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“A friend. She needed help with a school project.” The lie tastes bad, but it’s not my place to introduce Violet as Henry’s daughter until they’ve given their blessing, and I think we’re a long way from that.
Maybe it’s not a lie though. Violet seems to trust me, so could this not be some cliched “rich dad marries gold-digging woman barely older than his daughter” storyline? There’s little about this situation that’s stereotypical, so maybe wecanbe friends?
Annie merely nods. Why would she doubt my answer? She’s never even met Henry. But how long before people look at this girl heading toward our front door—in her black bomber jacket and leggings, her dark hair capped by a poppy-red knit beanie—and see the family resemblance?
The door chimes. “Hey.” She waves tentatively, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she takes in my commercial kitchen—the stacks of supplies in cardboard boxes, the bowls and molds, and metal tables. She stalls on Ashlyn, the quiet blue-haired temp worker we brought in to help with equipment setup and cleanup, so I can focus on making the soap. Another thing Zaheera insisted on and I resisted, and now I’m so thankful for.
“Hey, Violet.” I make quick introductions. “How was the drive from Philly?”
“Fine.”
“Weird having a driver pick you up?”
“Yeah, kind of,” she admits sheepishly.
“I’m still getting used to it too.” She and I, we’re not all that different. Neither of us grew up in Henry’s world. “There’s a coat hook over there. Get comfortable.”
Violet drops her backpack on the floor in the corner and then sheds her outer things, save for the knit cap. She’s swapped her usual hoodie for a more stylish chunky white cable-knit sweater.
“I like your hat. Where did you get that?” I ask.
“Um … I made it.” She fidgets with the cuffs on her sweater.
“Really? You know how to knit?”
“Yeah. Gramma taught me how. I sat around a lot over the last few months, so at least this way I had something to do.”
Sat around next to her mother’s bedside, watching her slowly die, she doesn’t have to say. My heart aches for the girl, for what she had to witness. Something like that changes you forever. “Well, it’s very cute and it looks great on you.”
Her eyes roam the boxy space until she points to the wall. “Blah gray.”
I laugh. “See? I wasn’t lying.” The walls are bare, devoid of personality.
“So … this is your office.”
“Actually, my ‘office’”—I air quote with my fingers—“is a literal closet in the back that we decorated. But here is where the magic happens. Doesn’t look like much, does it?”
She shrugs. “And that’s all soap over there?”
“Most of the first batch, yeah.” My nerves flutter. “We go live on the website Monday, and I don’t know if anyone is going to buy any of it.” It’s one thing to have Peggy Sue demanding that I have a batch of sage soap for Greenbank’s church bazaar. Is award-winning Nailed It Branding going to see Farm Girl Soap Co. as its first epic failure?
And I didn’t mean to dump my insecurities on the poor girl within a minute of her walking in.
Violet picks up a packaged bar from the nearby table and holds it to her nose, inhaling. “I’d use it.”
“Yeah?” I smile. That’s a good start. “Come on. Let me show you around.”
* * *
“It looks like homemade fudge.”Violet leans over the counter, propped up by her elbows, as she watches me slice a block of mint-scented soap into measured rectangular chunks.
“Funny you should say that because a little kid back home bit into a peppermint chocolate bar at the Christmas market.” I’d been experimenting with new scents for the holidays and found a chocolate fragrance oil online that I liked.
Her blue eyes widen. “What happened?”
“He spat it out and told me my fudge tasted like soap.” I laugh. “It’s all natural and nontoxic. Wasn’t going to hurt him.”
“He’ll never look at fudge again without remembering you.”
