The Scent of Hours: A Novel, page 29
And celebrating my own.
Because, somehow, I’d survived.
It was only as I turned and headed up the stairs that I remembered Mark, and the basement in his grandmother’s house. He swore there were ghosts down there, and went to great lengths to terrify me about it. We crept down there one day and he kicked over a can, and out of it came a gigantic black widow. We both screamed and ran up the stairs, and we never went back down there again.
Mark had been a gift. His loss, at such a vulnerable time, had taught me early about the capriciousness of life, and the power of grief. But most of all, it had taught me to value the hours of life.
Every hour.
Carrying my kitten upstairs, I felt only a small wash of dread, that horror of things chasing you up from the darkness, and I doubted very seriously that I’d go down there again if I could find a way out of it, but I’d done it.
I’d done it.
Flipping off the light, I closed the cellar door and put the kitten down. “Let’s go take a bath, huh?”
He sat on the lip while I filled the giant tub. I didn’t have any clean clothes, and I’d have to sleep on the roof with a quilt and a flat pillow, but that was all right. The room, with its dormers, made me feel cozy, the amber windows full of promise. I climbed into the tub and sank to my neck in copious hot water, and rested my head against the back of the tub. The kitten hopped up and peered at me curiously, then jumped down and made himself comfortable on my discarded clothes. He licked a paw.
I closed my eyes and thought of all the paths that had had to converge to get me here. How do you love yourself?
You just do.
23
Nikki’s Perfume Journal Entry
Time: 4 p.m.
Date: April 25, 196—
Elements: mud, water, sweet young sweat, sunbaked hair, scrub oak rotting in the undergrowth, fir, hope
Notes: Mark and me
The Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend, I had a small party in the Manitou apartment, which was slightly less horrendously furnished than the one in Splitsville. I had a futon, but it was a solid wooden one, my own taste, a dark wood with a red-and-yellow patchwork. I’d hung curtains made of old saris woven together in pink and green and gold at the windows, and since chairs were expensive, there were cushions on the floor. Since both places were paid for, there was no reason not to keep them through July. The insurance company had reluctantly approved my claim, and when the money came through, I’d buy new furniture. Eventually, maybe I’d invest in a new home, but not until I knew what shape my life was taking. The patchwork on the futon, the curtains, the pillows reflected my feelings about my life: it was assembled from bits and pieces, but I wasn’t entirely sure where I wanted to live permanently, who I wanted to live with. An apartment was a good way to just be with that transition.
The one thing I did know is that my perfumes were important. The shop, Scent of Hours, would have a grand opening tomorrow. I’d had it open for a couple of weeks—staffed by Amy when I couldn’t be there, and Giselle was going to work there, too, over the summer. We’d asked the landlord to divide the large bedroom in the apartment into two, and he’d agreed. She very badly wanted to stay in Marin County to go to school, and I’d finally given in because she was so focused on becoming a doctor, and schools were better out there. But we had all—including Daniel and Keisha, whom I’d made have regular conversations with me—agreed Giselle would also spend a lot more time with me.
Everyone was here tonight. Kit sat with Wanda near a table with crudités and I knew Wanda was pumping her about how to go to school with children. Tommy was not in evidence. He’d stayed home with the boys. The marriage was shaky, but in some ways the wreck of his single crash of infidelity had served to throw him right into counseling to manage the losses he’d faced in combat. Maybe it would help.
Roxanne wasn’t there either—nor was she in jail, exactly. A court-ordered evaluation had resulted in a need for further diagnosis, and she was in a Denver facility for anorexics. She wasn’t doing particularly well, but I went to see her every other week.
Happily, a whole group of restaurant friends came too: Mary, Annie, and Zara, who’d brought a gigantic pitcher of mimosas so we could toast the opening. She sat with Evelyn and Pamela, talking dogs, I thought. They were all big dog lovers.
The last person to arrive was Niraj, who entered the gathering of women without even a flicker of consternation. He carried a small package with him. “I finally remembered to bring you the little present I bought in San Francisco after we first met.”
I laughed. “I forgot!”
He lifted a palm, cautioning me. “It is only a little thing, remember.”
“That’s fine.” I tore the paper off. Breath left me. “Niraj!” I said, and started to cry.
“What is it?”
I covered my mouth, my view of my little present blurring as life, or the universe or somebody, offered me proof that they cared, that they knew me, that I mattered.
It was a small flocked black cat inside a plastic dome that was a bit worse for the wear. A pink ribbon held a golden heart around its neck, and its pink rhinestone eyes matched the pink feather boa behind it. The small bottle of perfume it held was Golden Woods.
“Thank you,” I whispered to Niraj. To the universe.
To Mark, wherever he was. I flung my arms around Niraj’s shoulders and let him hug me. “I’ll explain another time.”
He kissed my ear.
Zara raised her glass. “I’d like to propose a toast to Manitou’s newest enterprise, Scent of Hours. May the Lady of the Mountain bless it and keep it, and let it prosper for many years to come.”
I raised my glass. “To the future!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Some books are harder to write than others, and I’m grateful to the angels who flew in when I needed them on this one. Thanks go to Cathi Stroo, because only your sister knows you well enough to bring over a CD for a bad day and then it ends up being the soundtrack for the book in progress; Meg Ruley, Linda Marrow, and Charlotte Herscher for guidance; and Arielle Zibrak, who flew away to adventure; Christie and Teresa for reading and cheering me on and calling to say, “Have you done your pages today?”; Mandy Aftel for writing Essence and Alchemy, a magical, evocative book about the perfumer’s art.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2009 Blue Fox Photography
Barbara O’Neal is the Washington Post, Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and Amazon Charts bestselling author of more than a dozen novels of women’s fiction, including the #1 Amazon Charts bestseller When We Believed in Mermaids as well as The Starfish Sisters, This Place of Wonder, The Lost Girls of Devon, Write My Name Across the Sky, and The Art of Inheriting Secrets. Her award-winning books have been published in over two dozen countries. She lives on the Oregon coast with her husband, a British endurance athlete who vows he’ll never lose his accent. For more information, visit barbaraoneal.com.
Barbara O'Neal, The Scent of Hours: A Novel
