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“Yes,” she said. “Is he here?”
“Just pulled up.” Travis took the crates from her. “You get the other two, and I’ll take these.”
“Okay.” Clarissa turned back to quickly pack the nine milk bottles into two more crates. She was running a little late this morning, but with Travis’s help, no one would know. She lumbered along under the weight of the crates, once again passing them to Travis in a doorway to load into the back of Spike Gulliver’s truck.
“Morning, Spike,” Clarissa said with a smile. She paused and reached for her clipboard. She prepared this each Sunday evening with the week’s orders so she didn’t ever have to search for anything. Once a customer signed for their milk, she moved the paper to the back of the pile. Every week, the signed invoices got filed, she printed new ones, and the clipboard hung by the door for anyone to use.
Ninety-nine-percent of the time, she interacted with her milk pick-up customers, but someone else could if necessary. The system was flawless, and Clarissa’s pride grew as she handed the clipboard to Travis.
“Morning, Rissa,” Spike said, and she grinned at him as he reached for the pen Travis extended toward him. “Remember I’m going to need a double order on Thursday?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve got it noted.” She moved toward them and took the clipboard from him. She flipped several pages, as today was only Monday. “See? Right here.” She showed him the order form, which had a seventy-two circled, indicating twice as many bottles as he normally picked up.
“Great,” he said.
“Making something special?” she asked, letting the pages flip back into position. She started to move his signed invoice to the back of the pile, being careful not to let the breeze steal away any of the pages while they were untethered.
“I’m doing a demo and tasting on Friday,” he said. “For the parenting fair in town.”
Clarissa looked up. “Oh, of course. You said that. I just forgot.”
He smiled, and she found the tall, tough, bearded man about the opposite of who should be making organic baby food and then demonstrating his products at a parenting fair. He wore a plaid shirt and jean shorts to pick up his milk every Monday and Thursday, and his boots probably weighed as much as one of his tires.
“Good luck at the fair,” she said.
He saluted and got behind the wheel of his truck. As he rumbled away, Clarissa checked her next pick-up.
“Need some help?” Travis asked.
She eyed him for a moment. “Why? Don’t you have something to do?” Travis was their cleanliness expert in the milkshed. He made sure the stalls were ready for the milk cows, as they milked in four time slots throughout the day. He cleaned machines and tubes. He made sure their operation ran as sanitarily as possible—and that was a dirty job.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes turning a bit harder. “I have plenty to do. But I wanted to ask you about Belinda.” He reached up and scrubbed the back of his neck. “I texted her like you said, and she hasn’t responded.”
She slapped the clipboard against his chest and said, “Trade me, Trav. You take this and give me your phone so I can see what you said.”
He took the clipboard, but he didn’t immediately hand over his phone. “I said what you said to say.”
“Did you?” she challenged. “Then let me see.”
Travis turned away from her, his stride long and somewhat of a march. He definitely hadn’t told Belinda what Clarissa had advised him to. When would he learn? If he wanted the woman to go out with him, he had to play the game. No one knew the game better than Clarissa, and she hurried after him with, “Come on, Trav. It can’t be that bad.”
Inside the parlor, he hung the clipboard and pulled out his phone. He gave it to her, a glower in those bright green eyes that practically glowed in the dimmer light inside.
Clarissa swiped open his phone and went to his texts. Belinda’s name sat a few down, underneath messages from Lee and Will and Daddy, all of which made sense. The four of them communicated constantly to run this place.
Hey, Belinda. I’ve been thinking about you. I was wondering if you wanted to go to the classic car parade next weekend.
Clarissa looked up. “It’s not bad, Trav.”
“Then why hasn’t she answered?”
She checked the timestamp. Last night, just after dinner. Plenty of time to answer on a Sunday evening. Belinda Felton worked as a teacher, and school had just gotten out. “Maybe she’s on vacation.” Clarissa handed his phone back. “You started out good, Trav. Women like being told they’re being thought about.”
“But?” he prompted, shoving his phone in his pocket.
“But she’s not interested in classic cars.Youare. You need to entice her with something else.”
“I forgot the name of that restaurant you wanted me to mention,” he said. “I figured she could bring it up.”
Clarissa shook her head and smiled though Travis’s frown grew. “No, honey. She wantsyouto know what she likes. It’s The Bluebell Café. Text her right now and see what happens.”
As she packed more bottles into more crates, Travis sent the text. Clarissa had just filled the second one when his phone bleeped.
“Saddles alive,” he whispered. “It worked.” He held up his phone, his face glowing as bright as the screen. “Thanks, Rissy.” He hugged her, and Clarissa laughed.
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Now help me get these orders packed. You owe me that much.”
Her brother stayed and helped her pack the crates, but he also gave her a distraction from stewing over Spencer. Thankfully. Clarissa had already lost too much sleep over the idea of the man moving in next door to her, and she needed a break.
The problem was, the moment the orders were packed and she stepped foot in the shoppe to get it up and open for the day, Spencer crept right back into her mind, where she didn’t want him.
