Page 27 of The Scent of Happiness

“Let me guess, she said she made too much?”

“I think it’s code for when your mom wants to cook for you but doesn’t want to embarrass you because you’re supposed to be adulting.”

“I am adulting,” Brooke lived on her own. She took care of her own laundry and groceries and dentist appointments. She even had health insurance. And she paid her bills, including rent for this place, mostly on time.

“I’ve never seen you make a shepherd’s pie, though,” Emma said. “Or cook anything else.”

“One of two things can happen in my kitchen—either soap or cooking. I choose soap.” When she wasn’t eating at her parents’ house, Brooke lived on microwave dinners and cereal. That left plenty of room in her kitchen cabinets for molds, mixing bowls, oils, colorants, and everything else she needed. Everything except the lye, which her mom insisted she store in the garage because it was “too dangerous” to store in the house.

Emma glanced at the countertop, where Brooke had taken out her oils and started her lye and water solution. “You’re making a batch right now, aren’t you?”

“I’m making more baby soap. I almost sold out at the craft show.”

“You’re welcome,” Emma said as she moved through the kitchen and into the dining nook.

“I couldn’t have done it without you. I can’t do any of this without you.” Brooke waved her hand over her dining table. She’d cleared it off and brought one of each kind of soap from the garage. Emma would arrange them, make them look irresistible, and take beautiful pictures for her website. “But if it will help me sell, I have to do it. Lawyers are expensive.”

“They are.” Emma unpacked her tripod and camera. “How much does Theo think he’s worth?”

“A thousand dollars.”

Emma lifted her tripod like a club. “An hour?”

“No, total. He says it’s five hours of work. Basically, he thinks he can out-nasty Dixie and get her to back down.”

“Lawyers love doing that.”

“This one especially. But it’s still a whole lot of money to spend defending myself from something I didn’t even do.”

“Do you have a thousand dollars?” Emma asked. “Because if you need—”

“I’m good. My parents are paying half.” They’d forgiven her rent this month. Same thing. Brooke had moved money around from savings and from her business account, and she was grateful for her parents, but it still stung to kiss that money goodbye.

She did some calculations in her head. One bar of her soap was worth about two minutes of Theo’s time. No wonder he’d thrown that gift basket away, considering it useless. “Theo sees this as a case he can win. Nothing more. He still isn’t convinced that my soap is safe.”

“So what? Why does that matter?”

“I don’t know.” Brooke pulled two magnets off the fridge and clicked them together. Something about Theo muddled her thinking. She was used to going off on distracted tangents. That was the normal state of her brain. But Theo had the opposite effect on her. He seemed to concentrate her thoughts in places she didn’t want them to dwell. Places it wasn’t healthy for them to go. He’s your lawyer, Brooke.

“At least he’s on your side,” Emma said. “If you’re mad at someone, shouldn’t that be Dixie?”

“Oh believe me, I am.” Brooke had fantasies about horrible accidents befalling Dixie. Lye burns. Blindness. Run over by a truck. Sewer backups in her basement. Mosquitos in her bedroom every night. Uncontrollable gas in public places. Brooke had said a little prayer in church that morning, asking for forgiveness for her hateful thoughts—and then went right on thinking them anyway.

Emma took her shoulders and steered her toward her ingredients. “Maybe you should channel that into productivity. Go make soap while I take pictures, then we’ll eat that delicious-smelling pie your mom made before it gets cold. I promise I’ll stay out of the kitchen.”

“Good,” Brooke said. “Because you know the rules.”

“Safety first,” they chorused.

Brooke slid on rubber gloves and put safety goggles over her glasses. She kept a checklist taped to the wall next to the sink, and consulted it every time, even though she’d memorized the steps. She went down the list, double-checking that she had everything.

She took the temperature of her lye solution and then the temp of her oils. Perfect. Time to mix, which was always her favorite part. When that emulsion happened, it felt like magic. Since this batch wouldn’t have any color, she could blend it all the way to a medium trace before adding fragrance. She wanted this new recipe to be gentle and calming, so she was putting in just a hint of honey and chamomile.

When Brooke soaped alone, she always turned on music. She had playlists for every recipe—classic jazz for classic scents like Citrus Ginger and Chateau Clair, hard rock for her more daring soaps like Midnight Essence, and lullabies when she was making soap for babies. It didn’t add anything to the soap itself, but it certainly added to the experience of making it.

However, Brooke knew better than to put on music when Emma was over. Emma had moved to Cannondale from Nashville two years ago, supposedly to be with her older sister, but mostly to get away from her husband. Apparently, being married to a country music star wasn’t all rhinestones and glamour, and Emma had landed in Cannondale with bruises and a broken jaw. Now, she avoided music of all kinds.

Brooke didn’t mind soaping without music, but she’d have to be a bit more careful making this batch, because the music also helped focus her mind. She opened the drawer near her hip and got out her journal to make a note of how much of each fragrance she was using.