by Snow, Wylie
“We all have our paths to follow,” Val said and shrugged. “And look where Lydia’s hard work got her. Nowhere.”
Chapter 27
Once in her room, Clara peeled off her shirt and ran it under a stream of cold water, rubbing at the greasy mustard stain with a teensy bar of French milled soap. There was no hope, but she applied more pressure, scrubbed harder, and growled in frustration at the reflection in the mirror.
Luc had been with her, that dark-souled beauty. It hurt to imagine how amazing they must have looked together. Valentina might have an ugly interior, but Clara saw how others around them couldn’t shake their stares from her.
Meanwhile, the woman staring back at her in the stained camisole with uncombed hair, too much eyeliner, and a ghostly pale complexion, was as ugly on the inside as on the outside. Her reflection judged her, condemned her, poked holes at her rice paper façade until her heart bled. You’re a selfish little girl posing as an average writer, it said, a deceitful washed-up restaurant critic, and a pathetic excuse of a friend.
Tears pricked, then burned as they ran down her cheeks, bleeding through her eye makeup. Looking down at the dull yellow stain on an otherwise lovely blouse, she realized she wasn’t even a very good laundress. She scrubbed harder, refusing to let the mustard stain win, until her shaking hands grew numb under the cold water.
She thought she was hallucinating when a blurred image of Luc appeared over her shoulder. Damn connected rooms.
“Clara?”
No, no. Not now, not here, not when the bogeymen were clawing at her from every corner, waiting for her to fall off the tightrope.
She bit the inside of her cheek, but the self-induced pain came too late for her to control her emotions and a squelchy, undignified sob wrenched through.
“Clara, what’s wrong?” Luc took her by the shoulders and turned her around. “Are you hurt?” He turned off the tap and looked her over. “Has something happened?”
Clara pulled away and ducked out of the bathroom. There was too much light. She felt too exposed, too confined, too ugly, too unworthy, too selfish.
She sank onto the edge of the bed and brought her knees up. It was better in the dark, away from the image in the mirror. The only light came from the other side of the connecting door.
She watched his silhouette approach and wished he’d go away, leave her to her pity party. He didn’t. He sat next to her and put a hand on her back, making her flinch. She wasn’t worthy of his care, of his comfort.
“Why are you limping?” she whispered.
“I overdid the athletics the last couple days. And I’ve been sitting for the past few hours, so it’s stiff.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you crying?” he asked. “Couldn’t be ‘cause the Islanders lost.”
“They lost?” she sniffed. “But they were winning three-two when I left.”
“The Leafs tied it up at the end of the third. It went into overtime, then a shootout. You missed the best part.”
“Oh.”
“What happened to your shirt?”
“Mustard.”
“Is that why you’re upset?”
Unable to hold back, she launched herself into his arms and buried her face against his neck. She couldn’t bear for Luc to see her like this, but she couldn’t bear to let him go, either. His strength buoyed her and she needed that, needed him.
She cried for herself, because that is what selfish girls did: feel sorry for themselves and wallow in the messes of their own creation. She cried because no matter how hard she wished or prayed, she couldn’t change the past. Not his, not her own. Then she cried because she couldn’t smell his flesh, the scent of his hair, his very essence, and it was so unfair to be cut off from him, like she could never really have him all. Like she didn’t deserve to have him all.
“Shhh,” he crooned. “Whatever happened, I’ll fix it, I promise.”
She sobbed harder. Clung harder. Wished harder.
Luc was such a good man, so undeserving of a lying, deceitful, petty girl who put her own damn career before everything and everybody. She used Lydia, she used all her friends—those poor unknowing companions she’d invited along to dinner. They thought her so generous to include them on her expense account, but they were wrong. She used them, for their taste and smell and perfect descriptions. She even used her poor dog. And now she was using Luc.
How could he ever love such a woman? How could he forgive such a self-serving leech?
Unknowing and oblivious to her black aura, Luc stroked her hair, rubbed her back in slow, gentle circles and spoke words she didn’t understand. French words. Soothing words.
It felt like ages before the tears stopped, before they were replaced by inelegant little hiccoughs. But still, Luc held her, smoothed her hair from her cheek, kissed her forehead.
“I…I…I…n-need,” she stuttered. “I need…a…a…”
“You need a—? What do you need, love? Anything. Just ask. I’ll bring you the moon if that’s what will make you happy.”
“A ti-ti-tissue.”
She felt his chest rumble with laughter, the kind that comes after an especially tense moment.
“I’ll be right back. Will you be okay if I let you go?”
Clara nodded against his neck but didn’t let go. He had to reach round and unlock her trembling arms from their grasp.
“Shall I turn the light on so you won’t be alone in the dark?”
“N-no.” If he caught a glimpse of her red, blotched face, swollen eyes, and runny nose in full candescence, it’d be him doing the sobbing.
She felt cold and alone in the ten seconds it took him to retrieve a box of tissues from the bathroom so she laid down, curled into a ball in the spot he’d vacated, and absorbed his warmth. She buried her face in his pillow and inhaled, but there was nothing, no scent of him, no scent of anything. And she realized that in the end, when the blog tour was over, when she had to run away from America and her job, that’s all she’d have left of Luc. Nothing.
Clara hugged a pillow to her chest as a fresh wave of tears came, but it was a poor substitute.
“Here you are, love.” Luc sat on the edge of the bed and pressed a fistful of tissues into her palm. He waited until she’d mopped her face before climbing into bed behind her, spoon-fashion, and wrapped his arm around her middle.
“Do you want to talk?”
“Not yet,” she sniffed.
“Just tell me nobody hurt you.”
A laugh-sob escaped her throat. The irony was ridiculous. He was the one limping, he was the one who’d been attacked, shot, and he was worried about her, the selfish little girl who never stopped to consider who she was hurting. “No, I’m…I’m fine.”
Clara didn’t realize how tense he was until she felt his muscles relax against her. She hugged his arm, threaded her fingers through his, and lay in a pool of quiet warmth until she found the strength to speak.
“Luc?”
“Hmm?”
She was desperate to tell him, but when she opened her mouth, she couldn’t. There was an elephant on her chest, compressing her heart, her lungs, her capacity to speak, to move.
“Did you fall asleep on me?”
Clara shook her head, unsure how to go on. She had to make a choice. Trust him with her secret and jeopardize their temporary relationship or toss her personal truths into the deepest, darkest corners of her mind and get on with it.
“You can tell me anything. You know that, don’t you? Even if…even if it’s something I’ve done. Or not done. I know I can be an ass sometimes, but I’d never forgive myself if I did something to hurt you.”
Did she really want to do this? Reveal herself, her fraud? Be unselfish? She had no choice. She couldn’t continue deceiving hi
m. If he walked away, he walked away, but waiting would only make it worse. She was glad he couldn’t see her face. She couldn’t tell him if she had to see his eyes, if he looked at her with judgement, with condemnation. If Charlie’s disappointment in her made her want to vomit, the disappointment in Luc’s face might very well kill her.
“Last spring, I was on assignment in Rome,” she began. Her breath stuttered as she inhaled. “I met a man, a photographer, named Franco.”
She felt him tense behind her when she said the other man’s name but he didn’t interrupt. God, she really didn’t deserve him. Clara swallowed the lump in her throat and continued.
“He was working for a company that made tourist guidebooks and he wanted me on a Vespa, those cute little scooters you see everywhere in Europe. He instructed me to drive toward him just fast enough for the wind to catch my hair. It was longer then and…and I was stupid and vain enough to forego the helmet. I was so busy smiling for Franco that I didn’t see the gelato cart. I swerved, but lost control.”
She took a deep breath to calm herself but it caught in her chest and she shuddered. Luc nuzzled her hair as if he could sense the worst was coming. She waited a few beats before continuing, grateful that, cradled in his arms, she felt less vulnerable. No matter how temporary.
“I spent a week in hospital. That’s how long it took the brain swelling to go down. The fracture healed of its own accord, but I’m not quite right. I…I…I can’t…” Clara had come this far and she wanted to blurt everything out but her throat closed, her voice ceased to work. “But…” Nope. It was just air, not even an audible whisper.
“Oh, love,” he murmured. “I understand. Head injuries are a big deal in hockey. They happen and they’re scary, and no one is ever quite the same afterwards. Even with helmets, the damage can be devastating. You begin to question every headache, worry when you can’t recall the name of friend or a book you’ve just read, always wondering if the impairment will present itself later. And on the ice? Man, I’ve seen guys who hesitate in situations they would have skated through before. It’s frightening business, Clara. You’ve no reason to be embarrassed or afraid.”
She actually considered leaving it here, was halfway to convincing herself that complying with this half-truth was okay. He accepted what she told him, or didn’t, without suspicion. She had so little time to enjoy the pleasure of Luc Bisquet and wanted to grab every moment. And then she’d never see him again and he would never ever have to find out what Clara Bean was really all about.
No, no, no, when this was over, she didn’t want to remember Luc as another person she’d duped. She didn’t want the memory of them together to mean nothing. She wanted…something. Something indefinable at this moment, but if she walked away from the truth now, nothing is all she’d have. Ever.
Clara pushed the words out in a tight whisper. “There was some…lasting damage.”
He lifted his head to look at the side of her face. “What kind of damage?”
“I lost my olfactory sense.” It hurt to swallow, the lump in her throat sharp as a ball of barbed wire. “I can’t smell. Anything. No flowers or clean sheets, no freshly cut grass.”
Clara knew the second he realized the implications of her confession when he let out a whoosh of air against her cheek. “Food?”
“Or food.”
Whatever the outcome, she felt immeasurably better for having said it out loud. Oh, she still felt like crap, but the pain in her throat eased and the bridle of stone she’d been wearing transformed itself into a pounding headache. She adjusted herself so she could see his face. “I’m missing out on baked bread, freshly brewed coffee, the bouquet of wine…and you.”
Chapter 28
Mammoth relief. Luc closed his eyes and let it sink in. He’d been so worried when he’d heard her come in before the game ended. The tears, the sobs, Clara was practically hysterical and he’d never felt so helpless. All manner of worst-case scenarios had gone through his head from assault to brain tumor.
A broken sniffer, he could deal with. Sure, it sucked, but considering where his imagination had taken him, it wasn’t so horrible.
“So all this time you’ve been—”
“Lying,” she said, her voice squeaky and fragile.
“I was going to say ‘winging it.’ ”
“That’s putting it nicely.”
“I’m just…wow. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am telling you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked, put out that she hadn’t trusted him with her story.
“Obvious reasons, I should think.”
“Sacré bleu, I can barely get my head around this,” he said. “So you’ve been critting these restaurants without really tasting the food. How did you manage to pull it off? And what happened when you left the hospital?”
“I pulled it off with the help of Biscuit. The original one. I could barely tolerate the mutt when I got saddled with him. I was preparing for my first assignment abroad, to Lyon of all places, gastronomic capital of the world, when my aunt passed away. I was presented with my inheritance—the keys to Aunt Jude’s house and her dog—just after the memorial service, hours before my train. I had no choice but to take him with me. I quickly found out that Biscuit didn’t eat kibble from a bowl on the floor. My aunt was a chef, and she allowed her substitute child to dine on her kitchen creations.”
“Is she the reason you got into restaurant reviews?”
“Mm-hmm. She was fabulous, worked all over the world in her youth and taught me everything I know about international cuisine.”
“She taught you to cook?”
“No silly. To eat.”
He couldn’t see her clearly, just the outline of her face and contour of one cheek, but unable to help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her impaired little nose. “Back to Biscuit.”
“Right, well, it started out to be a joke, mentioning in my column that my dog liked this or that, but Biscuit had quite well developed tastes. My readers—everybody really, except for Lydia—thought it was a gimmick, that when I wrote about him wagging furiously at the smell of garlic, yipping once for tarragon and twice for curry, I was embellishing. But it was true. So when I lost my nose, I carried on, not smelling a thing, and letting Biscuit and my oft-invited dinner guests do most of the work.”
“But you can still taste some things, right? I imagine it’s like having a head cold?”
“Yes, exactly. Like when your sinuses are stuffed and someone gives you a bowl of chicken soup. You know it’s hot and soothing, you know the texture of the noodles, the mush of the carrots, but you can’t comprehend the subtle flavors, like a sprig of dill. Smell allows us to appreciate the complexity of flavor, so although my tastebuds can detect a sweet, sour, salty, bitter, hot-spicy, like peppers, and a bit of savoury, I’m shut out to the layers, the very fundamentals of gastronomy.”
“I don’t quite know what to say, love. You had me completely fooled. Except now that I know, things are making a bit more sense.” Her passion for breath mints, the way she made him smell his food and describe it in detail, not for his sake but for hers. He felt as if a fog lifted.
“D-do you hate me?” He felt her chest shudder as she inhaled.
“No,” he said, cupping the hand that clung to the ball of soggy tissues. “No, I don’t hate you. Why would I hate you? I think you’re an amazing woman who tried to make the best of her circumstances.”
“An amazing woman who’s a fraud.”
He trailed his fingers through her hair and caressed her soft cheek with the back of his knuckles. “So you can’t smell anything? Nothing at all? Like the fact that I haven’t taken a shower yet tonight?”
“No, and so help me God, if you make one fart joke, I shall throttle you,” she said. It was so good to hear the smile in
her voice. She nuzzled his shoulder and sighed. “It’s like watching life in a movie, like I’m not really experiencing it. You don’t appreciate your sense of smell until it’s gone. I wake up every morning, do the whole bathing routine, but still get a niggling feeling I’m forgetting something—like deodorant or perfume. Or what if my breath is still bad?”
“Remember the night we met there were some men sitting on the beach smoking cigars? You said ‘I used to love the smell of cigars’ in past tense, not ‘I love the smell of cigars’ and I recall thinking that you misspoke.”
“And after we…you know, made out in the hallway, you said something about a fishy smell—”
“Merde!” He slapped his forehead. He knew there had been more to it than she’d let on. “You thought I was talking about you?”
Clara pulled the pillow over her face and nodded. Her words were muffled, but he heard every one. “I had to…to take a shower. I was mortified!”
He pulled the pillow away. “You smelled amazing, Clara. God, if I’d only known,” he said. “I was referring to the guy that walked past us. The one who interrupted our… He reeked like day-old fish. From the minute the elevator door opened, I could barely breathe.”
She looked up at him, the light from the other room catching the shine on her pupils.
“Do you want to know what you smell like to me?” Luc whispered.
Clara nodded.
He breathed deeply. “Like towels that have been hanging on the clothesline, warmed by the sun and scented by a fresh breeze. I want to hold my nose to you and inhale the summer day right out of you.”
