The batch of soap had gone horribly wrong.
Emily stared at the unimpressive little rectangle. Normally, her soaps looked artisan and handmade. But this batch looked more like something scraped off the bottom of a pot. The cinnamon and orange scents she’d put in—always tricky to get a masculine scent rather than anything floral—had gone a little wrong, and the bar smelled like overripe cider. It had an orangey-brown tinge that couldn’t really be called attractive. She stepped back and cocked her head to one side, declaring it one of her least successful attempts at soap-making. A casual observer might easily mistake it for a preschool art project.
But she loved it. The fact that she’d only had enough mixture left to form two bars because she’d slipped and dropped the pot only added to the charm.
Just two bars. Like the two bars that started everything. The imperfection fit, somehow. She held her bar up to Othello, deciding that lopsided rectangles were artistic. “We’re shooting for feeling here, not fancy.” Othello blinked, stretched out his head to give it an inquisitive sniff, and promptly dismissed her creation as nothing he found worthy of his attention. “Everyone’s a critic,” she said as she reached for some yellow paper.
Emily wasn’t sure if she could ever explain to Gil how the concept of lye being necessary to make soap helped her come to terms with everything. Even when she said it out loud to Othello it sounded ridiculous.
“Nobody needs to get it but me and God,” Emily declared to the empty kitchen.
Carefully, she copied down the long verse from 1 Timothy onto the paper. “I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe on him and receive eternal life.” It had taken her some time to decide on the passage, but she’d known it was right. She got a warm feeling in her chest when she thought about her handwriting nestled snug up against the soap.
Ms. Montague’s Mercy Soap had its first customer.
Well, Ms. Montague’s Mercy Soap had only two customers. This particular scent would be a limited edition, two-of-a-kind production.
“Othello, I need to go pay a visit to Gil. He doesn’t know it yet, but he needs one more bar of soap in his life.” She gave Othello a kiss on the top of his fuzzy head and grabbed her car keys.
Gil’s red truck pulled into the parking space in front of West of Paris just as Sandy Burnside was locking up the front door. He spilled out of the truck, leaving it running.
“Where is she?”
Sandy looked at him. She knew everything, he could tell by the way she looked at him. “Who?”
“Sandy…”
Sandy tucked the shop keys into that monstrous handbag of hers and leaned back against the door. Hang her, she knew everything that was going on, but she looked as if she was having a pleasant Sunday chat. “Do you love her?” she said calmly.
Gil rolled his eyes. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Sandy, don’t you think I ought to be havin’ that conversation with Emily?”
“She ain’t here. I am. Now I know where she is and you don’t, so unless you want to find out who’s the more stubborn here—and trust me, it’s a draw—answer the question.”
“Sandy…” It was turning into a growl with every repetition.
She crossed her arms over her chest and casually inspected a fingernail. “I ain’t got nowhere to be, hon. Take your time.”
Middleburg was full of meddling crazy people. He stalked the sidewalk for a moment, thinking that this was insane. This wasn’t a declaration for the middle of town. Sandy had no business knowing. He could find Emily himself if he had to—it’s not as if he didn’t know where she lived.
Unless she’d gone somewhere. He thought she’d never leave the shop, but maybe, if she was in pain, she would go off somewhere. Ask Sandy to mind the shop. He didn’t think he could stand another hour, let alone days, without talking to Emily.
“Fine.” He threw up his hands. “You win. I love her. I’ve fallen for her completely, like some kind of lovesick idiot. Now will you please tell me where she is before I—”
She held up one hand. “Now, now, no need to get all prickly on me, I just needed to make sure we had our priorities in order.” She smiled warmly and he tamped down the urge to yell at her. “She’s at home.”
“You knew she was home the whole time and—” Gil decided he didn’t have a polite way to finish that sentence. He threw himself back into the truck and pulled out of the parking space with only enough time to hear Sandy call, “You’re welcome,” while waving from the sidewalk.
It was a two-minute drive to Emily’s house. In his state of mind, he could have run it in one.
Her VW wasn’t out front. That doesn’t really mean anything, he told himself as he threw open the little white gate and took her front stairs in a single lunge. He banged on the door. “Emily!” A fat orange cat poked its head through the living-room window curtains and blinked at him, but no one answered the door.
“What do you mean she’s not home?” Gil moaned into the air. “Sandy said she was home. She’s not home. How can she not be home?” The cat blinked again and settled onto the top of the couch back, as if this might make for entertaining viewing. “Where is she?” he asked the cat through the window, then practically slapped his head for the stupidity of it all. “Cats. I’m asking cats.”
Where is she? Where would she have gone? Lord, don’t do this to me. Don’t make me wait for her now. He stood on Emily’s tiny front porch for ten minutes, helpless and frustrated beyond belief.
There was nothing to be done.
At first he thought he’d just camp out on her steps until she came home. She’d come back from wherever she was mending her wounds, she’d find him here and they’d start the long process of talking it out.
He realized, picturing that homecoming, that he hadn’t even kissed her yet. He sank down onto the porch steps, astounded.
How could he possibly be in love with someone he hadn’t even kissed yet? It was like some sort of sick fairy tale where the frail princess and the swaggering prince sigh at each other from afar. I’m not that kind of hero, he almost laughed to himself. I really am in over my head here. How about a little help here, Lord? Big ol’ hunk of divine guidance coming down out of the sky to tell me what to do?
This had gone way too fast. Maybe they did need time. Maybe they needed to wait a bit. Wait? Now? You remember, Lord, how bad I am at waiting?
He’d set out in his truck determined to fix everything, to make it all better. He drove home without a clue as to what came next.