Page 6 of The Scent of Happiness

“Do you think—” The situation swirled in Brooke’s mind, becoming a solid certainty. “Tell me, Mom. When exactly did Dixie come in here? Do you remember the day?”

“September first,” Mom said. “I remember because our Halloween stock came in and I was unloading boxes all day.”

“Right,” Brooke said. When you owned a gift store, everything revolved around holidays. “So Dixie came in with a sample of her soaps.”

“She did.” Mom’s hand went to her throat and she seemed to be swallowing past disgust. “She tried to tell me that if I stocked your soaps, I should have room to stock hers too. I told her I was only selling Mixed Suds. I thought she would be upset, but instead, she did a one-eighty and turned on the charm. She spent over a hundred dollars that day. At times it seemed like she was grabbing stuff off the shelf at random, so I didn’t think anything of it when she bought three bars of your soap.”

“This sounds like sabotage. Dixie went from ‘buy my soaps’ to ‘pay my doctor’ to lawyering up in less than a month. She’s seeing how far she can push it.”

“She’s pushed it far enough.” Mom moved to the front of the store and locked the door. She turned off the outside lights and dimmed the interior ones.

“You’re closing?” Brooke asked. Mom never closed the store early.

“This is more important. Let me get your dad out here. Ron? Brooke is here.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

The door of the small office was ajar and her father’s shoulder was visible as he leaned over the desk. He was the numbers guy, doing all the bookkeeping, ordering, and stocking for the store, so Mom could concentrate on selling.

Mom opened the cash register and took the lawyer’s letter from the under-tray. She held the cream-colored envelope by two fingers and handed it over like it was a soiled diaper.

“Wait a second.” Brooke lifted the envelope’s flap. “This is open.”

“Accidentally. It just sort of…” Mom straightened bills in the cash tray. “Your father and I want to help you.”

“By opening my mail?” Brooke unfolded the letter.

Brooke Nesbitt, we are writing to inform you…

All of Brooke’s other senses seemed to dull as she focused on the piece of heavy stationery from Shakley, Leach, Fishers, and Wolfe. Phrases jumped out at her. Seeking damages and immediate settlement and please contact our office. And then came the real reason for the letter. Dixie was demanding ten thousand dollars.

“Unbelievable,” Brooke said.

“I know we shouldn’t have opened your mail,” Mom said. “But your father and I—”

“I mean Dixie. Can you believe this? Ten grand for a rash? Even if I did give her one, which I didn’t—you know I didn’t—how can she put that dollar amount on it? Is each bump worth a hundred dollars?”

“Part of her plan, I suppose.”

“She’s trying to put me out of business.” Brooke plucked one of the novelty pens out of the display near the cash register. It had a scarecrow on top of it. The pens also came in witch and ghost. She spun the pen in her hand, watching the scarecrow twirl. “Dixie had the booth right across from me at the Bridgeton craft fair last year and all she did was complain. ‘It’s too crowded here. The aisles are too narrow. Not enough room between booths. Nobody can see my table.’ She was pissed that I outsold her that day.”

Mom wrinkled her nose. “I’ve seen her soap.”

“It’s not bad soap. I think her recipes are decent, but everything is pastel colored and barely fragranced. She plays it very safe with her packaging, so everything ends up looking the same.”

“The whole point of handmade soap is that it’s different.”

“Right? But she thinks that if I’m gone, people will buy from her.”

“She must not know about Etsy,” Mom said.

“Or Walgreens,” Brooke said. “Let’s face it, nobody needs artisan soap.”

“Nobody needs anything in this entire store. Not one bit of it is essential. But these things make people happy.” Mom took one of the witch pens out of the holder and danced it toward Brooke’s scarecrow pen. She made them touch noses. “Your soap makes people happy.”

Brooke bowed her head. Nothing was making her happy right now. She’d come such a long way since her first batch. Four years ago, she’d started with the most basic recipe in The Step by Step Soap Book—a coconut and olive oil mix that made only ten bars. And she’d still struggled with mixing, pouring, and cutting.

So she’d tried a class. Dixie’s class. Where she’d lasted one day.