“Oh, Mags, what would I do without you?”
Mags gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You, my dear, are the daughter I lost long ago.”
Cassie held her at arm’s length, puzzled. “You’ve never mentioned having a daughter. What — ”
“Shush.” Mags held a finger to her lips and looked regretful for having spoken. “Water under the bridge. Besides, young lady, either you have news I need to hear or you just swallowed a very plump canary. Take me for ice cream; I’m feeling faint.”
Cassie laughed. She wouldn’t be any good on the trapeze anyway, bursting as she was with the contents of Nick’s call. They could make up the session tomorrow. She threw a companionable arm around Mags and they made for the exit.
The foggy night air felt good after the heated gym. Cassie again thought of the cell phone. And Fr. Byron. And the Rocky Road ice cream sundae with double hot fudge that would celebrate the end of the best day ever!
Chapter 12
The phone rang. Royce checked caller ID. He knew the number.
The woman is relentless.
Not that she didn’t have redeeming qualities. Her season tickets to the American Conservatory Theater were so up close and personal for the Three Tenors that it took him most of the following week to recover from the euphoria.
“Royce.” Whenever she drew out his name with a whispered hiss, he knew its tone was meant to entrap. “How’s my favorite nose?” She said nose with that same hissing snake emphasis.
“Occupied.”
“Ah, yes, the launch. Beauty consigned to a glass bottle.
Exciting times.”
“So they are. The schedule is tight, so if you will excuse me, this is not a good time.”
Silence. No one used it with the skill she practiced. Nor did one hang up on season tickets to the ACT.
“Is there something I can do for you?” He thought he heard a cat yowl in the background and wondered if she had twisted its tail.
“Ye-ss.” Another syllable doubled. “You can accept twice your current salary, a luxury Lexus of your choosing, and pocket those generous stock options in the deBrieze empire which you so quickly dismissed the last time I offered.” Her delivery was pouty, but underlying it was a tone of pure steel.
Despite himself, Royce caught his breath. She had upped the offer. As pretty a bribe as ever uttered. But the interest passed. In its place, cold dislike.
“Les Misérables opens tonight,” the voice continued. “Exclusive backstage passes to meet and dine with the principal actors after the show. Join me?”
Royce braced himself. “I have other plans, thank you. At any rate, this is not the time for . . . distractions, such as you propose. I am happy and have the rare opportunity to formulate a truly singular fragrance. One does not cross the street during rush hour.”
The harsh laugh on the phone was a sour prophecy. For all his loyalty, it implied, he would be buried as deeply in defeat as the Dixons. “Suit yourself, little man. You are aging and your nasal qualities are already diminishing. What then? Are you really prepared to live out your days puttering in the garden? Combing fading memory for the way things used to smell? I’m your ticket to the fragrance patriarchy. The offer expires in twenty-four hours.”
“The offer can expire in twenty-four seconds. My answer is no.”
He half-expected a string of expletives but none came. Only silence followed by another feline yowl and a click.
He almost wished she had given him a verbal blistering.
The small office near the laboratory felt suddenly claustrophobic. He leaned back in the chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He would have enjoyed Les Misérables — except for the company he would have had to keep.
He believed he was as proud of his composition as Handel had been of Messiah. It was the culminating beauty that he had invested a lifetime in capturing. Most “noses” died never having orchestrated a landmark scent. He was about to be listed with the true greats of fragrance, men like Jacques Guerlain, Ernest Beaux, and Jean-Louis Sieuzac. He would have to brush up on his French.
For all his professional carping about the “fakery” that had entered the perfume industry, Royce had had to adapt with the times. Synthetic substitutes became necessary when the natural essences were too difficult to obtain due to civil upheaval, climatic challenges, natural disasters, and environmental restrictions. Even without the embellishments now titillating TV talk shows coast to coast, Nicholas’ harrowing story of escape proved just how serendipitous it was that anything close to the aroma of the celerides would ever reach the masses.
Royce had isolated the 26 central odor molecules from the 257 molecules contained in the celerides fragrance. While the degree of selectivity would lose some of the subtleties that made the distinctive smell, only the most developed nose would detect the difference. And it was an established fact that once the umbilicus attaching a flower to its parent plant was cut, the flower’s fragrance immediately began to fade. Some of the classic fragrances of all time were actually lesser cousins of the full-strength flora from which they had sprung.
It was really the headspace technology that allowed the flower’s essence to be captured and restored in the laboratory. If not an identical twin, Cassandra came achingly close to the orchid original. Once the Nose had established the molecular identity of the orchid from the gas-trapped aroma contained in the bell jar, he recombined that identity with subtle tones of violet and lily, a touch of orange zest, and a small flair of fresh, woody aromatics redolent of rain forest and stream.
Ironically, violet and lily were among a handful of popular florals known as “the perfumer’s despair” for the difficulty of extracting their perfume by the old, preheadspace methods.
He was especially proud of the underlying hints, the contribution of his genius and experience, which brought “finish” to the scent. He could detect a whiff of pebble, a whisper of snow water, the heat of bird feathers. All those slight insinuations were now an integral part of Cassandra, the worker bees that served to “lift” the fragrance and give it “memory.”
He was grateful that the choice of instruments in the symphony of scent had risen by two thousand additional smells since he first entered his specialty as an apprentice in the House of Chanel. That meant an enormous range of combinations, many of which had yet to be written.
And those which allowed him to finish the Cassandra symphony were now consigned to his brain and the company safe. No two lab specialists had access to the same piece of the formula. To avoid the risk of being abducted and held for ransom, the Dixons did not want to know the whole story and were quick to say that in media interviews.
Royce was the one person most vulnerable to kidnapping. He knew with calm certainty that were he snatched, they would never pry the secret formulation out of him. The Dixons had attempted to place him under guard at a secret location, which he refused in no uncertain terms.
He had reluctantly agreed to their request that the written formula be included in his will. In the event of his death or disappearance, the Dixons — and after them, their daughter — were the sole beneficiaries.
Others took precautions as they saw fit. For added security, all Cassandra production employees were searched upon entering and leaving the facility. All Azure employees security-cleared for formulation and packaging were required to wear specialized “gas masks” to prevent them from sniffing the fragrance and selling a professional analysis to the highest bidder.
Once or twice in his tenure at Azure, Blankenship had thought about going on the market as a free agent or starting over with a perfumery of his own. The Dixons had seen to it that he was heavily bonded against that sort of thing. But he saw how hard they worked, how much sweat equity they had in the company, and he felt a certain loyalty. The three times he had requested a higher salary and benefits package, they had granted it, no questions asked. He knew his last request, as strained as recent Azure finances were, had been difficult for them. Yet
they met his terms and surprised him with a week’s cruise to the Mexican Riviera for faithful ser vice. You don’t walk out on people like that.
Certainly not for the likes of Brenda Gelasse. The woman was shameless. The bribery served only to cement his dislike. He didn’t appreciate her killer instincts or the vulgar way she hawked Night Tremors. The scent itself was adequate, though overstated at several levels.
In contrast, his darling Cassandra was destined to become a world classic in the tradition of the most popular and most sustained fragrances of all time, such as Arpege and Tresor. So distinct was its character and meaning. Its elemental appeal had shocked him with pleasure when first he breathed it in. He inhaled three seconds, sealed the fragrance for fifteen seconds, then inhaled three seconds more. And smiled.
He only hoped that if he ever required oxygen, it would be saturated with Cassandra.
Best to close down for the evening, don’t you agree?” Joy Spretnak looked into Royce’s sparse office before heading out to her car. The devoted perfumer glanced up from a sheaf of calculations, covering them with one hand from habit.
Joy secretly hoped he would ask her to coffee. If only she were a mite less plump, a tad less middle-aged by, say, five years, he would rise to the bait.
“Ah, yes, Miss Spretnak, it is becoming quite late. What has kept you here this long?” It wasn’t like him to make idle chatter. She wished he’d call her Joy but took his words as encouragement.
“Some spreadsheets needed doing. They’ve been piling up, what with the flood of incoming calls these days.” She paused and swallowed. “The roses you sent, they’re lovely. Thank you.”
He fumbled around, not making eye contact. She patted her hair into place. He straightened an already straight tie, the dark-blue striped one, her favorite. She wished the conversation had gotten off to a more scintillating start.
“Keep them three days, not more,” he said. “They’ve quite lost their robustness after that.”
She nodded, unsure where to go from there. His was a response quite lacking in robustness. “I guess the principle bottling will go full bore beginning tomorrow,” she said, aware she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Did she dare call him Royce?
“So I understand.” He reached a pencil into the electric sharpener before aligning it with two others already sharp-tipped and arranged parallel to the gray desk blotter.
The silence between them became more pronounced once the sharpener’s whirring ceased.
They spoke simultaneously.
“I — ,” she began.
“Would — ,” he began.
They stopped and both drew deep breaths.
“Should — ,” she said.
“There’s — ,” he said.
They stopped. The sound of a forklift moving palettes could be heard through the door into the warehouse. The cruets had arrived from Paris and were being positioned for the bottling machines. The public launch was just a week away.
“I hear each cruet is an exact replica of a glassblown original.”
She hoped this might be news of which he was less aware.
“Yes, so I understand.”
Her disillusionment was temporary. He said, “Would you care to see one?”
Joy felt a trill of delight and nodded. In all the clamor and energy of the past few weeks, the Dixons had found little time to address the troops. A receptionist had to make her own discoveries.
He pulled open a top drawer of the desk and removed an object wrapped in soft white cloth. He removed the cloth with deliberate care and held out an exquisitely thin half moon of milky glass the hue of blush-pink champagne. It was perhaps five inches tall and a half inch in circumference. The silky stem rested on a pedestal fashioned to mimic the soft serrated petals of a single orchid. A clear crystal droplet at the tip of the glass curve flashed spires of light from the desk lamp. A tiny stopper of the same milky pink glass allowed access to the cruet’s contents.
Breathtaking.
“Oh, Royce!” Joy gasped, forgetting herself. “It’s magnificent.”
He sniffed. “A spectacular receptacle for a spectacular aroma. Fitting.”
He started to say something more, stopped, gave her a quick glance, then stared at the wall as if deep in thought. He held the cruet reverently, as he might the Holy Grail.
“Ah, yes, fitting.” She hesitated to say more. The conversation, if it could be called that, was experiencing more starts and stops than Bay Area transit. “Well, good night, then. You should head home soon. We’ll all need plenty of stamina as the gala draws near.”
“I should think.” He appeared disoriented, turned toward her, and in the process brushed a pencil onto the floor.
To her astonishment, he left the pencil where it came to rest beneath the desk. “Joy, uh, Miss Spret — I mean, Miss Joy . . . I apologize. I’m not good at this. There’s a late diner open on Geary.”
“Yes, the Pinecrest,” she said, helping where she could. “I’m familiar with it. They do a juicy half-pound charbroiled burger.” She felt her cheeks go pink. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. You?”
He gave a fleeting smile. “Half an English muffin, unbuttered” — he checked his watch — “some twelve hours ago. That and your excellent hot springwater during the day, always so prompt, always so . . . hot. How long have I been the beneficiary of your kindness in that regard?”
Joy willed herself to remain steady. “Oh my, since before Eve first broke a nail.” He seemed confused. “A favorite saying of my mother’s,” she hastened to add. “You know, Eve, of Adam and Eve.” He looked perplexed. “It’s just a colorful way of saying I’ve enjoyed working with you for some time.”
He seemed to get it and relaxed. The fleeting smile sallied forth once more. “The Pinecrest it is, although I’m limited to a garden salad, no dressing. You won’t be put off by my nose plugs, will you? Restaurant smells can scramble the vomeronasal receptors. Let’s take my car. After, I will bring you back to yours.”
“Splendid,” Joy said, awed at what for the Nose had practically been a speech. “The raccoons will be annoyed, but they can wait.”
His eyebrows arched. “Raccoons?”
“My house backs up to a ravine, and a family of coons come greet me when they see the headlights in the drive. Cutest things but very demanding. I keep a bag of doggie treats in the car, and they line up, biggest to littlest, to wait for a handout. Extortion, really, but a small price to let a little woods into one’s life.”
He studied her a moment, then said, “If anyone could talk to the animals, you could.” She took it as a compliment and felt strangely warmed by the idea.
He retrieved a coat from the rack next to the photocopy machine, and she glanced down to verify that the pencil still lay beneath the desk. It did.
He returned to the desk and rewrapped the cruet in its soft cloth swatch. “For you,” he said, extending the gift. “Totally at odds with company policy, and under present circumstances probably illegal. Still, if anyone at Azure deserves the first flask, it is you.”
She hung back, not trusting she had heard correctly. This was a monumental overture. Nor did she know if, under present circumstances, she should accept.
“I know what a curiosity people say that I am.” The skin of the high forehead puckered, and it was almost as if she could read the pain there. “Eccentric. Acerbic. Prickly. None of that, however true, prevented your kindness toward me. Ever.”
Joy Spretnak knew then she would take a primed land mine from this man should he offer it. She smiled and reached for the gift, her fingers brushing the backs of his, where sparse tufts of hair marked the distance between knuckles.
The forehead smoothed, the pain ran back inside, and he seemed almost youthful, as if relieved of a burden. “All I ask,” he said, an odd huskiness to the words, “is that you not open the cruet until after you arrive home this evening, nor wear the scent to work until after the launch next weekend, when th
e Dixons are honored at the fragrance gala. Come tomorrow, I will see the enchantment in your countenance and know that the two of you” — his eyes shifted to the gift now held in both their hands — “have met.”
If it wasn’t poetry, she thought it came quite close.
The parking lot held all the charm of a cemetery at midnight, barren of most cars but not their apparitions. A soupy mist cloaked the asphalt beneath eerie halos cast by faux gas lamps. What lent a hint of ornate historical authenticity by day, by mist-shrouded night cast a sinister glow.
Were she in her right mind, Joy knew, she would have done the sensible thing and called for security to escort them from the building to Royce’s vehicle. Instead she was alone with the Nose, walking arm in arm with him and inhaling the pure fairy dust of his attentions. With her other hand she stroked the cloth wrapping of the first official bottle of Cassandra, illicitly tucked inside a coat pocket. This was one dream from which she hoped never to awaken.
They descended the employee entrance stairs and started a slow stroll across the blacktop to where Royce’s ’92 Chrysler LeBaron was parked next to Joy’s ’98 Chevy Cavalier.
Joy tightened her grip on the perfumer’s arm. “Lovely night for an abduction,” she said, giggling. Thinking he might tense and lecture her against joking about such matters, she was surprised when he did not answer but drew her closer and slowed the pace.
She felt reckless. “Why, Mr. Blankenship, I do believe you did that on purpose. How did you get to be so fascinating?”
He stopped as a foghorn sounded in the distance. Their breath made little wreaths of condensation about their heads. He glanced to the side, at the modest Chrysler with its dents and its patchy paintwork. Still he said nothing.
“What’s wrong?” she said, afraid of some transgression.
“Wrong?” he said, imbuing the word with heightened emotion. “Nothing has ever been more right. No one has ever found me fascinating. Oh, the gossip columnists imply as much, but the fascination they speak of is akin to the curiosity generated by a carnival freak show. I am the Elephant Man of fragrance; you are my Madge Kendal, star of the British stage.”
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