Page 2 of The Scent of Happiness

Brooke read the note again. On a hunch, she moved over to the cookbook section. She pulled the oversized paperback off the shelf. “Here we go. It has the word ‘kitchen’ in the title, so it accidentally got filed with the cookbooks. It happens sometimes.”

Ashley’s hands were full of the baby and her purse, so Brooke squatted down to talk to her daughter. “Can you do me a favor, Geneva? Can you carry this for your mom?”

“Geneva, hold that for mommy,” Ashley repeated as if Brooke hadn’t spoken. The little girl held out both hands and proudly took the book.

Ashley turned to Brooke. “I knew you were the right person to ask. I mean, helping people is part of what you do, right?”

“Yep,” Brooke said, adding false cheer to her voice. “When I’m not dusting the shelves or cleaning the bathrooms, I’m sometimes allowed to talk to patrons.”

“Hey now,” Ashley said. “No putting yourself down. There’s nothing wrong with cleaning.”

“I never said—”

“I can’t imagine what I’d do without my cleaning lady. I mean, thank goodness for her.”

Brooke fiddled with the ID lanyard around her neck. “I’m sure she’s very helpful to you.”

“And thank goodness for this library too.” Ashley nodded toward the children’s area. “Because the maid is at our house right now and storytime means we’re not underfoot on Thursdays.”

“How convenient.”

“It’s such a blessing. And you’re a blessing too. Thank you for helping me find this book. Tim doesn’t want to remodel the kitchen again, but I’ve got ways of talking him into things.”

“Good luck with that.” Brooke waved vaguely toward her book cart. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Yes, of course. It was great seeing you, Brooke.” Ashley hefted the baby more securely in her arm and spoke to her daughter. “Do you have the book, Geneva? Come with Mommy.”

Brooke watched them go, wondering if marriage and motherhood had changed Ashley that much, or if she’d always been this awful. And how had Brooke never noticed? They’d been ride-or-die in high school, best friends with each other and with Chloe Mattar. They hadn’t been three individual people, they were a group—The ABC Girls. Brooke had assumed they’d be together forever.

But Chloe had gone to college in California and was now the personal assistant to a fashion designer in Los Angeles. She worked eighty hours a week and loved to name-drop famous people while complaining about her job in pitch-perfect humblebrags. Ashley had gone to Cannondale University, interned with one of the professors, and married him right after graduation. Ashley’s husband was nice enough, and sort of cute in a twenty-five-years-older kind of way, but Brooke couldn’t imagine what it was like to marry someone who could be your dad.

Brooke wanted to get married someday, and between her day job and her side hustle, there were weeks she worked as many hours as Chloe, but that didn’t mean she could relate to their lives, or they could relate to hers. She was a college drop-out who practically still lived at home. Her tiny apartment was tacked onto the back of her parents’ house and she ate dinner with them at least twice a week. She was meeting all her bills, but could barely dream about the kind of money it took to live in LA or remodel your kitchen on a whim.

Nowadays she mostly saw Ashley and Chloe at a distance, through Instagram posts and Christmas cards. Maybe it was healthier to let past friendships stay in the past.

Brooke returned to her cart, gave The Step by Step Soap Book one more affectionate pat, and placed it on its proper shelf. She lifted the next book and shelved that one without sniffing it first.

* * *

At noon, Brooke took a book about herbs to the breakroom, intending to look at it over lunch. She’d been experimenting with making her own tinctures and infusions, trying to figure out how to make a natural formula strong enough to scent soap.

She opened the door to the breakroom and then immediately backed out of it when a cacophony of smells hit her. Not again. She thought the staff had come to an agreement about using the microwave. A tiny, windowless room was not the place to reheat fish, or sauerkraut, or leftover Indian food. Worse, the culprit had tried to cover it up with air freshener spray, so now it smelled like roadkill in a field of flowers.

Brooke clapped a hand over her nose, charged in to grab her brown-bag lunch, and took it to the front door of the library. It was an overcast autumn day, but at least the rain had stopped. She could sit outside under the awning without getting drenched. She’d have to leave the book behind, but it was still a better choice than indoors.

She found a not-soggy strip of sidewalk and watched people come and go while eating her PB&J. People who worked in nearby buildings came to Main Street restaurants for lunch, seniors walked in and out of the post office, and students from Cannondale University strolled by in groups of two and three, most of them talking too loud.

Brooke’s mind wandered, and she started thinking up new color and fragrance combinations. Her lunch made her think about nuts and fruits. Honey almond? Nah, too cliché. But sesame strawberry might work. With lemon for a top note, deepened with something like cedar. She’d package the bars in pink paper tied with brown twine.

Her phone pulled her into the present. Her mother’s ringtone. She snatched up the phone and connected, her heart pounding. Mom never called in the middle of a workday unless it was urgent.

“I’m so sorry to bother you, pumpkin. I thought I’d get your voicemail.”

“I’m on my break,” Brooke said. “What’s going on?”

“You got a letter. It’s addressed to the shop, but your name is on it.”

Brooke’s mom owned a small store on Second Street called Riverside Gifts. She sold greeting cards, holiday decor, mugs, and other cute things, including Brooke’s soaps. When Brooke had applied for a business license and a tax ID number, she’d put down her mom’s store as her business address, because it looked more official than a home-based hobby. She never imagined someone would send her mail there. “Who’s it from?” she asked.