by Ava Miles
Rye Crenshaw was a friend? It figured that he’d know other country music stars, but she had a fan girl moment before she managed to snap herself out of it. “Not R-y-e. R-a-ï. It’s what I’d called Bedouin music.”
“Huh?”
“From North Africa. You know, Bedouins. People who lived mostly in the desert, although I think Raï technically comes from Algeria.”
“It does, but the music goes back much further,” Ibrahim said, appearing in the doorway. “Some call it Arab rhythm and blues. Others folk music. I listen to it when I’m working with Oriental scents, ones known for their warmth and sensuality. Myrrh. Sandalwood. Frankincense. Cedar wood. Agar wood. Come inside. I’ll show you.”
Caitlyn moved to follow Ibrahim, who’d slipped back inside, but Beau’s hand was still on her arm. On his face was what she could only term wonder.
“What is it?”
“I could hear the baseline with that flute,” he said, his ear cocked. “There’s a violin. Wait. Is that accordion? Caitlyn, how have I never heard this music before?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always liked it, but I have eclectic taste in music.”
He lifted her hand and put it on his chest, flattening her palm there. “Hear the drum? It’s like a heartbeat. My God, it’s…beautiful.”
She became aware of her own heartbeat. It was tripping inside her chest from touching him, and suddenly she was aware their heartbeats had the same cadence. Kismet, she thought. Their eyes met.
She knew in that moment she’d fallen for him the rest of the way.
Chapter 8
The music.
The sound of it had blown his heart clear up to his throat. In his chest was an open and empty space, vibrating with the sound he imagined the earth made out in the lavender fields at night. The drum was primal. The flute filled with longing. This was the music of something lost, of the quest to find it again.
It was the music for the journey he was on, he realized. To find his roots.
Caitlyn’s touch to his forehead brought him back. Her green eyes seemed as vibrant as the verdant green hills they’d traveled through just yesterday. Everything was foreign to him here, from the language to the scents, except this woman. From the very beginning he’d known her. She was his kindred spirit. What he was feeling for her, stronger and more urgent each moment they spent together, was his only surety right now.
Somehow it made sense to be somewhere completely unfamiliar. His own person had become unfamiliar to him.
This was where he would retill the soil of his life and start anew.
“I’m glad you’re here with me for this moment,” he said, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the back of it.
God, he wanted to kiss her, his body beating with the music. This woman…
He wanted her to be his.
His gaze fell to her full lips, a touch rosier from being out in the sun. Outside, he’d stopped himself from kissing her, wanting to court her, learn her, tantalize her even. Her skin was pink, he realized, making him wish he could cool her down by running an ice cube over it, one he’d plucked out of his own water glass.
Good ol’ Beau wasn’t supposed to have such thoughts this early, certainly not act on them.
But good ol’ Beau didn’t exist anymore, a small voice inside whispered. He was gone, buried under a lifetime of secrets and lies.
He closed the distance between them and put his hand on her back, lowering his head, already wondering how her lips would taste. He imagined a field of strawberries.
“Not here,” she whispered, nodding to the doorway, a frown twisting that luscious mouth.
He took a few steps back, realizing he’d almost embarrassed her in front of a colleague. “Sorry.”
“No, I want to kiss you too,” she whispered, following him and running her fingers over his lips in a single pass, much like lighting a match over the striking surface of a matchbook. The trail of fire she left in her wake made him step away from her again. He had to. He inhaled a few deep breaths to settle himself, ones filled with scents of musk, exotic and alluring, like the woman before him.
“Then later,” he whispered back.
Her mouth tipped up, and then she was dashing toward the doorway. “Tell me about your playlists, Ibrahim. I know Beau would love to hear more. I love that you listen to different music depending on which scents you’re working on.”
By the time Beau reached the doorway, he was calmer. A wave of scent as powerful as a single tide washed over him, notes of earth and wood dancing with each other. “Yes, I’d love to hear more about all of it. My goodness, your lab… I never…”
Ibrahim was standing behind a long glass table filled with bell-shaped jars, a weighing scale, and a myriad of tiny glass beakers in a wooden ring stand. His notebook lay open before him, covered in intricate handwriting in midnight blue ink. The waist-to-ceiling glass shelves mounted on the wall behind him were filled with an awe-worthy number of labeled apothecary bottles.
“Are all those scents?” he asked. Upon closer inspection, he caught a few labels: orange blossom, amber, musk, jasmine.
Ibrahim gave his signature pencil-thin smile. “Yes, and that’s only a fraction of the ones available. Scents are like stars. There are millions out there. Today we hope to discover what constellation we want to be in. Sit down. Please.”
He had an inviting way with words, and Beau pulled out a white metal chair for Caitlyn first and then himself across from Ibrahim at the glass table. As they got settled, Beau noted a refrigerated glass cabinet to the right filled with more apothecary bottles as well as another lined with funnels, stirring rods, and what looked like the regular old hot plate he’d cooked on in his first low-rent apartment in Nashville. A fan’s motor permeated his consciousness over the meandering notes of the music, and he knew it to be practical. The scents in here must need somewhere to escape so as not to become overwhelming.
“This is quite a lab,” he said, his hands on his knees as he took it all in.
“Caitlyn was kind enough to allow me to outfit it as I wished, and it was easy to have everything I needed shipped here. Thank you again.”
She leaned forward in her chair, arms waving enthusiastically. “Are you kidding? I feel like I’m back in high school chemistry, which I didn’t do so well in by the way.”
Beau tucked that little tidbit away, wanting to record every detail he could about this woman who captivated him so.
“Don’t worry,” the older man said. “There won’t be a test. We’re among friends here. Since you asked about my playlists, I listen to opera when I handle floral scents. Verdi seemed to capture spring itself in his music. Do you know it, Beau?”
He choked out a laugh. “I was born in a small town in Arkansas known more for its strawberries and peaches than its music beyond country.” But that wasn’t an excuse now. “I’ve always thought opera…” He didn’t want to call it hoity-toity.
“Was for a certain class?” Ibrahim raised a brow. “According to what I’ve read, the same is said of country music. I doubt that’s fair.”
Caitlyn covered her mouth to smother her laughter, and Beau couldn’t blame her. If they’d been alone, he would have tickled her ribs to bring out that laugh of hers. “You’ve got me there. Not everyone who listens to country is a redneck or good ol’ boy.”
“You’ll have to educate me on those stereotypes. They’re unfamiliar to me, I’m afraid.”
He laughed, trying to imagine Ibrahim in a small country town. “Perhaps later. I’d like to hear more about your playlists. So, you’ve told us about the musks and the florals. What other kinds of scents do you work with?”
“The last of the four main categories on the modern fragrance wheel are called fresh notes.”
“Sharper scents like lime and citrus, right?” Caitlyn asked.
“Exactly.”
“So what music is for them?” she pressed.
“Cuban music,” he said. “The kind th
at reminds me of nights in Havana back when Ernest Hemingway, Rita Hayworth, Frank Sinatra, and others used to go there.”
Beau was embarrassed that he didn’t know who the lady was on that list. “I wonder what country music would be good for.”
“I’d say the florals,” Caitlyn said. “It makes me think of a couple walking through the country holding hands.”
Her eyes strayed toward his, and he knew she was thinking about how they’d done the same last night.
“Or cuddling up with your man in front of a warm fire after the kids go to bed.” Her voice went soft.
He turned his head sharply. She was referencing one of his songs.
He couldn’t help but sing the lyrics:
After tucking the little ones in bed and kissing them goodnight,
All I want to do tonight is cuddle up next to you,
The warmth of the firelight and the touch of your hands dancing over my skin.
It was as if he’d written the words for her before they’d met. His gut tightened, thinking about running his hands over her. Slow down, boy.
She must have caught the look on his face because her eyes widened, and a blush shimmered on her cheeks. “Of course, country music is about lots more than that,” she hastened to say. “Tornados, dogs dying… You know. Life.”
Sad images, but all too real to the people he’d known growing up. “I haven’t done a tornado yet.”
She coughed loudly, her cheeks turning pinker—a pale rose of a color. “Best get on that then. Maybe for the new album…”
Maybe, indeed. A tornado wreaked havoc, ripping up everything in its wake. Disassembling an entire house. He understood its power now. “Yes. I just might. Sorry, Ibrahim, we’re… What do you call it, Caitlyn? Digressing?”
“Exactly.” She beamed a smile. “Please continue, Ibrahim.”
The man hadn’t moved a muscle during their exchange. “If I may suggest, I thought we’d talk more about your vision for the perfume, and then we can start matching some scents.”
“Like shoe shopping,” she said, bouncing in her seat. “I hope you don’t mind my vernacular. I love perfume, but some of the technical stuff is so out of my league. I mean, the math and all that.”
“There’s math?” Beau asked.
“A plentiful amount, I’m afraid. It’s maddening. You add a certain amount of one note, and then you must balance it with another and so on.”
“Notes?” Beau asked. “Sorry, I didn’t read up on any of this.” In fact, he didn’t have much of an excuse for being here. He only knew that he wanted to be. “Maybe I should leave you two—”
“Don’t be silly,” Caitlyn said when he started to rise. “You need assurance our product will be worthy of your name before you sign a contract. I’ll do whatever it takes to get your John Hancock.”
He heard the steel in her voice. She was a businesswoman to her core. “Thank you for understanding. Please go on, Ibrahim.”
“Notes are single scents such as lavender or bergamot or cinnamon.”
They could put cinnamon in a perfume? He’d always slapped on his aftershave without thinking much about such things. Growing up, he’d used plain old Stetson from the local drugstore until he’d made it big and had the money to shop in a department store. He’d always been drawn to Acqua di Parma, Blu Mediterraneo. The scent had made him think of white-sand beaches and far-off places, but his mother had vetoed the idea and chosen Ryan Williams For Men, saying he should be able to say he wore an all-American scent if asked in an interview.
His anger resurfaced. Something so small, and still she’d managed to get her way. And he’d allowed it.
But damn her.
“To make a perfume or a cologne, you need to blend three levels. Some call it the top, middle, and base notes, but I prefer head, heart, and bottom. Makes it feel more personal somehow.”
“Also translates nicely to the body,” Caitlyn said. “I’ve come across some incredible blogs on essential oils and how they affect certain parts of the body like the head and heart and what some practitioners of Eastern medicine call the root. Like peppermint being great for mental clarity while rose opens the heart. And then there’s ylang ylang for the root center.”
Ibrahim rose and opened the glass cabinet behind him. “You already have a passion for perfume, Caitlyn, and a pure understanding. Smell is one of our five senses, and some say the least used. And yet, the body is processing scents throughout the day. The smell of garbage makes us cringe. A newborn baby’s smell makes us fill with more love than we knew we had inside us. A pine tree’s smell can bring us peace.”
Now this was something Beau could understand. He appreciated the way smells told a story, and often used them to create a wider sensory array in his music. Fresh-baked pies. Fresh-cut grass. He knew the people hearing those lyrics could conjure those smells up in their heads and find them pleasing and relatable.
Caitlyn put her hand over her heart. “And then there are the memories they bring up, right? Like when I smell my Grandma Anna’s red leather gloves, the ones my mom gave me after she died. They hold a slight trace of Chanel No. 5, and it makes me both miss her and feel she’s still with me, all at once.”
A beautiful, haunting image. Beau might have to ask her later if he could use it in a song. When they’d bagged up his father’s clothes for Goodwill, all he recalled noticing was the smell of Wild Turkey and stale cigarettes.
“A classic perfume, that one, and one of my wife’s favorites,” Ibrahim said, taking out a few bottles. “Did you know the modern perfume industry began in Grasse, France, because the leather makers were trying to disguise the hideous tanning scents that smelled up the town? Some creative person had the idea to sprinkle the leather products in floral waters, and a pair of scented gloves ended up with Catherine de Medici, who investigated the scent and wanted more of it.”
Beau couldn’t fathom anything in France smelling bad, but he reckoned it had its places like everywhere else.
“I’ll bet Egypt’s fascination with perfume started very differently,” Caitlyn said, leaning forward when Ibrahim set three bottles in front of them, their labels disguised by the angle.
“Egyptians had a complex relationship with perfumes,” he said, pulling out the stoppers. “Perhaps we’ll go into that another time. First, I want you to smell these notes and tell me what they conjure for you. Don’t look at the labels.”
Caitlyn bent her head to sniff the first one. “And you said there wouldn’t be a test.”
“It’s not a test,” Ibrahim said. “Just tell me what associations it has for you, if any, or how it makes you feel. All you need is a quick inhale. If you breathe in too much, you’ll saturate the olfactory sensory neurons in your nose.”
Caitlyn passed Beau the bottle, and their fingers brushed, making their gazes fly briefly to each other. “Ibrahim’s too modest to say so, but master perfumers have to be able to distinguish four thousand individual notes.”
“You’re kidding,” Beau said, leaning forward to sniff.
“I know!” Caitlyn slapped her hand on her forehead. “Unreal, right?”
“What’s the verdict?” Ibrahim asked, resuming his seat.
“Lemon, I think.” Caitlyn made a humming sound as Beau set the little bottle back on the table. “Reminds me of the lemon meringue pie my mom makes on the Fourth of July.”
Beau closed his eyes and let his mind replay the smell over and over, like he’d do with a musical note. “It reminds me of that yummy soup in this Thai restaurant in Las Vegas on the Strip. Lemongrass.”
Ibrahim’s brow winged up. “Very good, Beau. Lemon and lemongrass are often confused.”
“Not by him,” Caitlyn said, rolling her eyes. “Okay, I’m going to win the next one.”
Beau rubbed her arm. “It’s not a contest.”
“I’m one of seven kids,” she responded. “Trust me, everything is a contest.” She brought the next bottle to her nose, sniffed, then passed it to him.
This time he knew she was brushing their fingers together intentionally and flashed her a quick smile. “All right, I have my guess.”
Beau inhaled shallowly again. This scent was dark. Musky. Masculine.
“Cedar,” she called out like a star student might in class.
“Beau?”
That didn’t sound right to him. He let the scent settle in his nose. “I’d say sandalwood. Like the oil my massage therapist uses on me.”
“Correct.” Ibrahim stoppered the two bottles they’d finished and set them aside. “Try this one,” he said, nodding to the third.
Caitlyn’s frown was epic, and he gave her a nudge. “Hey, this is supposed to be fun.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, making him and Ibrahim laugh, and then inhaled the final note. “You go first this time.”
Leaning forward, Beau breathed it in. Something herbal. Again, he thought of food. Focaccia bread from the Italian place around the corner from his office downtown. “Rosemary.”
She glared at him, all flirting gone. “I agree. We have rosemary all over our place in Napa. I’d recognize it anywhere.”
“Excellent,” Ibrahim said. “But where do you feel the note? Head, heart, or bottom?”
Caitlyn blew out a breath, and he could all but hear her wheels grinding. Who would have expected she could be so competitive? Then again, she was from a family of serious businesspeople, and this was her new venture. He could be this serious about his music and then some.
“For me, it’s all heart because it makes me think of home,” Caitlyn said, “but if I were being scientific, I’d guess it’s a bottom note because it’s from the earth.”
Did he have a memory? “Nothing specific comes to mind for me on this one. Other than focaccia bread, which you may laugh at.”
Ibrahim put the stopper in the last one. “No, that’s perfect. What does focaccia make you feel?”
“If I were writing a song, I’d say it reminded me of grandmotherly Italian women serving sustenance with a side of comfort and wisdom.”