Clean Slate Read Free Page B

hill back in the direction of the
attractions with the guys keeping a respectable distance a few paces back from
them.
    “Hey, you know as well as I do things start to slow down
at twenty-five. I gotta work hard to keep the weight off, especially when Ben
is around because the guy gets bored and cooks. I worry I’m not going to fit
into my wedding dress.”
    “Bored?”
    “Yeah. When he’s not puttering around the barn, he’s at
our house trying to find ways to entertain himself. Sometimes that involves
massive quantities of butter and carbohydrates. I wouldn’t dare complain. I’ve
learned to boil eggs and broil steaks in the past year, but that’s about the
limit of my expertise.”
    Daisy whipped her head around to ogle her blonde companion.
“Really? You’re a chemist and you can’t cook? That doesn’t sound right.”
    Trinity shrugged. “Believe it or not, the skill set
doesn’t transfer. I can formulate chemicals by memory, sure, but ask me to make
pancake batter and you’d might as well head to the hardware store and buy a tub
of drywall mud. The results would be just as palatable.”
    “I could show you a few things if you’d like.”
    Trinity turned her face slowly toward Daisy and offered
her an expression she couldn’t parse.
    “Uh, I mean…” Daisy wanted to smack herself. Really? Offering to teach my boss how to
cook? Maybe I’ll go on and offer my resignation next. Save her the trouble of
firing me.
    “Okay. Next weekend, maybe? Clara’s flying in before the
wedding and I wouldn’t want her to think I can’t keep her son fed. Not that he
wasn’t doing fine before I came along.”
    “Huh?” She said
“yes,” stupid.
    “Can you fry chicken? I always get the outside really hard
but the middle turns out raw. At eight bucks a pound…”
    “Yeah, I know how that is.” Actually, no she didn’t. When
Daisy bought chicken, she bought whole fryers or trays of drumsticks—not
the primo expensive boneless skinless stuff. “My granny taught me all the
tricks. Fried chicken is best if you steam it first.”
    “I have no idea what that means. Come by around eleven,
maybe, and stay for lunch? You need to tell me what to buy.”
    “Okay.” Daisy breathed out a miniscule sigh of relief as
Trinity nudged her into the line for a log flume ride.
    Perhaps the retreat wouldn’t turn out to be so horrible,
after all. She could show Trinity and Jerry she wasn’t just N-by-N’s
soap-making automaton.
    Mostly at work, Daisy just did what Momma said. She
followed Momma’s recipes, which were really Nanna’s who’d got them from her own
mother, and added whatever scents, herbs, and oils Nikki had okayed for the
season. Momma never strayed from those old recipes—never adulterated the
tried-and-true blends. Daisy was ready to take some risks and devise some
younger, hipper formulations. She was tired of the old granny floral scents and
the oatmeal soaps they made that were so good for eczema, but not much else.
    She wanted, for once, to make a soap that was just for
fun. Something that’d make her feel nice when she sank down low in the pitiful
peach fiberglass bathtub in her rental house. Something with a scent that would
take her away. She’d been wanting to pitch an idea to Nikki for six months, but
every time she opened her mouth to talk to the little dragon-in-charge, no
words came out. She became mute. During Monday meetings she always let her
mother do the talking, even when Nikki asked folks to pipe up with any new
ideas for their product development brainstorming. The words would form in her
chest, then Daisy would just sink down lower in her chair, absolutely terrified
someone would pay attention to her. If they paid attention, they had an opening
to reject her. Insult her.
    She clucked her tongue as they wove around the bend in the
line. Maybe a sheep’s milk soap, scented
with violet…
    “What are you thinking about, Daisy? You look a million
miles away right now,” Jerry