Bath Bombs & Beyond

by Violet Patton

  The building had two retail spaces on the ground floor. An old brick dividing wall separated the shops, and Teddy painted our side a creamy, whipped honey color. Sandy lined the shelves with papers printed in different hues of violet flowers and gold leaves. The honey-colored paint, shades of purple and the black second-hand dining room tables blended well with freshly sanded and polished pecan hardwood floors.

  The man rubbed his nose with a thumb. The lady picked up a soap from a three-tiered cake plate and sniffed. “This smells yummy though.”

  Sandy and I loved junk shops and secondhand stores, and we scoured the local shops to find something to hold our soaps. Everywhere we looked, there was an abundance of used tiered cake stands and they fit into our low-budget plans. We collected a variety of shapes, heights and colors, and now, the cake stands made the soaps look good enough to eat.

  Eased by this first customer baptism, I clasped my hands behind my back and tried not to crowd them. Even though Sandy and I playacted waiting on customers, now I didn’t know how to act.

  Sandy peeked through the stockroom doors. “Don’t forget our freebies.”

  “Oh, yes.” Glad to have something to do, I grabbed the sample soap basket. “We have sample soaps. Take one. Or two.” I shrugged, pressing the basket against my belly because my hands shook. The freebies were bigger than hotel soap, but not by much.

  “We hand cut our soaps, and they’re handmade with the finest organic products…” The lady sniffed a sample soap, sighed and put it back and tried another. I quickly dropped the spiel to let her shop in peace.

  “Harvey?” She waved the soap sample. He turned, and she dropped it into a shopping bag. Relieved of the duty of holding the freebie basket, I set it on the counter and busied myself, pretending to straighten the perfectly aligned lotions on the shelves behind the counter.

  Long seconds passed until she finally asked, “Do you gift wrap?”

  “Yes, we do gift wrap.” Asking about gift wrap meant she was ready to buy. On the other side of the swinging doors, I could hear Sandy hyperventilating and huffing while she eavesdropped.

  “My son is getting married,” she informed me. “It’s a gift for my future daughter-in-law’s mother. It needs to be nice. Let’s say two hundred.” She picked a cherry-almond scented soap bar off a cake plate. “Soaps. Bath bombs. A bit of everything.” She turned to her husband. “Harvey, what do you think? Harvey?”

  “Huh?” He looked up, but he couldn’t have cared less.

  “Let’s do two-hundred fifty.”

  Sandy shot through the swinging doors. Hurrying forward, she offered her hand. “How do you do? I’m Sandy. Welcome to the Row.” Hearing ‘nice’ and ‘two-hundred fifty’ miraculously cured her first customer blues. I stepped back, happy to have her take over. My nose throbbed and my growing goose egg sloshed. I hurried back to the stool, slumping, trying to discreetly ice my face.

  “Can you get a gift box ready?” Dollar signs danced in Sandy’s starry eyes.

  Her unusual sweetness made me say, “Of course.”

  Our competitors have fancy logo shopping bags and gift boxes. Nothing could ruin a shop’s reputation faster than flimsy shopping bags. The embarrassing thought of our bath bombs rolling along Central Avenue because our bags broke made me agree to the more expensive boxes. For larger gift boxes, we chose plain white boxes and lavender satin ribbons. For smaller purchases, we bought economical white bags and combined with the gold lettered Row stickers and colorful ribbons, our gift wrapping looked elegant.

  Since I was the creative one, Sandy put me in charge of the custom-made gift boxes. Sandy couldn’t tie her own shoelaces, much less a bow.

  “Bring everything to me.” Sandy practically floated with glee between the two rooms, and soon she had stacked enough lotions and potions on the workbench to satisfy even the most persnickety future mother-in-law.

  Happy to be alone in the stockroom, I leaned against the workbench and squeezed the bridge of my nose. The pressure helped but it didn’t last after I stopped squeezing. I moved the leaking ice bag to the sink in our small kitchen. Wet tissue paper would be worse than broken bags and rolling bath bombs.

  Before Sandy caught me slacking off, I popped open a box, secured its tabs and stuffed it with plain white tissue paper. Over the past few weeks as our opening stock arrived, I practiced making prepackaged boxes and learned the tissue paper base was the most important part. Too much tissue paper, the items wouldn’t nest; too little and the box would seem skimpy. We had too much competition in the luxury soap business to risk everything on too much or too little tissue paper.

  Sandy and the lady chatted until finally the bell tinkled. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

  What a relief! If our first customers waited for the gift box, it would have flustered me. An hour to create a gift worthy enough to please a fussbudget (Sandy) and a future mother-in-law sounded like forever. I arranged the lotions, potions and Sandy’s wicked bath bombs into the box, but when I needed to cut the ribbons, I couldn’t find the scissors.

  “Have you seen the scissors?” I called. Over the weeks, Sandy and I yelled back and forth between the two rooms, and now yelling felt natural.

  Sandy carried a loofah, under the ruse of checking on my progress. “Let’s throw this in, since they spent so much money.”

  “Did you hear me? I can’t find the scissors.”

  Sandy tsked. “It’s your head, isn’t it?” Her eyelids narrowed at the mess I’d made on the workbench. “You’ll find them. I put them over there.” She nodded, pursing her lips and backed out the doors.

  I checked my jean pockets where I put my cell phone but they weren’t there either. I moved the tissue packet and the bolts of ribbon. I even looked on top of the microwave in our mini kitchen. My head pounded, and I was about to lose it. It was important for this box to be the best gift box ever seen on Bathhouse Row’s promenade. If need be, I’d strut it up and down the broad walk myself to make sure the other tourists noticed the Row’s goods.

  Before we opened, our biggest competitor, Marvell Minton, owner of Bathhouse Essentials, on the South end of Central Avenue, sent her spies to scope out the shop. Sandy caught one audacious spy with her hands cupped around her eyes peering into the display window, making greasy nose prints on my clean glass.

  If this box was shoddy and word spread, Marvell would find out. I know Marvell, and lemme tell ya, she loved running amok rumors, especially if they were about us, her newest competitors.

  “About done?” Sandy called.

  “Yes, in a jiffy,” I yelled, needing to cut the ribbons to finish the box. “Where are the scissors?”

  “Looking for these?”

  3

  Fanny Doyle

  “What the—? How’d you get my scissors?” I squinted at the hazy figure of a strange woman standing next to the bathroom. “And how’d you get in here?” I hadn’t heard the doorbell tinkle and no one but Sandy had walked into the stockroom. I lurched toward her trying to grab the scissors, but she stepped back and I missed. “Give me those scissors!”

  “Not so fast, Mrs. Grundy.” The scissors swung from her finger. She was the oddest-looking thing. The knock on my noggin was affecting my vision, and I pinched the bridge of my nose, shaking my head.

  Motioning for the scissors, I asked, “Who’s Mrs. Grundy? Gimme those.”

  “Do what I say.” I motioned again. “I’m running out of time.”

  “Not until you tell me why you’re in my shop. Who let you in?” She tempted me, swinging them again and lifted her chin. “You better get out.”

  “Your shop? Who are you? Get out!” I snapped, but backpedaled. If Sandy caught me talking to the customers so rudely, she’d have my hide. “You’re mistaken. This is the Bathhouse Row Soapery. We’ve only just opened.” I softened my tone, but still felt perturbed by her blatant uppityness.

  “Please let me have the scissors,” I pleaded. “I really didn’t have the energy for this pran
k.” Overhead, the new LED light strips buzzed loudly rattling my fillings like Teddy’s drill.

  She faded in and out of the haze, taunting me with the scissors. “I’ll let you have it,” she growled. I hesitated, but I needed the scissors. Easing toward her, I reached for the scissors, but she dropped them and they clattered, skidding across the floor and underneath the workbench.

  “Ohh! Why’d you throw them?” I dropped to my knees, reaching for them. “I can’t reach them.” I lay on the floor, crunching under the workbench, until my middle finger looped over the handle. I pulled them out and when I got up, the growling woman wasn’t in the stockroom.

  “What the…?” I glanced over at the swinging doors, but they were still. The security door hadn’t opened or closed while I reached for the scissors. The flickering buzzy lights didn’t help my screwed up vision, so I flipped them off.

  I was certain Teddy’s next gig was with a cold beer. By now, he was no doubt sitting at Fat Jack’s Oyster Bar at the upper end of Central Avenue and wasn’t interested in my light fixture problem. Too bad Teddy had another gig; he could’ve fixed the lights.

  Sandy pushed through the clacking doors. “What’s that noise? Who are you talking to?” She could hear a gnat’s whisker wiggle.

  I picked up the scissors and cut a length of ribbon. “Just talking to myself. I found the scissors.”

  She eyed me with her piercing nurse’s eye. “You okay? I’m sure you have a concussion or worse. You need a thorough examination.” She loved to tell dramatic medical stories and recant fatal diagnoses, the more gruesome the details the more delighted she became. I sure didn’t need her gossiping about my tragic fall off a stepladder.

  I shook my head, closing the box lid. “I’m fine.” I’d rather drop dead than agree to a thorough examination, inside or out.

  “Where’s your ice bag?”

  “It’s in the sink. Remember it was leaking?”

  “Get more ice on your head when you can,” she insisted. The bell tinkled, announcing another customer. “Ehh! More people.” She flitted through the swinging doors. Over her shoulder, she smiled. “Don’t dawdle.”

  The gift box was crammed full and all it needed was shrink wrap and a bow.

  Rattled by Sandy’s bossiness and the oddball woman’s appearance, I accidentally melted one corner of the wrap with the heat gun, bungling the entire job, and had to start over.

  The bell tinkled, meaning the customer left, and Sandy yelled. “Done yet? It’s almost been an hour.”

  “Gimme a few more minutes.” My nose throbbed. She was right; I needed more ice but didn’t stop to refill the bag, since she was a master at applying pressure. I bet Sandy tied a mean tourniquet.

  The bell tinkled again, and I recognized the nice gift box woman’s voice.

  Finally, I wrapped a wide ribbon around the box and sealed it closed with a Row sticker. I wiped the workbench clean and stored the scissors properly in the workbench drawer. With a semi-fake smile, I picked up the box and carried it like I was presenting the crown jewels to the Queen of Hot Springs.

  Sandy beamed as I set it on the counter. “Isn’t that the nicest?”

  The woman shopper beamed. “Lovely. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

  Thank goodness, I successfully pleased our first customer and curtsied a bit. “Thank you.”

  I pushed back through the swinging door to get more ice. This time, I got a new zipper bag. Sandy had used an old bag, and there was no telling what made a tiny poke in the plastic. When I returned Sandy was fussing with our new tablet pay system. I iced my goose egg, staying out of the transaction. She needed to learn how to handle the technology sooner rather than later.

  Receipt in hand, the lady headed for the door. “Tootles. I’ll tell the other wedding guests about your fine shop.”

  “Let me.” I hid the ice bag underneath the counter and grabbed the box to help her out. Sandy ran to open the door.

  Harvey had been pacing outside the shop without our competitions’ shopping bags, met her at the door and took the heavy box. “Thanks."

  Just short of groveling, Sandy grinned. “Thank you so much.”

  I mustered, “Have a good day.”

  We watched them walked away. Sandy asked, “Turned out fine, didn’t it? Do you think they figured out it was our first sale?”

  “Nope. Now we need a million more to make a profit.” I was thrilled our first sale had turned around our bad start. Maybe Sandy will forget about my bump and leave me alone.

  A droning bee buzzed in over our heads. “Shut the door before…” Sandy started but she was too late.

  She whacked at it but the intoxicated bee successfully dodged her. The different flowery scents: lilac, rosemary and gardenia soaps produced a lovely, but overwhelming smorgasbord for the busy bee. It landed on an earthy tobacco scented soap and staggered across the cake plate.

  “Now, you’ve done it. Shoo! Shoo!”

  “I’ll get the flyswatter.” I started for the stockroom.

  Sandy’s mouth dropped open. “No, you won’t. Bees are vital to mankind’s existence. We can’t kill it.”

  “Okay, I won’t. But don’t fuss so much about the door being open.”

  I headed for the counter, cradling the ice bag on my face. I couldn’t do much else. Without ice my nose throbbed, my ears rang, and my molars ached. I was a mess.

  The bee took off, buzzing over the tables, looking for real nectar. Sandy chased it, swatting at him with a tissue. “I can catch him, I know I can.”

  The bell tinkled, but the sound rattled my nerves. Maybe the bell wasn’t such a good idea.

  Another couple, younger this time, entered taking big whiffs of the shop’s scents.

  Sandy smiled, nodding at the pair but hid the tissue behind her back. She hurried over to the counter and whispered in my ear. “You got this? I need a potty break.”

  “Go ahead.” I put the ice bag under the counter and stood to greet the couple. “Welcome to the Row.”

  They smiled, but didn’t respond; instead, they murmured intimately, sniffing soaps, giving each other goo-goo eyed glances. Ah, young love.

  I tried to remain attentive. If they looked my way, I stopped massaging my temples.

  If they asked questions, I’d offer them a soap sample and give them my spiel about our fine handmade soap. We cut the individual bars from large slabs of bulk soaps, only cutting enough to fill the cake plates once a day, so the scents would remain strong. As cuddly as those two kids acted, they wouldn’t give a hoot about my spiel or cut soap.

  “Hey! What’s with these jokers?”

  I jerked up, looking for who said that. “What the…?” The scissor thief woman stood in the display window, behind her, the natural light accentuated her outline. The browsing couple hadn’t looked up like they heard her speak.

  Scowling, I whispered, “Who are you?”

  “Fanny Doyle. That’s who. Get them jokers outta my place.”

  That got the couple’s attention and they looked up. The girl puckered her lips, shaking her head, and the boyfriend gave me a sideways glare.

  I waved, pretending to shoo the bee. “Shoo. Go away.”

  They took a step toward the door.

  “Not you.” I gasped and swatted again, darting my gaze around overhead. “We’re plagued with strangers… I mean there’s a bee buzzing the soap.” Too bad the bee didn’t buzz past them; it would’ve saved me from looking crazy.

  Frowning, the strange woman crossed her arms, glaring at me with piercing blue eyes. “I won’t go away.”

  She wore an old-fashioned, long, slim skirt covered by a canvas work apron. A dark blue cummerbund cinched in her small waist. Her blouse was buttoned at the collar and a threaded sewing needle was laced into the fabric over her left breast. Stringy tendrils of hair floated around her face coming loose from her chignon.

  She was out of place, even in this touristy town. Tsking, she tapped her toe smartly, shaking her head. “Ar
e you daft? I said what do they want? They aren’t my ordinary gents.” She had an odd accent.

  Luckily, the fat bee took off again, making a satisfied drone. I waved at it. “Shoo!” The guy shot me another annoyed glare. “Sorry, I’m talking to a bee. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks.” He put his hand in the small of her back and guided her toward the door. They left, snapping the door closed.

  Coming back into the showroom, Sandy asked, “Hey? I heard the bell. Did they leave?”

  “Ah, yeah. Just browsing. Didn’t buy anything.”

  “Pooh!” She pouted and fiddled with an out of place soap bar on a cake plate. “Did the bee attack them?”

  “No, the bee did not attack them.” I shook my head. Attacking bees? A weird hazy woman saying this was her shop? I am brain damaged.

  Over Sandy’s shoulder I could see the hazy woman wavering like a smoky mirage, worst yet, I heard her tapping toe.

  Sandy stepped out of the way, and I could see the woman clearly. The hem of her dress floated a few inches off the floor, but she didn’t have any feet or shoes to tap.

  No feet? How could that be? I massaged my eyelids and looked again, but she was still there, without shoes to tap, glaring at me.

  “I said get out. This is my shop.”

  I’m seriously in trouble. Sandy looked out the display window, dreaming of more customers. I can’t tell her I’m seeing things. She’d be exuberant, ready with a fatal diagnosis.

  “I’m out of ice.” I grabbed the watery zipper bag and pushed into the stockroom. “I’m taking a break.”

  “Okay. I’ll man the fort,” Sandy yelled as I stood at the sink emptying the melted ice.

  I refilled the zipper bag with fresh ice and headed for ramshackle loveseat. Another of Sandy’s secondhand treasures she produced from her storage building, but it was a comfy oasis for the stockroom. I slipped off my shoes, flopped into the sofa and curled my feet around. My nose throbbed, and I laid the cold bag on my face, leaning against the sloshy goose egg bump.

  I thought about getting another ice bag, one for the front and the back, but didn’t budge.