The Scent of Hours: A Novel, page 1
PRAISE FOR BARBARA O’NEAL
THE SCENT OF HOURS
“With great insight Samuel explores the many problems facing newly divorced women and offers hope and inspiration in the form of one gutsy heroine.”
—Booklist
THIS PLACE OF WONDER
“This Place of Wonder is a wonderfully moving tale about four women whose journeys are all connected by one shared love: some are romantic, some are familial, but all are deeply complicated. Dealing with loss, love, hidden secrets, and second chances, this stirring tale is utterly engaging and ultimately hopeful. Set along the rugged California coastline, This Place of Wonder will sweep you away with the intoxicating scents, bold flavors, and sweeping views of the region and transport you to a world you won’t be in any hurry to leave.”
—Colleen Hoover, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Kristin Hannah readers will thoroughly enjoy the family dynamic, especially the mother-daughter relationships.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Barbara O’Neal’s latest novel is simply delicious. Engrossing, empathetic, and profoundly moving, I savored every sentence of this story of several very different women who find solace and second chances in each other after tragedy (though not before facing some hard truths and, yes, a few rock bottoms). This Place of Wonder is one of the best books I’ve read in a long time.”
—Camille Pagán, bestselling author of Everything Must Go
“I have never much moved in the elevated circles of California farm-to-table cuisine, but O’Neal makes me feel like I’m there. Rather than simply skewering the pretensions, This Place of Wonder pinpoints the passions. Some of these characters have been elevated to celebrity, some are newcomers to the scene, but all are drawn together by the sensuality, the excitement, and ultimately the care that food brings them. Elegiac but also forward-looking, this is a book about eating, but more than that, it’s a book about hurt and healing and women finding their way together. I loved every moment of it.”
—Julie Powell, author of Julie & Julia and Cleaving
WRITE MY NAME ACROSS THE SKY
“Barbara O’Neal weaves an irresistible tale of creativity, forgery, family, and the FBI in Write My Name Across the Sky. Willow and Sam are fascinating, and their aunt Gloria is my dream of an incorrigible, glamorous older woman.”
—Nancy Thayer, bestselling author of Family Reunion
“Write My Name Across the Sky is an exquisitely crafted novel of three remarkable women from two generations grappling with decisions of the past and the consequences of where those young, impetuous choices have led. A heartfelt story of passion, devotion, and family told as only Barbara O’Neal can.”
—Suzanne Redfearn, #1 Amazon bestselling author of In an Instant
“With its themes of creativity and art, Write My Name Across the Sky is itself like a masterfully executed painting. Using refined brushstrokes, O’Neal builds her vivid, complex characters: three independent women in one family who can’t quite come to terms with their fierce feelings of love for one another. O’Neal deftly switches between three points of view, adding layers of family history into this intimate and satisfying study of how women make tough choices between love and creativity and family and freedom.”
—Glendy Vanderah, Washington Post bestselling author of Where the Forest Meets the Stars
THE LOST GIRLS OF DEVON
One of Travel + Leisure’s most anticipated books of summer 2020
“A woman’s strange disappearance brings together four strong women who struggle with their relationships, despite their need for one another. Fans of Sarah Addison Allen will appreciate the emphasis on nature and these women’s unique gifts in this latest by the author of When We Believed in Mermaids.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“The Lost Girls of Devon draws us into the lives of four generations of women as they come to terms with their relationships and a mysterious tragedy that brings them together. Written in exquisite prose with the added bonus of the small Devon village as a setting, Barbara O’Neal’s book will ensnare the reader from the first page, taking us on an emotional journey of love, loss, and betrayal.”
—Rhys Bowen, New York Times and #1 Kindle bestselling author of The Tuscan Child, In Farleigh Field, and the Royal Spyness series
“The Lost Girls of Devon is one of those novels that grabs you at the beginning with its imagery and rich language and won’t let you go. Four generations of women deal with the pain and betrayal of the past, and Barbara O’Neal skillfully leads us to understand all of their deepest needs and fears. To read a Barbara O’Neal novel is to fall into a different world—a world of beauty and suspense, of tragedy and redemption. This one, like her others, is spellbinding.”
—Maddie Dawson, bestselling author of A Happy Catastrophe
WHEN WE BELIEVED IN MERMAIDS
“An emotional story about the relationship between two sisters and the difficulty of facing the truth head-on.”
—Today
“There’s a reason Barbara O’Neal is one of the most decorated authors in fiction. With her trademark lyrical style, she’s written a page-turner of the first order. From the very first page, I was drawn into the drama and irresistibly teased along as layers of a family’s complicated past were artfully peeled away. Don’t miss this masterfully told story of sisters and secrets, damage and redemption, hope and healing.”
—Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“More than a mystery, Barbara O’Neal’s When We Believed in Mermaids is a story of childhood—and innocence—lost, and the long-hidden secrets, lies, and betrayals two sisters must face in order to make themselves whole as adults. Plunge in and enjoy the intriguing depths of this passionate, lustrous novel, and you just might find yourself believing in mermaids.”
—Juliet Blackwell, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Carousel of Provence, Letters from Paris, and The Paris Key
“In When We Believed in Mermaids, Barbara O’Neal draws us into the story with her crisp prose, well-drawn settings, and compelling characters, in whom we invest our hearts as we experience the full range of human emotion and, ultimately, celebrate their triumph over the past.”
—Grace Greene, author of The Memory of Butterflies and the Wildflower House series
“When We Believed in Mermaids is a deftly woven tale of two sisters, separated by tragedy and reunited by fate, discovering that the past isn’t always what it seems. By turns shattering and life affirming, as luminous and mesmerizing as the sea by which it unfolds, this is a book club essential—definitely one for the shelf!”
—Kerry Anne King, bestselling author of Whisper Me This
THE ART OF INHERITING SECRETS
“Great writing, terrific characters, food elements, romance, a touch of intrigue, and more than a few surprises to keep readers guessing.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Settle in with tea and biscuits for a charming adventure about inheriting an English manor and the means to restore it. Vivid descriptions and characters that read like best friends will stay with you long after this delightful story has ended.”
—Cynthia Ellingsen, bestselling author of The Lighthouse Keeper
“The Art of Inheriting Secrets is the story of one woman’s journey to uncovering her family’s hidden past. Set against the backdrop of a sprawling English manor, this book is ripe with mystery. It will have you guessing until the end!”
—Nicole Meier, author of The House of Bradbury and The Girl Made of Clay
“O’Neal’s clever title begins an intriguing journey for readers that unfolds layer by surprising layer. Her respected masterful storytelling blends mystery, art, romance, and mayhem in a quaint English village and breathtaking countryside. Brilliant!”
—Patricia Sands, bestselling author of the Love in Provence series
ALSO BY BARBARA O’NEAL
The Starfish Sisters
This Place of Wonder
Write My Name Across the Sky
The Lost Girls of Devon
When We Believed in Mermaids
The Art of Inheriting Secrets
The All You Can Dream Buffet
The Garden of Happy Endings
How to Bake a Perfect Life
The Secret of Everything
The Lost Recipe for Happiness
Lady Luck’s Map of Vegas
The Goddesses of Kitchen Ave
A Piece of Heaven
No Place Like Home
In the Midnight Rain
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2006, 2014, 2024 by Barbara Samuel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662521379 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662521362 (digital)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
Torireal ‘Barlow,
just as you are:
rare as a unicorn,
steady as a mountain.
CONTENTS
BASE NOTES
1
2
3
4
5
6
HEART NOTES
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
TOP NOTES
19
20
21
22
23
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BASE NOTES
1
Nikki’s Perfume Journal Entry
SCENT OF HOURS
November 22, 1978
Definition: Chypres
Chypres is a highly original group that is based on contrasts between bergamot-type top notes and mossy base notes. Chypres perfumes tend to be strong, spicy, and powdery. This perfume group was named after the famous perfume from Cyprus of Roman times. It is used primarily for women, and is appropriate for both day and evening wear, especially during winter.
I told the insurance company I was sleeping when the house blew up.
In actual fact, the cold woke me. I stood at the top of the stairs that led to my basement at three a.m. on a morning in late winter, daring myself to go down and find out why the furnace was not working. Puffs of dust-scented air wafted around my ankles. The narrow wooden steps disappeared into yawning darkness, and even when I turned on the light, it wasn’t particularly inviting. I hate basements—spiders and water bugs and the possibility of creepy, supernatural things lurking. Ammie, Come Home scared the holy hell out of me when I was seven, and I’ve hated basements ever since.
Standing there with my arms crossed over my breasts, frozen in every sense of the word, I thought, This was so not in my script.
I made a bargain, to love, honor, and cook all the meals, while he promised to love, honor, and do things like go down into the basement in the middle of the night. This was not strictly gender role stuff—I was a good cook and I liked it. Daniel was not the slightest bit afraid of ghosts or spiders.
Cold air swirled around my ankles. I couldn’t move. Frozen, just as I’d been for the past seven months.
A vivid picture of the house blowing up in a blaze of noise and fire flashed over my imagination (and wouldn’t they all be sorry then!). Experimentally, I stuck my head into the stairwell and took a long, deep sniff. No smell of sulfur, and I have a very good nose. Of course, it wasn’t exactly an airtight basement.
I shuffled forward three inches.
Halted.
A shuddering hitch caught in my throat. I realized that I could not do it. Could not physically force myself to go down into that creepy, cold, spidery cellar and then get down on my hands and knees and look for a pilot light, and maybe even have to put my hands into a place where there were spiderwebs.
No. Way.
In the morning, I’d call someone to check it out. For now, I’d just have a cup of tea and play with my computer. Instantly, my heart stopped fluttering. Decision made. I stepped crisply back from the yawning mouth of doom and closed the door.
From the linen cabinet by the downstairs bathroom, I took a blanket that smelled of the lavender stalks that I tuck into all the drawers and closets. The pale purple scent eased my tension as I carried the blanket into my study, where the computer was breathing steadily, softly, its lights blinking comfortingly in the darkness.
I turned on the small art deco lamp I’d found on eBay and settled into my chair, blanket around my shoulders, and opened a novel I’d checked out of the library. At least some things were reliable.
Unlike the furnace. Which exploded exactly one hour later with a noise you can’t even imagine.
Obviously, I lived.
The house, on the other hand, did not fare quite so well.
My mother used to say, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” I was pretty sure I was ready after blowing up the house, but no Mary Poppins of the over-forty set magically appeared to rescue me.
Instead, I sat for six more days at the Motel 6, drowning my sorrows in pints of Dove chocolate raspberry ice cream while I played the television for company and pretended I wasn’t panicking.
The day I met Roxanne for the first time, I gave my Visa to the girl in the Albertsons line and she shook her head. “Do you have another one?”
I did, but it was the last one. I’d maxed out all the rest—four of them, if you want to know the truth. As I handed over number five, even I, queen of denial, had to admit it was time for a change. I had to find a place to live and a job to keep me in ice cream until the insurance settlement came through.
Back at my clean, uncluttered room, where I didn’t have to worry about anything at all, not even vacuuming or dishes or whether I’d remembered to buy shampoo, I faced myself in the mirror. Squared my shoulders.
Time to rescue myself.
First, clothes, since I was wearing an ancient skirt that had been in a bag of things I’d collected to go to Goodwill. I drove to Target, which was, once upon a time, one of my monthly stops. Today, the excessive light and acres of red—on signs and walls and the T-shirts of clerks—dazzled me. Music, modern and unfamiliar, poured out of the loudspeakers.
There were so many jeans. Did I want low-slung or high? Was I too old for acid-washed? Would my expanding butt look stupid in the wide pockets?
How could I choose? In the end, I took the pair that fit, and rushed out of the store because my throat was starting to close. It was an oddity, the hitch I kept getting in my throat. It was as if I couldn’t quite swallow.
Sometimes, I was afraid that what I was holding back was a long banshee scream. As I stood there in those polished aisles, it was way too easy to imagine throwing back my head and letting go, maybe in the men’s department beside the boxer shorts and socks, where I spent so much time and money lovingly picking out underthings for Daniel. He’d liked funny boxers—Tasmanian Devil and Bugs Bunny in particular, said it made him remember the kid he was inside—and sensible white cotton socks for the heavy boots he had to wear on jobsites.
When he turned forty, he started wearing silky, black-spotted socks and colored bikinis. Should have been a clue, I guess, but you’re not really thinking your husband is going to fall in love with someone else. That’s what other husbands do.
Yes, I could scream a really long time.
Instead, I grabbed an advertising circular from the racks outside Target and headed for the Village Inn near my motel, where I ordered a cup of coffee and some eggs and toast, like a normal person.
I opened the flyer. There were a lot of apartments in town. Hundreds and hundreds. Again, I felt that fluttery sensation in my throat. Stirring too much sugar into my coffee, I took a long, soothing sip, and promised myself ice cream if I at least looked at some of them.
The first one I chose was stacked on a hill, a place of in-betweenness. I hadn’t lived in an apartment since I was twenty-three years old, and I never much liked them even in the old days. This one was a gigantic complex, three and four stories tall. I liked it, though, much prettier than the old boxy places I remembered. There were french doors opening onto little balconies that boasted views of King Soopers, and the mountains beyond.
I was scared to death, sitting in the parking lot. So nervous, my elbows felt weak, and there was no logical reason for it. Not even as much logic as spiders in the basement—just general life terror, the same fear that inflicts you the first day of school or starting a new job.
Some sensible part of my brain said with a slap, Get over it! Get out of the car! Stop being such a wimp!
I didn’t know what was wrong with me. This was not 1952. It wasn’t like divorce was uncommon. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have resources and brains. I’d led committees of fifty, headed up fundraisers, organized the busy lives of my ex and my daughter, planned parties for a hundred. My garden was one of the most envied on the block, and I made perfumes. Beautiful perfumes. I was quite accomplished.
