“Sir, sir, I need you to remain calm, please. An ambulance is on the way. Is the horse sick or injured?”
A gasp of exasperation and the distraught man replied, “My wife’s injured, I told you! He got her on the ground and just started chewing on her face — ”
“Excuse me, sir, did you say the horse bit her face — ”
“Tore it, lady. Her scalp . . . hanging by a shred . . . had to shoot the beast to get it to stop. Oh, God, tell ’em get here quick!”
A loud crack from an adjoining room made Mags jump. Four more sharp cracks followed. The bullwhip workshop at the San Francisco School of Circus Arts was underway. Five more cracks and a shouted reproof from the instructor. Beginners class. Eventually they would learn that true control allowed them to crack their whips with hardly any sound. On the bench outside the room, Mags fingered a tear in her ratty dance slippers. Maybe Cass and I should give the whips a whirl.
“I know what you’re thinking, Magsie,” Cassie taunted. “I see that yearning in your eye.” She was late, but lithe in blue practice tights and snug sleeveless top tied at the waist. The attire accented a figure that graced a growing number of billboards and television spots in the run-up to the national rollout of Cassandra parfum. Positively luminous since Nick came home and changed the equation of their lives, his wife sparkled with health and renewed purpose.
“See that sign?” Cassie pointed to the large letters beside the entrance to what she flippantly called “the whippery.” They read, “Warning! Bullwhips can cut flesh, break bones, put out an eye, or slice off an ear. Treat them with respect!” She passed Mags and made straight for the warm-up tramp. “This is me treating them with respect,” she called back.
Mags left the bench and followed. “Right. So let’s haul our bottoms four stories into the air where it’s safe. Have you seen that bitty bar we’re supposed to swing on up there?”
It was crowded for a Thursday evening, and while they waited their turns on the trampoline, Cassie gave her friend a hug and teased, “Why the long face? Eventually you get to be caught by hunky young men in tights. Have you seen their muscles?”
All Mags saw was sixteen-year-olds in peach fuzz. “Sorry, dearie, but when you’ve been romanced by Mr. Lauren, everything else looks like a boy band.” She shuddered. “While I was waiting for you, a TV news report came on about a woman who was . . . mauled by her horse. Terrible bites and lacerations. She nearly died. It was so unnatural, I can’t shake it.”
“How odd,” Cassie said. “That’s not characteristic of horses at all. I’ve heard of the animals throwing riders, kicking and stomping them, but not tearing at them. Must have been diseased. Talk about weird, did you hear about the cat in El Cajon?”
Mags moved up a spot. “No, what cat?”
“Just an ordinary tabby that went from a gentle chase-the-toy-mouse-around-the-house feline one minute to a raging tiger the next. The owner said it hunted her down, yowling and spitting like a banshee. The poor woman hunched on the floor behind the sofa while the puss clawed her clothes, her back and legs, to ribbons. The neighbor found her babbling incoherently and had to beat the cat off her. They put it to sleep. It was in yesterday’s Chronicle.”
“Rabies,” Mags said. “How else do you explain it? I worry about Gretchen, her kennel so close to the woods like that. A rabid raccoon or opossum could infect her while she sleeps!”
Cassie shook her head. “It’s well fenced, but let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s that new project of yours coming?”
“Pretty well, for an old lady’s indulgence.” In truth she was staging a mini comeback of her own. While staying with the Dixons, babysitting Gretchen, and cooking some meals for the family, she had begun a quiet revolution in independent cosmetics. Choice Brand beautifiers were made of nutritious fresh fruit, vegetables, flowers, and herbs. Organic avocado butter, cocoa cream, ground almonds, lavender extract, and lemon oil were a few of the delicious ingredients that went into Choice bath bars, Choice lotions, and Choice facial balms. She rented a corner of a lab at Azure and shared a part-time Azure intern from San Francisco State. In a couple months Choice Brand products would sell in small beauty boutiques from Monterey to Beverly Hills. Internet preorders were promising.
“That’s wonderful,” said Cassie. “God knows there’s enough success to go around these days, and Nick and I want to see your boat rise right along with ours. You believed in us and stuck by us through fat times and lean.”
“And you’ve been there for me,” Mags said. “Always.”
“Faster friends do not exist!” Cassie and Mags gave each other a thumbs-up.
“And loving every minute of it,” Mags said, the pure joy of a new start lending her a youthful zeal. She had dropped a few pounds since joining the Dixon household and thought her appearance quite smart in the salmon-colored Donna Rico leotard and matching nail polish she wore to the gym.
A pair of female scarf-jugglers took up their station parallel to the trampoline line. Mags watched in delight as the yellow and green fabrics danced through the air, now floating like parachutes, now descending like brilliant jellyfish. The girls were skilled, alternately snatching and launching the scarves with practiced ease. In a gym awash in testosterone and estrogen, their silent, graceful theatrics were lovely to watch.
“What’s the best part? Of being in business, I mean,” Cassie said.
Mags didn’t hesitate. “Being back in the game. I was with Estée at the creation of Youth Dew. I remember the thrill of the GIs bringing home all those knockout scents from France. We knew we were sitting on a gold mine. We made lotion fashionable, and that fragrance became the most memorable of the fifties. It still outsells the competition for half what it cost fifty years ago. Sexiest scent ever — till Cassandra!”
Cassie smiled and smoothed her friend’s hair. “Why, Mags? Why do women go gaga over a creamy dab of this and a sensuous mist of that? It’s not like it holds the key to world peace.”
Mags’ eyes sparkled. “Don’t be too sure. Perfumes were thought to appease the Egyptian gods. The wealthy ancient Greeks were buried with a bottle of their favorite scent. The Romans sanctioned druidic ceremonial perfumes, and how do you think the sacred virgins got so sacred? One shudders to think how much more tyrannical kings and kingdoms would have been down through history had it not been for the gentling properties of scent. An early French perfume of the industrial age was called Parfum de la Guillotine. I rest my case.”
Cassie laughed. “Is there anything you don’t know when it comes to the trade?”
“Oh, honey, I’ve forgotten more than today’s bad boys and girls of industry were ever taught. But you’re no slouch in this department. You forget, but I was in the audience at the Fashion Institute of New York when you gave that lecture you called ‘The Aroma of Christ.’ From Paul the Apostle’s second letter to the Corinthians, I believe it was. Nothing short of brilliant how you demonstrated the link between Paul’s startling analogy and the Church’s priestly use of rose garlands and censers of incense in imitation of the supposed fragrance surrounding followers of Jesus. What did Paul say? To those perishing without faith in Christ, it is the smell of death; to those who trust in Christ, it is the fragrance of life.”
Maggie chuckled. “Oh yes, honey. Those heathens in Fashions 101 were more than a little curious about where you were headed with that one!”
Cassie remembered the occasion well. Fr. Byron had urged her to worship God by including him in the natural course of her work. Church on Sunday was where the worshipping and talking about God happened. The rest of the week was business, family, and a rare bit of leisure. But the strange notion of incorporating the Christian tradition into the day-to-day intrigued Cassie. Was it even possible in the high-powered world of beauty?
Fr. Byron gave her a push in that direction by delivering a sermon on 2 Corinthi ans 2:15. He defined inspiration as “to breathe in, to infuse with feeling.” The Christian life is the inspired life, he s
aid, and people ought to be able to detect a Christian’s “aroma.” To those the Holy Spirit was working on, the fragrance was sweet, appealing, a whiff of heaven. To those resisting the Holy Spirit, the fragrance was about as appealing as the stench of the Sumatran corpse flower. The plant, a relative of the skunk cabbage, used its putridity to attract and devour dung beetles and carrion beetles.
The more Cassie researched the topic, the more excited she became. Rose oil in the early church acted as a mild sedative and antidepressant. Entire congregations emerged from worship ser vices with nervous tension soothed, heartbeat slowed, blood pressure lowered, and concentration increased.
The resins in incense contained alcohols called phystosterols, which, biochemically, were remarkably similar to human hormones, especially those found in the armpits, on the breath, and in the urine. It was suggested that when the wise men brought gifts of frankincense and myrrh to the Christ child, they were recognizing his humble start and willingness to stoop so low as to become human.
Who but a classroom full of tomorrow’s fashion designers wanted to know that much about what went into the understanding of fine fragrance? And curious they were. The question-and-answer period following her presentation went past the allotted time, and she still received the occasional email from a student or two who were present at the lecture.
“Earth to Cassie. Up you go!” Mags motioned that it was her turn on the trampoline. The stocky male spotters offered her a hand up the steps, but Cass motioned for Mags to go in her place. Maggie gave her a curious look, shrugged, and teased the spotters. “Watch the goods, boys; they’re fragile!”
Cassie stepped out of line, went to her locker, and took the cell phone from her bag. She wanted — needed — to talk with Fr. Byron, tell him how sorry she was to not have returned his calls, how sincere she was about getting back in church just as soon as the perfume was launched and things calmed down.
She saw that she had a message from Nick, and punched his number first. He picked up on the first ring.
“I do hope you’re sitting down,” he said. She sank onto a nearby bench, heart quickening. “I just got off the phone with Benjamin Lynch, the vice president of the North American Fragrance Guild. He says that the Cassandra sample we sent is sensational, and this from a man whose only comment after Armstrong stepped on the moon was, ‘Nice shot.’ Lynch called Cassandra the must-have fragrance of the modern era! We’ve got to get Marketing on that sound bite.
“And now, my darling, brace yourself. Lynch says the Guild decided in emergency closed session to present us with the Grand Crystal Decanter at this year’s gala! And what’s more, for the first time in the Guild’s sixty-year history, the Crystal Decanter Awards Gala will be moved from the Big Apple here to San Francisco! Can you believe it?”
The news was staggering. The NAFG catered to no one. It was the stuffiest, tightest, most elite club on the planet. It made and broke whomever it wanted, whenever it wanted. Never had it given Azure World so much as a nod of recognition. In fact, an insider in the industry reported that the Dixons had been sneered at by the Guild board, and the fashion column in the Times had referred to “reliable sources at the Guild” openly speculating that “the bloodline of fashion” wanted a good cleansing of its gene pool, weakened as it was by “poor performers” like Azure World. That had very nearly driven Cassie to quit the business and still stung to this day.
And now they had voted to present her and Nick with the top prize — the Grand Crystal Decanter for Outstanding Achievement in the Fragrance Arts. Moving the venue for the awards ceremony was beyond stupefying. New York and Paris were the holy cities of the fashion world. Every significant blessing in that realm was bestowed in one or the other.
“I can die now,” she said.
“Not before we buy you the finest ‘you really like me’ gown ever stitched.”
“I shall never again catch my breath in this century.”
They both laughed. Just when it couldn’t get any better, it got better.
“My dear Nicholas,” she said, looking about her at people vaulting, leaping, flying, balancing, juggling, flipping, and whipping. It was all so surreal. Was circus life, or life a circus? “I do believe I have never loved you more.”
“Sweetheart, you’d better get used to it. On October twentieth, first we go to the ball, then we move into the castle.”
They met at Trattoria Pallottino near Santa Croce in Tuscany. It was the eighties, Reagan was in the White House, and if the “me generation” had it, they flaunted it.
She was solo, irritated with her parents, backpacking Europe, and having a light lunch of cheese and salami. At the adjoining table, a lean and sunburned man tore into a platter of the local delicacy, stuffed rabbit. So singular was his enthusiasm that Cassie quite forgot the article she was reading and used the magazine as a vantage point from behind which to spy on the young American.
She found out later that he had early caught on to her none-too-subtle observations and for her benefit had embellished his dinner with little sighs of contentment and much licking of the fingers. Nearing the finish line, but without looking at her, he said in a loud and pleasant voice, “I can eat dessert standing on my head. Want to see?”
Her embarrassment was soothed at his table over a shared goblet of tiramisu resplendent with mascarpone cream.
“You’re traveling alone?” Every swipe of his spoon at the lingering traces of cream was a scold to her reckless daring. She liked the unruliness of his dark-brown hair.
“Why do you ask?” Her sudden caution was homage to her mother’s dire warnings about two-legged wolves prowling through Europe.
“Because I am prepared to be your companion and guide — strictly platonic, you understand. This is my third swing around Italy.”
“What’s the attraction?” She couldn’t believe the transparency of the question. She even rolled her tongue around her spoon with far more emphasis than required.
“Let me show you.”
They spent a glorious afternoon at the Piazza Santa Croce, drinking in Gothic architecture and historic works of art. “The basilica was begun in 1294 but not consecrated until 1443,” Nick said. “Imagine a church building program taking a hundred and forty-nine years in the US!”
There was music in the way he said it — said anything — and Cassie clung to every word.
They stepped reverently over the tombstones that formed the floor the entire length of the nave. They marveled at the trussed timber ceiling and the splendid marble pulpit. But for Cassie, the greatest sight of all was the way the light from the magnificent fourteenth-century stained glass windows turned Nick’s head and shoulders to gold.
Outside in the sunshine, they walked the piazza arm in arm. In the center of the great expanse, he stopped, turned, and took her hands. “I realize we only met a few hours ago when my chin was shiny with rabbit grease, but I would very much like to kiss you.”
He waited, eyes sparking sunlight, blinding her with the joy of a huge smile.
“You’re in luck, then, because I very much want to be kissed by you.”
It wasn’t hungry and excessive, like the kisses popularized by the movies, but sweetly earnest.
Pigeons cooed and strutted about their feet. Across the piazza a crowd of schoolchildren erupted in laughter. “Do you believe in traveling over the Atlantic to find love?”
She did but said, “Love?”
“Yup. Love. Amore. Life partners and all that.”
“That’s quite a long way from platonic.”
“Only about three hours in the company of the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.”
“You don’t get out much, then.”
“Guess how glad I am I got out this time?”
Cassie never knew the human heart was capable of that many beats per minute. Try as she might, she could not hear the howling of a single wolf.
He was the perfect friend and gentleman the remaining six days. He stayed at separ
ate hostels, called for her each day at the agreed hour, and bought her a little silver sugar basin etched with two swans, necks entwined.
On the day they parted for home, she to San Francisco, he to Manhattan, he gave her a code word for their rapidly blossoming love. “Dolceforte says it all. It’s Italian for ‘sweet-strong.’ It has an earthy intensity that speaks of the many passions of the Tuscan life — sensual, traditional, robust, and powerful. Ours is a sweet-strong love without end.”
They wrote, they called, they waited for her to finish her master’s degree in business administration at San Francisco State University, and for him to complete the fashion marketing track at New York’s Fashion Institute of Technology. He surprised her on graduate hooding day at SFSU with a ring and a double portion of the huge smile he had first unleashed in Tuscany.
“Marry me,” he said after carrying her, gown and all, to a stone bench where they could have their privacy. “Birth my babies.”
“On one condition.” She loved the laughter in his eyes. “I want a dim sum reception in Chinatown.”
“On two conditions.” He blew on her neck, giving her the shivers she liked from him. “One, some of the dim sum has rabbit meat filling. Two, our wedding cake is tiramisu.”
“Done!”
Then they kissed, a hungry, excessive kiss, just like in the movies.
When Maggie walked up to her, Cassie was lying flat on the bench, daydreaming like a teenager in love.
“What gives?” Mags demanded, out of breath and shiny with perspiration from her time on the tramp. “I look around for my trapeze partner, and you’re back here staring at the ceiling, looking as if you’ve had a visitation from Elvis.”
Cassie sat up, straightened her legs, and stretched until fingers touched toes. “Magsie, girl, what did I ever do to deserve all this?”
“What? Hanging out with an old woman in a gym pungent with smelly socks and mentholated rub?”
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