Free Made of Honor by Marilynn Griffith Page B

eat my sensitive skin right through.”
    One could only hope.
    Lord, forgive me.
    Triumphant, Naomi dropped into the seat beside me—Tracey’s old desk. How I missed her right now. I never realized how much of a buffer she had been between me and, well, everyone.
    “I’ve talked to Steve and we decided that this whole enterprise of yours is a conflict of interest. You’re probably using our connections with fragrance suppliers for your own personal gain and who knows what else.”
    As if I’d want to use that wretched smelling stuff? It was bad enough to have to sample it.
    “On top of that, our productivity inventory has shown the decrease in your work product over the past year. A direct result of your outside enterprise in our estimation. So…go home and talk to your little buddies all you want.” She leaned over and clapped her palms like a seal. “You’re fired.”
    With that, she strode toward her office, never bothering to look back.
    I sat frozen for a few seconds and then mashed three numbers on the phone before I remembered that the line was monitored for “productivity assurance” or whatever she’d called it. I shrugged and punched the remaining digits. What did it matter now?
    “Shoes of Peace.” Rochelle still sounded like someone had shot her with a tranquilizer.
    “You’ll never believe it.”
    “What? Is it Tracey?” I could hear her scrambling around the register. “Don’t tell me. Jordan called you, too—?”
    My stupid brother was the least of my worries. Visa was going to come and repossess my teeth if I didn’t figure a way out of this one. And just when I was considering that saving-up-for-a-rainy-day thing. “She fired me, Rochelle. What am I going to do now?”
    “Fired you? Naomi?” A cheerleader’s voice replaced her melancholy tone. “Get over here as fast as you can!”
    I stared at the receiver. My friend had sprung to life at the news of my financial demise. Was I missing something here?
    “Come over there? Now? No, I’m going home. I’ve got a date with some ice cream.”
    “No, little sis. You come by here. I’ve got something better than ice cream.”
    Better than ice cream? Now we were talking. “Whaddya got? Baklava? I knew you weren’t serious about starting our food program today. Baklava is in the points book, but—”
    “No, Dane, no baklava. What I’m going to feed you will keep you full for a long time. We’re going to cook up some dreams.”
     
    The dream was almost done. A little raw in the center, overdone around the edges, but the details for my closet-hobby-turned-business were falling into place. The past few weeks had been a flurry of paperwork and planning—two things I’m not too good with. First, burning the midnight oil with a business planhad kept me busy. Then came the fun stuff—market research, product line development, price points and displays—all the stuff I’d dreamed about.
    Only the reality turned out to be more like a nightmare. The insurance? Forget it. I came home from that meeting sweating like I’d been to spinning class. For extra fun, add in ordering bacteria challenge tests for my products, designing labels, obtaining UPC codes. All sorts of madness. But somehow, I felt more alive than ever. I’d thought Rochelle was nuts to push me into this, but I had to admit being excited. More excited than I’d been about anything in a long time, except maybe when Adrian showed up again. But now he’d disappeared just as quickly.
    Mind your business. I’ve got him.
    And you.
    I smiled, easing my hand over the almost unrecognizable scar under my eye. My cocoa butter soap and lotion had done wonders. Renee, who’d volunteered to help me unload boxes, peeked around the corner of my Thanksgiving display, a burst of orange, gold, copper and green draped the shelves in layers. A cornucopia full of pumpkin pie bath bombs would soon grace the top for effect.
    An emerald nail cradled Renee’s cheek. “I know this wasn’t