by Stacey Lee
“How did it happen?”
She releases an especially vigorous round of her sprayer. “She fell into the ocean.”
“But she couldn’t swim, could she?” Aromateurs have a long-standing tradition of staying out of the ocean. Swimming pools are out, too, since the chlorine makes us nauseous.
“She was fine.” Her nose wrinkles. “Michael gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. After that, her ability to smell faded away like summer sweet peas.”
She sits heavily at the large farm table that spans the length of the room.
“Poor Aunt Bryony,” I mutter. If she had been born before our ancestor Larkspur jinxed us in 1698, she could’ve had love and her nose.
Mother gasps. “What do you mean poor Aunt Bryony? I had to make the governor’s elixir by myself. And don’t give me that smell. Larkspur’s Last Word exists for a reason.”
I make no attempt to suppress the lavandin notes of empathy lifting off me, which is the most camphorous form of lavender. “It’s a Last Word, not a rule.” We’ve tracked over this same patch of ground so many times the dirt’s packed tight. Mother knows where I stand.
“Larkspur was a powerful aromateur and her grief over her sister’s death was profound. Her Last Word might as well be a rule.” With a sigh, Mother removes her reading glasses and rubs them against her shirt. The glasses leave tiny indents on the side of her petite nose.
Our spinster tradition began when Percy Adams, the Court Sawyer of his day, fell in love with a six-fingered aromateur named Hyacinth and she with him. The daughter of the mayor, who fancied Percy for herself, convinced her Puritan father that the only reason Percy could fall for someone so digitally challenged was that Hyacinth must be a witch. She was tied to a stone and cast into the sea.
Hyacinth’s aggrieved sister, Larkspur, banned romantic relationships in her Last Word, reasoning, if aromateurs avoided romantic entanglement, there would be no more witch hunts.
“But why would she jinx us?” I ask in a huff, even though I already know what she’s going to say. My mind flits back to Court, and I quickly shove those thoughts away.
Mother pops her glasses back on her face. “Larkspur was trying to protect us.” She flicks her gaze to the skylight and shakes her head. A gunmetal streak on the right side of her hair lies in a flat line, like a disapproving mouth. “Romantic love, like all extreme emotions, distracts us from our life’s work. The wise will catch a falling heart. We must keep our heart right here”—she taps her chest—“where it belongs. Your grandmother Narcissa only became great through her single-minded devotion to her craft. Bryony wanted it all.”
She glances at my souring expression and adds more gently, “It’s not as if you can’t have love in your life—we do have each other, don’t we?”
“Sure. You and me.” I give her a reassuring smile. “So, how did you make her PUF?” Dirt. I sound way too eager. She’s going to get suspicious. The cards make a clacking sound against my desktop as I straighten them.
“Sniff-matching, of course. It wasn’t December, you know.”
December? What does that matter? I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t. This is harder than extracting information from a baby. “Sniff-matching who?” I start whistling. Maybe I’ll have a seizure projecting all this calm and I won’t have to PUF anybody because I’ll be dead.
“Bryony’s, though of course, I knew her scentprint by heart.”
Even though Mother and Bryony are identical, their scentprints are not, just like their fingerprints.
“The PUF would’ve strengthened her innate scent notes, overpowering any contamination by Michael’s notes,” Mother’s voice twists when she says his name. She gets up from the farm table and rummages through a bucket of daffodil bulbs. “The effect is nearly always immediate, like neutralizing mist.”
I let out a slow, even breath. So that’s how it’s done, sniff-matching the person contaminated, in this case, Alice, then fixing her with her own elixir.
Mother cuts her gaze to me, and I quickly ask, “What happened after Aunt Bryony refused to be PUF’d?”
She shrugs. “I went home. She sent me a letter, but I threw it away.”
“Why?”
“If it was something important, she could have told me in person. She never came, of course.” She holds up a misshapen bulb and her nose wrinkles.
The phone rings. Mother chucks the bulb into the recycle bin, then slaps the dirt off her hands before answering. “Sweetbriar Perfumes . . . Oh, hello, Mr. Frederics.”
I don’t move a muscle when I hear the name.
“Yes, everything went well, I think.” She looks at me, and I smile and nod. I hope she’s distracted by Mr. Frederics in her ear and doesn’t smell the panicked zingers of habañero pepper flying off me.
“Oh, it could happen as early as tomorrow, but I always say give it a week. Everyone is different.” Mother’s fingers roll at the hem of her denim shirt as she listens. “You bet, anytime.” She hangs up the phone and beams at me. “The man is just so thrilled. You see, now, this is why we make the sacrifices we make. People need us. We are the keepers of their hopes, their dreams.”
She unties her apron and hangs it on a hook. Her nose twitches, and I go still. She’s smelling me. “It’s remarkable how similar you and Bryony are in the top notes, not just the zinnia.” She pauses, knowing the zinnia comment stings me. It’s a pleasing fragrance, peppery and flowery, but it tends to wander before settling squarely in the nose. She’s not-so-subtly reminding me not to be a flake, like her sister. “There’s the ginger, and the zinfandel with the stubborn liftoff, just like that bottle we sampled in Croatia last summer. Thankfully you’re different enough in the heart notes, or I’d worry.”
I can’t help worrying about what she’s worrying about—that I’d betray her, like Aunt Bryony. While the top notes make the first impression, heart notes are the soul of a fragrance, the thing that transforms random smells into scent. It’s no accident that Mother’s primary heart note is tuberose, a scent exceptional enough to be used for both weddings and funerals, and for which only a single blossom is enough to fill a temple with fragrance. A little of Mother goes a long way. But it’s the interplay of the heart notes with the top and base notes that give the scent character. So even if I did have the same heart notes as Aunt Bryony, that doesn’t mean we’d make the same choices.
“I’m going to soak the lentils. Don’t forget to turn off the computer.”
The blue door swings shut after her.
I should feel relieved that she’s gone, but my limbs have gone cold and heavy. If Mother and I should ever have a falling out, would I receive the same treatment as my aunt? One moment, Mother and Aunt Bryony are as close as two daffodils on a double-headed stalk, and the next, each is a single-head species. If Mother ever cut me off, I would have to start anew, somewhere far away so we don’t compete or, worse, eke out a living assisting the police in drug busts like a dog, or hunting expensive truffles like a pig.
Grimly, I replace the index cards in the drawer. Nothing against canines or ungulates, but that would be a humiliating way to live.
SEVEN
“THE GIFT OF FLOWERS OPENS MANY DOORS.”
—Hasenu-da, Aromateur, 1888
KALI’S HEARTY VOICE wakes me out of a fitful sleep. Sitting up in bed, I peer through my window into the garden. Kali’s leaning against the well edge, strapping aerating shoes over the red Vans she got at Twice Loved. The aerating shoes resemble sandals but with nail-like spikes on the bottom. A T-shirt, and a bright lavalava—a rectangle of fabric knotted to form a skirt—drapes her solid figure, topped by a plantation-style straw hat, her gardening uniform. Mother stands next to her, along with a third person whose identity I can’t make out through the rockrose bushes.
I lift the window and sniff. Mr. Frederics.
I jump out of bed. He just called yesterday. Something must have happened. Maybe he had tried to bust a move on Ms. DiCarlo and she slammed him to th
e mat. Or maybe Alice had begun making overtures. Mother will be onto me like Velcro.
I’m in trouble.
I wiggle into a sundress and shoes, then hurry outside. The three stand in a paved area shaded by palm trees, hung with containers of petunias and blue star jumpers.
Kali smoothly unfolds herself from the bench. “Talofa.”
Mr. Frederics tugs a wrinkle out of his spinach-hued sweater vest. “Good morning, Mim.” He doesn’t smell mad, but maybe he’s good at hiding his feelings.
“Good morning.”
Mother claps the dirt off her garden gloves, which she stitched with the word Saturday across the back. She rotates her gloves because each day comes with different tasks, and the gloves match the activity. “Well, daughter.”
Breathe. She doesn’t smell mad either, but Mother can be good at controlling her emotions. “Mr. Frederics stopped by with good news.”
I freeze. Good news?
The teacher’s eyes crinkle and his mouth breaks into a smile, an expression that lifts years off him. “Ms. DiCarlo invited me to join the Puddle Jumpers’ teachers’ team with her.”
“Great.” Like an idiot, I give him a thumbs-up.
Mr. Frederics bats a hand in front of his face. “I know I’m overreacting, coming here like this, but I’m just so pleased.” Now his hands don’t know where to go and he stuffs them in his vest pockets.
Mother pats the sweat from her brow with the back of her glove. “You’re not overreacting at all. Happiness is a gift that must be shared.”
While Mother and Mr. Frederics converse, Kali starts punching holes into the ground with her feet to let in oxygen, walking back and forth in even rows. The chickens peck the ground around her. Normally, I would strap on a pair of aerating shoes and join her, but I have to sniff Alice, and the sooner the better. While I remember her overt notes, I didn’t pay attention to the ones deeper down. I’ll just ride my bike over to tell her I can’t make the party, and am dropping off a “present” for her daughter, aka the fake elixir meant for Vicky. The fake elixir will buy us time. I’ll take my whiff and go.
“We’d be happy to give you a tour, wouldn’t we, Mim?” says Mother.
“Sure, but, actually, I have to go.”
“Oh?” asks Mother, somehow managing to look down on me, despite my half-foot advantage.
Kali stops stomping and throws me a questioning glance.
“I have to drop off something for a classmate.” No lies yet. “It’s not far.”
“Think I’ll go with you.” Kali pats her stomach. “Dahlia, my stomach’s begging for one of Stan’s donuts.” Everyone calls my mother by her first name because, like all aromateurs, we gave up surnames when we gave up the institution of marriage.
Kali does smell a little hungry.
“You should have said something,” says Mother. “We have oatmeal—”
“Thanks, but when your stomach wants donuts, it won’t take oatmeal.”
Mr. Frederics laughs. “Truer words have never been spoken.”
“We’ll be back soon, and then we’ll take care of those leaves. Might even get to trimming that ivy.” Kali knows how to stroke the belly of the crocodile. Mother hates it when the ivy gets leggy.
Mother pans her smiling face at Mr. Frederics, though fragments of her disapproval, like green tomatoes, loiter in the air. “Well then, I guess it’s just you and me. Come, I’ll show you what I mean about the pepita in your scentprint.”
Together, they walk toward the workshop, chatting like old chums. I hope my mother and my math teacher don’t become confidants. She doesn’t need regular updates on Ms. DiCarlo’s progress.
I bring my own confidant up to speed while we head back to the house. Tabitha the chicken dashes in front of Kali to catch a soil engineer skimming the dirt near Kali’s foot. Kali picks it up. The chicken head jerks side to side, peering longingly at the morsel, which Kali dangles like a curly fry. “Today is your lucky day.” She chucks the earthworm into the nearest compost bin.
Before we collect our bikes, we gather flowers to bring with us to the Sawyer house. The gift of flowers opens many doors. Kali kneels by an iris plant, shears poised.
“Not those!” I hiss.
“Why?”
“Irises say, ‘your friendship means so much.’ I couldn’t give those to Melanie.”
Kali rolls her eyes. “Psshh. Fine. Which ones then?”
I direct her to a rosebush with coral blooms, which simply represents girlhood. While she clips them, I pinch off orchid branches for Alice, symbolizing strength, which could fortify her broken heart. Working quickly, we bind our flowers with paper and twine.
My odd collection of hats line one side of the garage. I pluck off the cowboy hat and tuck my thick pollen-trapping hair inside. The last thing I take is a vial filled with nothing but water—fake elixir for Vicky to give Court. It’ll buy us some time to figure out what to do about Kali’s journal.
Soon, we’re pedaling toward the eastern hills of Santa Guadalupe. I pray that Court has soccer practice on Saturday mornings. If I can just avoid him, I’ll undo my mistake and he’ll never be the wiser.
A fountain with a griffin guards the entrance of the tony neighborhood of Cypress Estates. Water cascades from the eagle’s beak. Heavy clumps of “prosperity” bougainvillea drip from the rooftops of each mansion, which, despite variations in facade—hacienda, French villa, Tudor—still somehow manage to look the same. Wealth has a distinct odor that’s the same throughout the world, the showy sweetness of bougainvillea mingled with weed killer and chlorine from all the swimming pools.
We steer our bikes past a lush expanse of golf course. Then the road veers sharply up. By the time we’re halfway up the incline, I’m ready to collapse. I get off my bike and walk. Kali waits for me at the top, fresh as a plumeria lei.
The Sawyers’ hacienda is the biggest house on the hill, a house whose extravagant parties always generate headlines like, “Sawyers’ Fourth of July Bash Has Neighbors Seeing Red, White and Blue.” The closest I’ve ever come to attending one was the night a westward wind blew the smell of roasted chicken and bourbon to our humble abode on Parrot Hill.
Clusters of palm trees draw the eye from one end of the house to the entryway and then across to the four carports. The sight of Court’s Jeep with the surfboard poking out the back doubles my pulse.
In the driveway, men haul scaffolding from the back of a truck with the words “Black Tie Event Planners” painted on the side. Two women hang paper lanterns from ornamental brackets along the walls. Melanie’s seventeenth birthday might beat out Christmas this year.
The lantern hangers greet Kali and me as we shuffle to the doorway, each of us holding a paper bag with a bouquet.
The door opens. It’s Melanie, hair in rollers, and wearing a glare reserved for geeks with postnasal drip. Her new perfume screams fake fruit at me. I stop breathing through my nose so I don’t pass out.
Synthetic perfume makes my skin crawl. Some lab rat concocted them in the late nineteenth century to cut the obscene costs of real perfume. It’s understandable. A vial of rose oil the size of a double-A battery requires ten thousand pounds of petals. The irony is, nowadays, lab scents—petroleum byproducts mixed with assorted chemicals—often cost more than the botanical they’re trying to imitate and smell nothing like the real thing.
Melanie gives us the once over. “Lemme guess, Lilo, from Lilo and Stitch, and Calamity Jane. Halloween’s not ’til Monday, girls.”
“I’ll give you a stitch,” mutters Kali.
Alice appears from behind her daughter, hair wrapped in a terry-cloth turban. I sniff. The smell of ammonia singes the air around her head, and trying to find her scentprint is like pushing through a mound of sand. The only note I make out is blueberries, which, of course, is a mood scent and not part of her inherent scentprint.
“Hi, girls,” she says in a warm voice. A thread of honeysuckle weaves through the blueberry—she’s delighted to see us.
The woman must have just scrubbed her face, which looks as dewy and fresh as a teenager’s. “What a lovely surprise.”
We pull out our bouquets. I try to stop grimacing at Melanie. “We can’t make it tonight, so we brought you both something from the garden.” I hand Melanie my bouquet, glancing meaningfully into the blooms. When she sees the vial I tucked between two stems, she rolls her eyes and grabs my floral offering.
Alice frowns as her daughter scampers away. “I’m sorry.”
Kali hands her the second bouquet, and Alice draws in her breath. “These are simply gorgeous. Thank you, and thank your mother for me, Mim. I love your style. A cowboy hat with a sundress and arm warmers is so fresh. Where do you do your shopping?”
“Kali found this dress at Twice Loved.” I sniff but still can’t get past the ammonia barrier.
Alice beams at Kali. “I love Twice Loved. Some great bargains there.”
Kali glances at me, still trying to sniff on the sly, and nurses the conversation along, “So you finish your library books?”
“Sure did. I’m going back on Monday to get more, plus I’m bringing goodies for the homecoming fund-raiser.”
I stop my useless sniffing, which just makes me look like I’m hyperventilating. “You can’t go to school,” I blurt out. I have to keep her and Mr. Frederics apart until I have a chance to remedy the situation. She’s already primed to fall in love with him. If they bump into each other in the parking lot, and she looks into his soulful eyes . . .
“Why not?”
“Because they’re trying to cut down on bake sale items.”
Alice blinks, waiting for more of an explanation, but I am foiled by my ineptness at lying. Now what? I can’t leave until I at least figure out her base notes. I take a last whiff in vain.
Kali smoothly cuts in. “Too many carbs aren’t good for our developing bodies. They’d prefer you just send in a check.”
Alice scratches at a pencil-thin eyebrow, and the doubt scent of trout floats toward us. “Well, I’ll still need to pick up the books.”
