Page 17 of The Scent of Happiness

Marci’s shoulders sagged even further. “Oh honey, you don’t have to do that.”

“I’m doing it for all my customers today.”

Marci reached for the other bar of Chateau Clair, then put it back. “I don’t want to take your last one.”

“Go ahead,” Brooke said with a smile. “Then I’ll have an excuse to make more.”

Marci turned it over and over in her hand, then zeroed in on the label, reading the ingredients. “I wish I knew why Mom responds to this soap and not others. I know I can’t bring her mind back, but a more lucid moment or two would be nice.”

“I can give you the names of the fragrance oils I used and from which suppliers,” Brooke offered. “The exact formulas are trade secrets, but I can guess a lot of what’s in them from the scent. I’ll double-check my journal and email you.”

“That would be wonderful,” Marci said. “And I’ll take both of these bars today if that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay.” Brooke took cash and made change. She was already planning her next batch. Cold process soap had a long cure time, but the new bars would be ready right about the time Marci ran out.

“Thank you for this.” Marci held up her bag.

“Sure thing,” Brooke said. “Let me know when you need more.”

After Marci left, Emma rearranged the table that didn’t need rearranging. “You’re not seriously doing two-for-one today, are you?”

“Only for Marci.” Brooke showed her palms. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s bad business, and I won’t be able to make soap fulltime if I undercut my own prices and give people deals. But did you see her face? She didn’t just want that soap. She needed it.”

Emma moved a pyramid of Rose Dream a few inches, then moved it back where it was before. “I wasn’t going to say any of that.”

“No?”

“I wasn’t even thinking it. And if you hadn’t given her that second bar of soap, I was going to get out my wallet and buy it for her.”

They didn’t have time for conversation for the next two hours as more customers came in a steady stream. Not the huge rush of the November shows, but a respectable number, and Emma’s clever merchandising overcame their poor table placement.

In the mid-afternoon lull, Emma volunteered to go get them coffees. “We’re not far from Starbucks,” she murmured. “In case you don’t want to drink the stuff they brew here.”

Brooke leaned in and kept her voice low. “Do you know how much these ladies would hate me if I walked in here with Starbucks? I’d never hear the end of it.”

“Church basement coffee it is.” Emma took a five from the cash box and headed toward the parish hall.

Brooke took advantage of the lull to replenish her display from the extras under the table. And why not sneak in a few bars of Midnight Essence while Emma was gone? If she could sell one or two, she could prove they belonged with the rest of the soap.

She lifted the tablecloth and stretched her arm, but the box was just out of reach, so she crawled under the table among the scents of floor cleaner and feet. She snagged three bars, backed out, righted herself, pushed her glasses up her nose, and came face to face with Dixie Dawson.

She gave a surprised little squeak, then recovered herself.

“Brooke, I’m surprised to see you here.” Dixie wore the expression of someone who’d stepped in vomit.

“This is my third year,” Brooke said.

“After what you did to me? I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show up at my show.” Dixie put both hands on the edge of Brooke’s table and leaned forward with a scowl. Was she trying to seem menacing?

It worked. Dixie was a petite woman in her mid-fifties with round eyes, brown hair cut into an angled bob, and freckles across her nose. She wore black pants and a blazer and low-heeled shoes with closed toes—not so much fashionable as timeless. Her makeup was heavy and her voice held the whisper of a genteel mid-Atlantic accent.

But it didn’t matter how Dixie looked. Mattered even less how she sounded, because she was a bit menacing.

Brooke held the edge of the table, trying to steady herself. “I didn’t do anything to you. And this show is organized by the church committee.”

“And who heads the church committee?” Dixie asked. “I started this show ten years ago. But I wouldn’t expect you to know that. Or pay attention. Paying attention isn’t something you’re good at.”

Dixie cast an amused expression toward Abby at the next table, who passed it down the line to Jada. All the crafters on this side of the room were watching them. So were a few of the customers.