Page 7 of The Scent of Happiness

The internet had come to her rescue. After devouring hours of online tutorials, and going through hundreds of dollars of ingredients, Brooke had finally gotten to a place where the technique was simple and the only limit was her imagination. She had a journal full of ideas to try and loyal customers who sought her out, eager to buy whatever she made.

None of that mattered now. All her hard work. All those hours—late nights, early mornings, weekends. Every experiment and inspired idea. All the space in her apartment given over to ingredients and equipment and drying space. Mountains of dirty dishes. None of it mattered if she let Dixie win.

Her dad came out of the back office wearing khakis, a dress shirt, and a fleece vest with Riverside Gifts embroidered on the chest. He carried his iPad and a fistful of scrap paper. He gave her a hug laden with back pats and smelling of Old Spice. “Oh, pumpkin. I wish I could make this all go away. I love your soap.”

Brooke put her arm around him. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Aren’t you doing a craft show this weekend? Want me to be your model?” Dad unbuttoned a cuff and pushed up one sleeve. “Look at me, I have the skin of a teenager. I could advertise for you. No one would believe I’m almost sixty.”

“The hair would give it away.”

In his teenage years, Dad had found a hairstyle that suited him and never changed it. It was cut short in front, but it trailed over his ears and flowed down his collar in the back. Fashions came and went, but Dad stuck to his mullet. Growing up, Brooke had been embarrassed by her Dad’s style, mortified if any of her friends saw them together. By the time she got to college, she’d softened it to good-natured teasing.

She never understood why someone as fashionable as her mother didn’t object to Dad’s hairstyle. Mom was the kind of woman who kept her own cut and color appointments at the salon as a holy ritual and wouldn’t leave the house without lipstick. But Mom said Dad’s hair was cute. Maybe it reminded her of when they were high school sweethearts.

“I don’t know if I’m even doing the show on Saturday,” Brooke grumped. “I mean, will I still be in business then?”

“Sure you will,” Dad said. “Dixie isn’t suing you. Not yet. It’s still in the lawyers-sending-letters phase. And with a little legal help, that’s all the further it will go.”

“Did you call Theo?” Mom asked him.

“Theo who?” Brooke asked.

“Theo Chambers,” Mom said. “You remember him, honey. Wendy Chambers is on the budget committee at church and her son—”

“That Theo? He’s not a lawyer. He’s that nerd from chess club.”

“He’s a lawyer,” Dad said. “He’s your lawyer. You have an appointment with him tomorrow afternoon. I’ve got all his information right here.” He handed her a birthday card with a bent corner that he’d used as scrap paper. “I can pick you up from work and we’ll—”

“No, Dad. No way.”

Dad raised his eyebrows at Mom who sent him some kind of silent signal back.

Brooke glared at the card in her hand. Her parents hiring a lawyer for her was bad enough. She didn’t need them accompanying her to the appointment, too. And why did her parents think she wanted to work with Theo Chambers? Just because her mom was friends with his mom? She hadn’t seen him in literally a decade. Why didn’t Dad just pick a random lawyer out of the phone book?

Brooke picked up a ghost-topped pen and stabbed the card with it. “If we’re sending nasty letters, I’ll send Dixie a nasty letter. What do I need a lawyer for?”

“A lawyer can help you decide how to proceed,” Mom said. “Whether to settle with Dixie, or—”

“Why should I settle? Why should I pay her anything?”

“Sometimes settling is the cheaper way to go,” Dad said. “I ran the numbers and—”

“But it’s not just about me,” Brooke interrupted. “What happens when Dixie finds out how well this works? Next, she’ll sue Karla or Miss Maxine or one of the other soapmakers in town. She’ll make a circuit of the craft fairs and farmer’s markets, buying up people’s soaps and then shaking them down for money.”

Her parents exchanged a look. They’d been exchanging this same look over the top of Brooke’s head her entire life. It was the look that said, there she goes again and we have to handle this.

Mom gently removed the pen from Brooke’s hand. “You can bring all this up with Theo tomorrow.”

“This isn’t the time to be led by our emotions,” Dad said. “We need some impartial advice. A cooler head.”

An alarm beeped on her phone. Brooke checked it. Time for choir practice. She picked up the lawyer letter and the card with Theo’s information and jammed them both into her bag. “I have to go.”

“Dinner tomorrow?” Mom asked. “I’ll make a nice roast in the crock pot, the one you like with all the garlic.”

Brooke paused at the door and rubbed the tight spot on the back of her neck. Dinner with her parents would mean giving them details of her meeting with Theo, and listening to their critiques of everything she had or hadn’t done. On the other hand, free pot roast. “Dinner sounds great. See you tomorrow.”

“Tell Theo we said hello,” Mom said.