The Scent of Rain

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “No,” she said. “The first day you had all those marketing reports on your desk—that’s why I thought you were messier.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Have a seat.”

  She sat.

  “The marketing reports are gone.”

  “Oh.”

  “Willard and John are creating a product out of your scent. We’re presenting it at the next staff meeting, which will have the board involved.”

  “Does Dave know?”

  “No. He thinks we’re making sexy fabric softener because it’s Kensie’s idea. He thinks yours is on track for next quarter.”

  “Gee, thanks. But we’re not?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we are. This is you, this fragrance. I assume that means there’s emotion involved and that might resonate with buyers. Like the sports detergent. All I can smell is the scent of winning. What emotion do you feel when you think of Volatility!?”

  “Right now? I think of volatility, because I know my ex is trying to figure out the last note. But when I was creating it, I thought of love. I felt singled out and special, like I was the luckiest woman alive. I didn’t understand what I’d done to be worthy of such love. I felt treasured. Now . . .” She paused. “What I feel most is not rejection, but a loss of innocence. I don’t know that I can ever believe in love that wholeheartedly again, and I worry I won’t be able to create on that emotion ever again. But you showed me that we can come close. It’s not all emotion.”

  Jesse’s brows were raised, and she felt the heat of the Ohio summer, though the building was well air-conditioned.

  “I did it again,” she said. “I’m talking too much. I’m nervous.”

  Jesse’s eyes were locked on hers. He cleared his throat and wrote down some notes on a notepad. “What else makes you feel like that?” He met her eyes again. “Besides love.”

  “God. When I’m in worship and I just feel the connection between the two of us. And I know—” She stopped. “Wait— you mean winning? What makes me feel like that?”

  She was pouring out her heart like she was in a therapist’s office. She’d spent too much time around Sophie for the last two weeks. This man didn’t know her from toilette water, and she felt his patience wearing thin.

  He nodded. “I’m trying to make the most of what you do. I want to create a scent around an emotion, but I think we need an alter ego for Volatility! I have an idea, if you can think of a way to feminize that cologne for a female fragrance.”

  “Feminize Volatility!, you mean?”

  “If you’re comfortable with that. I just thought it would be easier than starting from scratch. And in case Dave doesn’t like the first two ideas, I want to have backups.”

  “That’s great. Great.” Equal parts excitement and anxiety tore through Daphne. She wanted to use her signature scent, but she also wanted to get back to Paris with it. This presented a happy, Mark-free answer. She could prove her process. Prove that she’d created it and owned it, but it wouldn’t do her any good without an actual product.

  “Dave and Willard have been working on ideas, but so far they have nothing. They’re two old bachelors, so I’m not sure the ‘treasured’ emotion comes into play unless it’s from one of Dave’s game controllers. Or maybe Willard’s ham radio. So . . . my idea. The reason I need two . . .” He held his hands up for punctuation. “Dog shampoo!”

  “Dog shampoo?”

  “We could have a dry dog shampoo as well, for weekly spritzes. A whole line of them, really.”

  She didn’t want to be offended, but her signature scent . . . for dogs?

  “Hear me out. Dogs give you unconditional love. They make you feel treasured. Volatility! is the perfect scent for a freshly bathed pup. We’ll have to come up with the perfect name—we don’t want anything that makes you think wet dog when you’re thinking about how much they love you and you want to treasure them. It will work for both sexes, but if we wanted to expand the marketing, we could have a pink brand and a blue brand.”

  “You came up with this?” She blinked. “You don’t even have a dog, do you?”

  “I don’t know how I didn’t think of it before, actually. You made the scent for Mark. Mark’s a dog. It’s a natural fit.”

  Daphne felt utterly wistful. “When you were kissing me in that dream, you had a dog. Three of them, actually.” Her mouth stopped moving.

  “What was that?” He looked up from his desk, where he’d been scribbling a note.

  “I was thinking about marketing.”

  “A line of dog products. I think that might work, Daphne. We’ve got some solid ideas for the staff meeting. Maybe Dave was right about you.”

  “Well . . . good. Thanks.”

  “Why don’t you get started on the female version? Your fragrance lab is all set up; you should be able to start mixing for the sample. Work with Willard on a formula. He can keep a secret.”

  She couldn’t wait to get to the lab. “I’ve done a mock-up for the detergent. Sophie helped me with it at home, and I think you’re going to be happy with it. Sophie said Gary would use it, and he’s pretty manly.”

  “Daphne, I know this wasn’t the idea you had originally for the cologne.”

  “No, but it’s more important to be a part of something. We can fix this division.”

  “Dave can’t know anything about this until we present the ideas with your samples at the staff meeting. So that means Kensie can’t know about it either. As far as they both know, we’re working from the marketing plans.”

  “Which are?”

  “Now dissolved into a giant fireball worthy of a Bruce Willis movie.”

  “Very nice,” she said, impressed by his creativity. “That’s a process that eliminated a lot of other processes.”

  “I told you, I’m all about procedure. The lab staff meeting is this morning, so find out what John is working on and talk about that.”

  “I can’t lie,” she said. “What if Kensie asks me?”

  “You won’t be lying. You’ll be working on that too.”

  She couldn’t believe she’d blurted out that comment about her dream. “Jesse, I just wanted to—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Let’s not do this. Let’s keep this strictly professional.”

  “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

  He went back to his notepad, and she took her cue to leave. As she walked silently back to the elevators, she passed Anne’s desk.

  “HR still needs a couple more signatures from you when you get the opportunity today. Oh, and you have some mail this morning.”

  “I do?”

  Anne handed her a familiar blue envelope. Mark’s careful script was written on it, and instinctively Daphne traced the letters with her fingers. It was easier to get rid of a harsh reality than a well-crafted fantasy.

  When she opened the letter, a photograph of Mark and another woman floated out. Daphne bent to pick up the picture and looked at the woman beside him. She was almost as tall as he was, and she had beautiful red hair that fell in ringlets over her shoulders. She wore a mermaid ball gown but didn’t begin to have the figure for it. Daphne took a sick satisfaction in that—which separated her from Mother Teresa by more than a wide margin. Mark’s new woman looked like someone who could play field hockey handily. Not his sort at all, and that made Daphne worry for the stranger. What did she have that Mark coveted? And would she be smarter than Daphne had been?

  “Are you okay?” Anne asked her. “You look as white as a ghost.”

  She stared at the photo. Mark had his arm around the woman’s waist, but in a way that made him look like a male model who had to go to a dance with his cousin. He wore an aqua shirt, and his dark hair rose due to an overabundance of gel. But the way his dark brown eyes looked at her from the photograph made her understand why she had believed in him. Why she still wanted to believe in him.

  His power over her almost bordered on supernatural.

  She knew her emotions were
pointless. Stalking him on Facebook, checking his status, looking at his picture—all these would do was prolong her suffering and remind her that he must have never loved her. Unrequited love might be romantic in old movies, but in real life, it stunk like a sulphur spring.

  Shockingly, the letter itself was longer than a sentence. Which told her he must want something more than an apology this time. She only had to look as far as his comma for that confirmation.

  Daphne,

  I’ve had time to think about that first letter I wrote you, and I was wrong. You weren’t to blame for word getting around. When the DEA blacklists a chemist from being able to purchase supplies, it’s not a liability any company wants to take on—you would have aided and abetted a criminal. I can see that now. I can also see that you understood what I was trying to do. You understood the future of pharmacology mixed with aromatherapy. I know you shared my vision.

  Victoria is my soul mate. I discovered her when I took that stand-up comedy class in San Francisco. She not only believed in me, but she helped me finish my second thesis— the one you disapproved of. But I believed, and still do, that the future of medicine is in scents and mists. Arnaud has seen the light. Drugs that won’t feel like drugs for the sick and the weary.

  If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like you to send me the formula for Volatility!, as it’s become my signature scent and I plan to make more of it at home for myself. The gift should remain with the receiver. Victoria sends her regards.

  Respectfully,

  Mark

  Respectfully? If there was anything missing from Mark’s letter, it was respect. She felt sick at his heartless words. “The gift should remain with the receiver.” She should have kept the engagement ring.

  “Daphne?”

  “He’s turned into Frankenstein’s monster. I dated Frankenstein’s monster. I almost married Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Daphne?” Anne got up and came around her desk.

  “Mark. I think he’s on some sort of substance. In fact, I hope he is, because I don’t even want to think that’s his version of normal.” She held up the picture. “This is his new woman.”

  “If he’s got a new woman mere days after canceling his wedding, he’s not worth it.” Anne took the picture from her and ripped it in half. “Get to work. He’s not worth your energy. I’ll be in the storage room if anyone needs me.”

  Daphne walked slowly toward the restroom. She needed a shower. She wanted to wash away the vision she had of Mark with a new woman. As she stepped around the corner, she saw Kensie and Dave getting into the elevator. He patted Kensie just above the behind and grasped her low on the waist, saying something into her ear. She giggled coquettishly, throwing her hair back over her shoulder.

  Wasn’t Dave married?

  Daphne’s stomach roiled, and she crumpled Mark’s letter in her hand. There was so much darkness in the world, she felt she’d never create again.

  Maybe there was a reasonable explanation for what she’d just seen. She needed to know that marriage meant something in the world, because right now it seemed to have no value whatsoever.

  She’d just gone into the ladies’ room when the door behind her swung open and Anne appeared.

  Without preamble Daphne blurted, “Oh, Anne, it’s you. How did you meet Roger? How did you know he was the right one?”

  Anne didn’t even ask where this was coming from. “He wouldn’t let me think otherwise. Chased me to the high heavens until I agreed to go out with him. I hate to say persistency paid off, but in this case, it did.”

  Daphne smiled. “I needed to hear that. But, Anne, if I stay here at Gibraltar, do I join the ranks of the terminally single? You seem to be the only married person here.”

  Anne looked puzzled. “Dave is married,” she said. “And Jesse used to be married. I have hopes that he’ll get married again.” She placed a hand on Daphne’s shoulder. “As for you, we’ll see about you once you get your head in that beaker. Something about those scientific concoctions. I have to wonder if you’re all not brewing in a cauldron up there. But unlike John or Willard, I think you’ll pull your head out once in a while.”

  Suddenly Daphne had clarity. Jesse, too, had loved and lost. She’d pray for him and for Ben and stop thinking so much about herself. His personal life was none of her business, but in her dream she’d felt perfect love. Love without fear. She wanted that for Jesse again. He deserved it.

  Hearing Anne’s story about being pursued relentlessly sounded so romantic. She’d wait for that next time, Daphne vowed. Or she’d just live with cats and sink her face farther into the beaker.

  Chapter 18

  Daphne tried everything to get her sense of smell back. She owed that much to Jesse. She loaded up on lipoic acid, which according to old wives’ tales and various websites seemed to help for some. All it did for Daphne was give her indigestion.

  “If I’m going to have indigestion, I should get pizza out of the deal, right?” she asked her reflection.

  She tossed aside the antibiotics she’d parlayed with the idea that she might have an underlying virus. She added a sick stomach to her list of symptoms.

  There was a week of zinc intake and “aromatherapy” that consisted of boiling eucalyptus oil, sniffing strange concoctions like burning sage, and finally, eating horseradish and wasabi. She tried drinking nothing more than water and apple cider vinegar, prayed with funky, quiet music on low volume, and took to gardening to see if she could rouse some allergies. In all, six weeks of “cures” and still no sense of smell.

  Tonight’s cure du jour was steaming her face over a pot filled with boiling water, basil oil, and honey. While she might be sweating like a busy Italian kitchen, so far she smelled nothing. Her doorbell rang, and she lifted the towel from over her head, wiped her sweaty face, and headed to the front door.

  Kensie stood on her stoop in skinny jeans, stilettos, and a whimsical scarf shirt. “Why is your face so red?” she asked as she strode into the house without an invitation.

  Daphne still held the door open. “How did you know where I lived?”

  “It’s on the company computer system. Why? Are you hiding something?” Kensie seated herself in the living room. “I wanted to speak to you in private. You know, woman to woman. Not likely to happen at Gibraltar, is it?”

  “If you expect me to keep any kind of secret for you, I’ll warn you right now. I believe in doing the right thing even when it costs.”

  “Spare me the morality check.” Kensie crossed her long legs.

  Daphne closed her eyes and prayed for God to give her eyes to see Kensie in a better light. Ever since she’d seen Kensie and Dave stepping into the elevator together, she didn’t trust the woman as far as she could throw her. Which wouldn’t have been far.

  “This is a pretty old house.”

  “A pretty old house? Or a pretty old house?”

  “Pretty. And old,” Kensie said. “Don’t get paranoid on me. I can’t take any more pressure than I’m already under. I’ve got Jesse going rogue on me and Dave breathing down my neck.”

  It didn’t appear to Daphne as if Kensie had ever known pressure. She was one of those women who remained cool, calm, and collected while the world tumbled around them. Somehow her scarf would always keep its proper crease and her hair would never be out of place.

  “I need to know what you’re working on.”

  “Kensie, can we discuss this at work?”

  “I told you. I needed to talk to you privately.”

  “There are conference rooms.”

  “I tried to find you in the lab around six. The scientists usually work late.”

  “I left on time today. We could meet tomorrow in a conference room.”

  “Why don’t you like me?” Kensie asked.

  “I don’t even know you, Kensie.”

  “But you don’t like me. I’m not interested in Jesse, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not interested in my boss e
ither.” Some part of her wanted Kensie to come clean about Dave, but she’d known girls like Kensie. They kept their secrets close to their stone-cold hearts.

  “It smells terrible in here. But I suppose you know that, being a nose and all.”

  “My house smells?”

  Kensie rose and picked up a photo of Daphne and Sophie together at Stanford in front of the chapel. Then she flopped back on the sofa and bounced slightly at its stiffness. “New couch?”

  “New and cheap,” Daphne answered.

  “So I’m here because I need you to cover for me—as a fellow woman trying to break through the glass ceiling of Gibraltar.” Kensie pulled her hair back in a ponytail with all the confidence in the world.

  Daphne wished she possessed one ounce of the other woman’s emotional strength. “Cover for you?”

  “Tomorrow’s the wedding show. The one you finagled your way into.”

  “I didn’t do any such thing. Kensie, there’s a reason Jesse wants me to go with you.”

  “Well, I’m not going to it.”

  Daphne admitted to herself that she hadn’t been looking forward to a chummy outing for the two of them, but she felt abandoned once again. “I thought the whole point of our going was to see marketing trends.” She panicked inwardly at the idea of having to comment on scent trends she couldn’t smell.

  “I can’t go,” Kensie said.

  “Shouldn’t you tell that to Jesse and not me?”

  “I’m not telling Jesse. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You want me to lie for you? Why didn’t you just call in sick? Why tell me at all?”

  “Not lie. I just don’t want you to mention I wasn’t there. We women have to stick together. The glass ceiling and all.”

  Daphne had no doubt Kensie wouldn’t let a glass ceiling, or a brick one for that matter, stop her.

  Daphne’s cell phone rang, and she stared at her phone in confusion as the lyrics to Kanye West’s “Heartless” played. She grabbed the phone off the table to see the display, and she grinned. The ring tone was clearly Sophie’s doing. But she hated to admit that her heart leapt a bit at the sight of Mark’s name on the caller ID. She pressed the phone off.