Page 90 of The Scent of Happiness

“Oh. Of course.” Theo turned toward the pen display and pretended to study it. My God, I am a special kind of stupid. Brooke liked things that were handmade. She didn’t want a spreadsheet, no matter how well organized it was. She wanted a journal she could flip through like she was reading her favorite book. She wanted to turn the pages and remember the soaps she’d made. She wanted to recapture the experience on paper. Could he give that to her?

He could. He would. The invisible fist that had been squeezing his guts all morning finally let go as he saw the spreadsheet laid out in book form. He gripped the cart handles and wheeled to the end of the aisle, wishing he could click his heels together. He felt a rush of tenderness toward Dixie. “Thank you,” he said.

Dixie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Don’t mention it. Ever. Please.”

Theo took a second journal off the shelf, then a third. He put them into the cart along with more tabs and more stickers. Did he need more pens? Why not? Eight wasn’t enough when there was a twenty-four pack right there.

Dixie arched an eyebrow. “How many journals are you making?”

“As many as she’ll let me.” He never wanted Brooke to be without a new journal. As soon as she filled one, another would be waiting. And he wanted to be the one to organize them for her. Forever.

He took out his phone to make a note about bullet journaling, and saw an email notification from Brooke. It felt like a jolt of electricity through his body, leaving his skin tingling and his hair standing up. He clicked on it.

The entire email was one sentence. Gallop in, centaur. She’d attached a flyer for a craft show.

“You should go.” Dixie had invaded his space and was looking at his phone. “The Logan County Handcrafts Expo is lovely. And extremely popular.”

Theo pulled his phone toward himself to hide the screen. “Are you one of the…I mean, I know you can’t make soap anymore. But at least you can sell off what you have?”

Dixie tugged at her sleeves again. “I reserved a table, but unfortunately, I can’t risk it.”

“Well in that case.” Theo put his phone away and gripped the cart handles. “I have an idea.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Some of the church basement craft shows only had a dozen vendors. School or town festivals held up to a hundred. Brooke could usually get a table at a small show, even at the last minute, for less than fifty bucks. But the Logan County Handcrafts Expo had close to five hundred crafters, a long waiting list, and expensive table rental—which vendors were expected to recoup by selling a boatload of merchandise to the all-day crowd.

Brooke and Emma arrived an hour before opening time, checked in, and got their badges. They guzzled coffee from travel mugs while dragging rolling totes full of supplies through long hallways lined with banquet tables and booth dividers.

Brooke hadn’t heard from Theo, but she’d brought his soap anyway. She was wearing comfortable clothes and flat shoes, because she’d be a fool not to when she’d be on her feet all day, but she’d taken care to pick out things a bit cuter than her work clothes. Her purple sweater had a flattering v-neck, and she’d dried her hair into soft waves and spent time perfecting her makeup. She’d tried on all her glasses that morning, settling on the rhinestone-rimmed ones, hoping they’d bring her luck.

“Did you see the map of the venue?” Emma asked.

“They gave me the same spot I had last year. One twenty-one. It’s this way.”

Emma stopped in the hall and silently handed over the paper map, her finger on table number 122 which was labeled with the vendor’s name. Dixieland Creations.

“Son of a bitch,” Brooke said, and then pinched her mouth closed and cut her eyes from left to right. But nobody had noticed her cursing. Sounds of vendors unpacking and their excited babble bounced over the tile floors and concrete walls, while overhead speakers played tinny Christmas music.

Brooke bent at the waist, hugging herself inward. The hallways, the auditorium, and the gymnasium were filled with crafters—candles, scarves, greeting cards, Christmas ornaments, paintings, jewelry. So much jewelry. There were maybe five soapmakers, and they just happened to put Dixie Dawson right next door? How incredibly unfair.

Emma’s hand was on her back. “It will be fine.”

Brooke straightened. “My soaps are great. I know that. But Dixie’s soaps are cheaper and that turns heads.”

“Your parents are coming, right? If it’s for sale, your mom will sell it.” Emma gripped the handle of her rolling tote. “Let’s get set up and I’ll show you how hard I can ignore Dixie.”

They continued on to the middle of the hallway, where a placard marked her spot. The next table was empty, calming Brooke’s nerves. She’d throw herself into set-up and when Dixie arrived, she’d be too busy to notice.

Mixed Suds had six feet of space to transform into a paradise of aroma and color that would attract shoppers and entice them to buy. Everyone else was pushing an autumn or Christmas theme, but Brooke wanted to stand out from the crowd. She and Emma had put together a white, blue, and aqua color scheme, to make Brooke’s bath products look like they came from an expensive spa, and to give shoppers a small oasis of calm in an overwhelming show.

Brooke fell into the familiar rhythm of show prep, losing herself in boxes and bubble wrap. The sound of vendors and the buzz of overhead lights and horrible Christmas carols. The smell of coffee, someone peeling an orange, someone eating a spicy breakfast burrito.

She covered the table and put up signs while Emma arranged the items. They displayed the hot cocoa bath bombs in mugs, the lavender bombs in jars, the mint and pineapple ones in cocktail glasses. They made rows of the ten different bubble bars—starting with honey and vanilla, ending with jasmine. They filled the table edge to edge with soap and stored the refills under the table, working steadily until the music looped to Jingle Bells for a second time.

“Sorry about the music,” Brooke said to Emma.

“I didn’t notice. I can barely hear it over the sound of—” Emma broke off. She nudged Brooke and tilted her head down the hall.