
“What now?” I grumble, stripping off my gloves as I peek out of the barn window.
And, of course, they’re ruckusing because once wasn’t enough for a certain Sheppard brother. There’s his stupid Porsche rolling up to park in front of the barn again.
And here he is, stepping out of the car. This time, though, I notice he’s wearing some kind of work boots and he’s changed into an old pair of jeans that fit him far better than I care to dwell on.
There’s defeat in his eyes, and it makes my heart swell. Yes, please let this man have gotten the comeuppance he deserved. He was on the wrong farm. He’s come to apologize. Maybe he even brought me a present as an olive branch.
