If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(70)

She shook her head like she used to when I’d doodle while Amanda tried to help me with homework. “You can’t grow a business if you aren’t organized and following a plan. We should be testing things and tracking what works and doesn’t. Let’s not wing this.” She went back to stirring the ingredients.

Let’s? We?

Shakti Suds was my baby—my vision—yet if Dad had been living, I would’ve welcomed his help and input.

I’d already taken Amanda’s idea about contacting local stores, although I didn’t tell her I’d done so because I couldn’t willingly give her another reason to feel superior to me. However, this situation with Lyle and Mom’s forgetfulness had forced us to work together, and that hadn’t sucked.

Maybe I should get Amanda more involved—officially. It wouldn’t be the worst thing for me to pass off the things I hated to do—math! and organization—so I could concentrate on the creative side of my enterprise. And Lord knew she could use something to think about besides Lyle.

The idea made me a little sick to my stomach, though. I’d have to weigh the pros and cons more . . . maybe talk to Kevin about how to structure it.

“I thought you’d retired from ever working again.” I looked at my mom.

“I have, trust me. This is only a good distraction until this Lyle business is settled.”

“Well, then, how about we finish this batch without making plans for an empire.”

“Fine, but we should go to Home Depot today to get some sturdy shelves for the garage. I’ll make labels and create one central place for all these oils and bottles and things.”

I had to admit I didn’t mind that help. “I can’t go today. I’ve got plans.”

She looked up. “What plans?”

I couldn’t tell her about my plan to investigate Ebba Nilsson, so I hedged. “I’m taking the soaps we made the other day and some sugar scrubs to Castille’s.”

Nalini Bhatt, the owner of the upscale local store that specialized in women’s lingerie and pajamas, had agreed to let me conduct a little trial in her shop. Granted, her place was a bit chichi for my taste, but women who would pay sixty dollars for a bra shouldn’t blink at spending eight bucks for a bar of organic homemade soap.

“You’ve sold them all already?”

Mom rarely graced me with an impressed expression, so I hated to erase it so quickly.

“Not yet. Castille’s will sell them for a cut of the revenue. I made pretty lotus-flower labels with my website info listed on them so if people like the products, they can reorder directly from me.”

Mom nodded, tapping her temple. “Good idea, honey.”

“Thanks.” I nodded, encouraged. “I’ll grab the mason jars so we can fill them with lotion, then can I borrow your car?”

Mom hadn’t driven much since the little accident. “Sure. Amanda’s coming over for help with baking for her school fair tomorrow morning, so I don’t need it.”

Good. Mom wouldn’t be alone for long, which meant I wouldn’t have to worry about her microwaving anything covered with tinfoil again. Luckily I’d caught that one before she hit the “Start” button, but, yeah, that actually made it three incidents in five days. Guess she wasn’t doing as well as I wanted to believe.

“Notice that the keys are on the hook . . . ,” she said, with a haughty raise of her brows.

“Yep.” I didn’t react—as I hadn’t done any of the bazillion times she’d pointed out all the things she’d done right this week. “I’ll be right back with the jars.”



After spending twenty minutes at Castille’s arranging small displays at the checkout counter and in the storefront window, I tossed my empty boxes in the trunk of Mom’s car and headed over to Chesapeake Properties.

My dislike of Lyle meant I’d never once been to his office or met his coworkers, so no one would know that my real name wasn’t Roxy Cummings. While Stan ran down leads through online research and whatnot, I would carry out my own investigation. My years of working in restaurants and gyms had taught me a thing or two about how much women liked to gossip. After scanning the website to look at the agents who still worked there, I’d singled out two—Meghan Armstrong and Jane Bauer—who looked most likely to have been friendly with Ebba. In my experience, attractive women tended to band together.

I got out of the car, slightly self-conscious in the conservative dress I’d purchased years ago for “grown-up” events. Mom had bought my lie about dressing up to make a good impression at Castille’s. Concealing my real plan would let me avoid her disappointment if I failed. Truthfully, she might’ve told me not to come. Sidestepping that conversation meant I wasn’t breaking a promise.

Time to get into character.

I opened the realty shop’s door and glanced around the open room to find seven polished mahogany desks but only three agents busy at work. Lucky for me, I spotted Jane Bauer from my research. Averting my eyes from the other agents’ gazes, I beelined for Jane’s desk.

“Good morning.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Roxy and I’m looking to buy my first house. My friend told me about this agency—actually she mentioned a broker, Ebba Nilsson—so here I am. Are you her?”