“What? No, you don't have to?—”
“You're working with lye without proper safety equipment.”
“I'mfine. It's just soap. People make soap all the time.”
“People who know what they're doing make soap all the time.” I was already grabbing my keys. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Cal, seriously, I don't need?—”
“Twenty minutes.”
I hung up before she could argue further.
Pudding tilted his head, watching me with those big eyes.
“Let's go rescue Rosie.”
His tail started wagging before I'd even finished the sentence. The puppy scrambled toward me, tripping over his own feet in his excitement.
It wasn't the best idea. He needed rest, needed quiet. But he also needed socialization, needed to learn that the world wasn't just the clinic and my house.
I scooped him up, grabbed a blanket from the couch, and headed for the truck.
The drive to Sullivan Farm took sixteen minutes. Should've been twenty, but my foot pressed harder on the accelerator than necessary. Lye. She was working withlyein kitchen gloves.
I parked near the house and cracked the windows. “Stay.”
Pudding blinked at me, already half-asleep in the backseat.
The front door was already open. I climbed the porch steps two at a time and knocked on the frame.
“I'm in the kitchen!” I followed her voice through the familiar layout—past the living room with Walt's worn recliner, down the hall lined with family photos, into the kitchen.
Rosie stood at the counter, surrounded by what could only be described as a soap-making disaster. Pots everywhere. Mysterious liquids in different shades of colors. A digital thermometer sitting in something that looked suspiciously chunky. Molds lined up on the counter, half of them already filled with substances that definitely didn't look like soap.
She glanced up, hair escaping its ponytail, a smudge of something white across her cheek. “You drove really fast.”
“You said lye.”
“I'mfine.” She gestured at herself with yellow-gloved hands. “See? All my fingers. Both eyes. Everything's attached.”
I scanned her more carefully. No burns that I could see. No chemical splashes on her clothes. The weird smell I'd noticed—floral with an underlying chemical bite—wasn't as strong as I'd expected it to be.
“What happened?”
“The temperature was wrong. Or the ratios. Or possibly both.” She poked at one of the pots with a wooden spoon. The contents jiggled. “This batch separated. That one never mixed properly. And this one—” She pointed at a mold filled with something that looked like cottage cheese. “I don't even know what this one did.”
I crossed to the window above the sink and pushed it open wider. The evening breeze immediately swept through, carrying the chemical smell with it.
“I'mfine,” Rosie said again, but her voice had softened. Almost amused.
“You keep saying that.” I opened the window on the opposite wall, creating a cross-breeze. “Doesn't make it true.”
She pulled off the yellow gloves and set them on the counter. “You really drove over here because I said lye?”
“Chemical burns aren't something you mess around with.”
“I didn't get any chemical burns.” She crossed her arms, hip leaning against the counter. “But you drove over here anyway.”
