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“Probably not.”
I was nervous about how today with Violet would go, but within no time of her arrival—after the five-second tour, five-minute mockery of my closet office, and an overview of all that Nailed It and I have been working on these past months—she seems to have stepped out of her hard shell, revealing a quick-witted, curious girl who asks a lot of questions and smiles far more than she scowls.
“And you’ve been making these since you were my age?”
“Maybe even younger, I think? This lady in our church used to make vanilla-scented gingerbread men soaps for the Christmas bazaar. I thought they were the cutest things, and I wanted to make something like that to give to friends and family. Homemade gifts are always more special, right? So she showed me how. From there, I started reading up on how to use herbs and flowers from around the farm. I experimented with scent ideas, learned how to layer scents, what worked and what didn’t.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Once, I mixed lavender and eucalyptus. Bad idea. My mother complained about it for weeks, even though my father and I couldn’t smell anything. Anyway, there’s this little tack room in my family’s barn back home, so I moved out there and kind of took over.”
“The pictures on your website.”
“Yes. That’s the room.” Violet actually paid attention. “An indie business magazine did an article on me this summer. They dressed it up a bit. It doesn’t look that nice in real life.” I smile as I remember that day. Margo arranged for it all through her friend, Ryan McCleary. Jed tried to impress my supermodel friend by farming in a button-down shirt and tie, and then Margo showed Ryan her brand of appreciation in the pond out back. “I’ve only ever sold these at the local church bazaars and farmers’ markets.”
“What made you go big?”
I pause. Compared to the path I was heading down—supplying a major department store—a little rectangular rental space in New Jersey isn’t much. But it’s mine. “Henry did.”
She picks up a broken sliver of soap, holding it to her nose. “What? He’s not rich enough already, he wants his future wife to make bank too?” There’s a hint of something I can’t pick out in her tone, but it feels like a slight. My urge to defend Henry sparks.
She doesn’t know him at all, though, I remind myself.
“Heisrich,” I admit because there’s no point denying it.And you will be, too, once that trust fund opens to you. “But he doesn’t care if I make a dollar doing this. Well, that’s not true. He wants me to make money because then it means someone’s buying my soaps and I’m not a giant failure,” I correct. “But he pushed me because he wanted me to have something that I can be proud of.” I smile softly. “He’s encouraged me through this entire venture. I would never have had the nerve to do this.” Nor the funds, but that’s beside the point.
When I asked him why he pushed Zaheera and her start-up company on me, he said it was because he didn’t want me to drown in his world.
I’m beginning to appreciate it now.
Violet watches me work for a few minutes. “How often does Henry come here?”
“He hasn’t been here yet. He’s not great at sitting back and watching. I guess that comes with the territory when you’re as successful as he is, but he’s trying to stay as hands-off as possible.” He saw the listing before I signed the lease because I wanted his input, but aside from those first few weeks of hiring Zaheera’s company, when he was blind-copied on all the emails between us to ensure they were doing what he expected of them, he’s stepped away. “He said he’d come in next week, though, for the launch. Once he’s back from Spain.”
“Oh. So, he’s not around?” She quickly adds, “Gramps said something about wanting to call him.”
Maybe Howard does have reason to call Henry, but I didn’t miss the hint of disappointment in her voice with that first part. “He comes home tomorrow. His plane takes off early so he should be home by midmorning.”
She bites her bottom lip but doesn’t say anything.
A—possibly stupid—idea strikes me. “You know, you could always stay over at our place tonight. Work on your project there. That way if you have any more questions, I can answer them.”
“In Manhattan?”
“Yeah. We have plenty of room.”
She hesitates. “I didn’t bring any clothes with me.”
“I’m sure I have something that’ll fit you, and we can stop at the store on the way home for a toothbrush and all that.”
“Um …” She stalls. She may be looking for an excuse to avoid this, but my gut tells me she just doesn’t want to appear too eager.
“No pressure at all, but I’m sure Henry would be happy to see you.”
“I’d have to ask my grandparents.”
“That’s a change,” I tease, my voice dry.
She bites down on a smile as she taps on her phone screen. But she’s not texting Gayle and Howard. She’s opened up Instagram and, with quick fingers, she has my profile open. “You haven’t even launched yet and you havethatmany followers?” She holds up her phone, her eyes wide.
“That’s thanks to Zaheera and the team’s PR work, which is all stuff you should work into this project of yours.” Their influencer campaign has brought a steady drumbeat of new followers each day. Margo’s efforts seem to have paid off too. Dozens of the celebrity attendees at that party we made samples for have posted online, tagging us.
“Yeah, I think you’re gonna do okay, Abbi.” She snorts, as if my nervousness is silly.
