Friends, I wrote a book.
[gulp]
Just writing this post is making me nervous. You’d think after two years of working on a novel, that when the big moment comes, I’d be excited. And I am. But right now, it’s mostly the anxiety coming through. What if readers hate it?
But it’s finally time to share.
Naturally, the story is about a soapmaker.
Wren Foster has a shop in Palm Cottage, which is also where her best friend, Bridget Bruce, runs a bakery/cafe. Strange things are happening around their Florida coastal town, Cross Bay Key, and Wren decides to get to the bottom of it.
If you like cozy mysteries with an amateur sleuth and a strong sense of place, stories that are high on charm and low on crime scenes, then you might want to add this to your to-be-read pile.
My book, Soap & Sabotage, will be available on Friday, April 17 on Amazon.com, as an ebook and part of Kindle Unlimited. If you’d like a reminder, you can sign up for an email alert here.
To mark the occasion, I created a limited batch of soaps that go with the book. You can find them on my site here.
Meanwhile, here is an excerpt from the book for your reading, uh, pleasure... I hope.
[fingers crossed]
Chapter One
Some things are just meant to disappear.
Temporary tattoos, morning fog, candles burning down, and middle-school celebrity crushes.
But not the bright red tropical sage that my mother, Lisa, planted in hand-painted containers on the porch of my soap shop, Cross Bay Key Bath and Body. And not yellow and red blanket flowers from the window boxes that she insisted on gifting when the shop opened last year. But they were gone.
I walked across the porch to Bridget’s side. My best friend ran Palm Cottage Café in the other half of the building we called Palm Cottage—a historic house she’d inherited from her grandmother and decided to turn into a business—and the flowers on her side were gone, too.
Scanning the porch, I checked to see if raccoons had gotten into the pots (again!) and discarded the flowers somewhere. But no. The only things to look at were the street, the vast blue Everglades sky, and the dark green leaves of the mangroves beyond. Not even muddy pawprints.
“Hmm.” I shook my head and turned to enter through the café door, jingling the bell on the door frame.
Bridget was always the first to arrive to get her baking started early, while I usually started my day with a short run through Cross Bay Key and then a shower with my own soap before I came to Palm Cottage.
Inside, the familiar and comforting scent of cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee welcomed me, and so did the sight of Pinky, Bridget’s rose-breasted cockatoo whose multi-branched perch took up the front window.
“Hello there!” The pink-and-gray bird rocked from side to side.
“Hi, Pinky.”
She bowed, which was her way of asking for a head rub. I gently stroked her soft crown feathers.
Bridget looked up. Her kitchen was separated from the customer area by a set of open shelves, so she could easily view who came and went. Her light brown hair (it used to be blonde when we were kids growing up together) was twisted into a topknot while she worked. “Hey, Wren.” Bridget nodded. “Help yourself!”
“Thanks.” As usual, I poured myself a cup of coffee—cream, no sugar—and blew on it to cool it down. Bridget came out of the kitchen with her own tumbler (which I knew would be Earl Grey tea), and I pointed toward the porch. “Do you know anything about the missing flowers?”
“What? No.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I didn’t notice, but it was dark when I got in.”
“The porch containers and window boxes are empty. There’s just dirt now.”
Bridget shrugged. “Maybe your mom’s in the process of switching them out.”
I nodded. “Maybe that’s it.” I’d ask Mom about the flowers later. “Either that, or the raccoons have really punked us this time.”
When Bridget opened Palm Cottage Café last year, she insisted that I take the right half of her building for my dream shop. Together, we’d worked to get our businesses going. My mother had done the landscaping, including the flowers, while my dad, John, and I painted. Bridget and her family took care to furnish the café and decorate the walls with local antiques and Everglades art. We’d created the cozy, welcoming retreat we’d only dreamed about as kids. Now we were grown and had made it a reality.
“So!” Bridget leaned toward me. She always smelled like sweetness and warmth. “Pauly told me that someone broke into The Big Bight last night and stole every bottle of alcohol they had!” Pauly was her husband, who like Bridget was an early riser as an airboat captain and tour guide. Even if they didn’t have jobs that required them to be up early, they would still have gotten up before dawn because of Ezra, their one-year-old.
The Big Bight was the main restaurant in town. “Woo! An ex-employee retaliating? Someone mad that they finally figured out bight is pronounced ‘bite’ and not ‘bigot?’”
Bridget laughed. “No one knows yet, but imagine a bar with no liquor.” Bridget adjusted her dark green apron over her curvy frame.
“Guess folks will have to drink over in Santina.” That was the next town over, on the other side of Cross Bay. Santina had the luck of having a sandy beach. In Cross Bay Key, there were only mangrove trees and rocks along our coastline. So Santina was more developed with hotels and restaurants, drawing a more posh type of tourist—and they never let us forget it. “Or people will have to grab a six-pack from the Corner Mart.” I smiled. “Whoever stole the liquor had to be strong. Liquids are heavy. The glass bottles are breakable. I mean, you can’t just walk out with dozens of bottles without a plan.”
“Hmm.” Bridget tapped her tumbler. “Good points. You’re so analytical.”
“Thanks?” I sipped my coffee. “I hope everything works out for Gil.” I didn’t really know the owner of The Big Bight, but it was a fixture in town, so everyone knew his name.
“Guess I should get to work.” I nodded in the direction of my half of the building and slipped through the inner doorway that connected our halves of Palm Cottage. I flipped on the lights, illuminating the white shelves and tables lined with my soaps, bath bombs, scrubs, bath teas, lotions, sprays, balms, candles, and anything else I dreamed of making.
I’d gone from making pretend potions as a kid to studying chemistry, then to a corporate job that left me miserable. Now at 27, I was back home in Cross Bay Key doing what I loved, thanks to Bridget and my parents.
Bridget followed me and picked up a lotion tester bottle. “So this sounds crazy, but what if Millie Sloane stole the alcohol?” Bridget giggled. “I saw her checking out the wine selection at the Corner Mart last week. What if she didn’t want to be seen buying alcohol, so she stole it?” Her voice had a mock-offended tone that told me she was joking.
“Millie Sloane, the church secretary?” I laughed, the sound echoing off the original Dade County heart pine floors. “Let’s lay this out: Maybe she’s running a speakeasy out of the church hall!” I reached for my own work apron, which matched Bridget’s. “Of course that would be ridiculous. Remember that time we were buying soda at the gas station and she lectured us about the caffeine and sugar in it?”
Bridget clucked and smoothed the lotion on her hands and neck. “You never can tell about people. I bet she’s got a skeleton in her closet.” She sniffed the back of her hand. “Ooh, coconut vanilla. Speaking of the Corner Mart, too bad about our gas station. Now we have to go to Santina to fuel up.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “They said fixing that would take months.” The underground tanks had apparently leaked, causing the gas station to shut down due to cleanup and repairs. It would be a while until it opened again.
“Ugh.” Bridget lifted a calendula bath bomb to her nose. “What a pain.” She inhaled deeply. “Ahhh. That’s why people shop here, to get your relaxing bath goodies. To retreat from a hectic world.” She sniffed the bath bomb again.
“And it’s why people eat in your café. For the comfort food and ambience.”
It was regular moments like this that I loved, just talking with Bridget about everything and nothing on a beautiful April morning. Laughter filled our cottage. Sunshine streamed through the windows, making my bath salts sparkle in their glass jars. Sometimes these little observations made me realize there was so much to be grateful for. What was better than a morning spent running along the bay, working next to my best friend, and inhaling the absolute best bakery and soap scents in the world?
Life was good, even if flowers and alcohol had mysteriously disappeared.
Just then, the sound of wings flapping carried through the open doorway. Pinky hopped her way into the room. “Hello there!”
“Oh, Pinky.” Bridget bent down to let Pinky step onto her hand, then lifted the cockatoo to her shoulder. “You didn’t want to be left out, did you? I’m sorry.” Bridget pulled a crumb of pastry out of her apron pocket and gave it to Pinky.
As a kid, Bridget found the injured bird in a bush outside her house after a tropical storm. She and her parents spent a month trying to find the owners and never did. A bird vet examined her and said Pinky would never fly again. So Pinky became part of the family. Now, Bridget rarely went anywhere without her other best friend. Customers liked seeing Pinky on her perch, and every once in a while, someone called Bridget’s place the Pink Parrot Café.
Movement outside caught our attention, and we turned to see a man on the porch peering through my front window. Tall and lean, he wore dark sunglasses and a T-shirt with “Naples” across the front over black pants. He walked back to the street and used his phone to snap a quick photo of our storefront before heading north.
We looked at each other and shrugged.
“Paparazzi.” I winked at Bridget. “They can’t get enough of us.”
Bridget giggled. “Hey, has Jonathan mentioned anything about the alcohol at The Big Bight?”
I shook my head. “My little brother’s probably already on the case, though, practicing his ‘serious officer’ face in the mirror.” I mimicked Jonathan’s stern expression, furrowing my brow and putting my hands on my hips.
Bridget snorted at my impression. “Your face, your hair, even your hazel eyes—when you do that, you look like a smaller, prettier version of your brother.”
I laughed. “Thanks, but Jonathan would handcuff you until you took that statement back! No way would he want to look like me.” I smoothed my shoulder-length, boring, medium-brown hair. “The stolen alcohol might be his first important case since joining the force.” I was proud of my brother, who was an officer in Cross Bay Key’s small police force.
“Speaking of investigations, I’m investigating a new pastry for the Women’s Club. Want to sample it?”
“Of course!” I was already moving toward the doorway.
Bridget placed Pinky back on her perch, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Every Wednesday, the local Women’s Club met in Bridget’s café for a social hour. Most of them, like my mother, were retired but interested in serving the community. Bridget always accommodated the group and offered a variety of baked goods and beverages for them.
My phone buzzed in my pants pocket with a text message. It was Jonathan.
Something weird’s going on, lock up tonight, call u later
I raised my eyebrows. My brother wasn’t the type to be dramatic or overprotective. If he was concerned enough to text during his shift, something major was happening.
Bridget returned with something flaky on a paper napkin. It smelled buttery and fruity. “I tried making guava pastelitos for the first time.”
“Pastelitos, yes!” I broke off a piece and popped it into my mouth. The warm, gooey mixture exploded on my tongue, and I savored the rich sweetness.
“It’s made with puff pastry, guava paste, and cream cheese. What do you think?”
“Mmm.” I sighed. “It tastes like heaven. I haven’t had one of these since I went to Miami a couple years ago. Can’t remember why I was there. Mmm.” I wiped my sticky fingers on the napkin. “Now I need a café con leche. You wouldn’t happen to have any Cuban coffee hiding in your kitchen, would you?”
Bridget smiled and shook her head. “I hope the Women’s Club likes the pastries. Something different. Of course, I’ll have their usual goodies ready.”
“If they don’t love these pastelitos, their taste buds are broken.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I love the perks of being your tenant.”
She slapped my hand away. “Stop with the tenant stuff.” Bridget blushed. Even though her café was successful, she had a hard time thinking of herself as a businesswoman. I was subtly trying to change that with encouraging comments here and there. Sometimes I wondered if she felt she didn’t measure up because she didn’t get a college degree in business the way I did, but that didn’t matter to me. Without her, I’d still be making soap in my kitchen. And she was more business savvy than she realized. “Get to work!” She laughed and retreated to the kitchen.
I set up my new chalkboard A-frame sign to promote “Buy Three, Get One Free” soap bars, then went to my workspace. With a little more than a month until Mother’s Day, I wanted to make some floral soaps so they would cure in time for the holiday.
Heavy footsteps clomped on the porch, then someone burst through the café door.
“Bridget!” Her husband Pauly’s voice was unmistakable. “Bridge! Help!”
“What on Earth?” Bridget said from the back while Pinky squawked.
After moving to the inner doorway, I saw Bridget reach Pauly just in time for him to slump to his knees.
“I’m dying!”
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