“Yes!”
“All right. See ya then.”
A wind brushed my face, blew my hair across my mouth. I smelled rain, and any minute now, there would be a downpour. But I didn’t move. For a minute, I only stood there next to the car with the phone in my hand, letting pleasure creep through me.
One step.
The next morning, I put on the new clothes I bought when I heard I had an interview—a pair of black slacks, a neatly pressed white shirt, a long thin scarf looped around my neck. My hair, grown well past my shoulders now, much to my amazement, fell in good waves instead of a zillion uncontrollable curls. I put on my good silver and turquoise earrings, and a silver cuff bracelet, and the slightest of lipsticks. It seemed a place where too much makeup would be frowned upon.
In the post-breakfast hour, Annie’s was quiet. A small group of people who looked like mountain bikers or runners in CoolMax T-shirts and high-end athletic shoes ate muffins and free-range eggs in the first dining room. The rest were a quiet lot who read or stared out the windows at the view. I heard the clink of flatwear against plates. It smelled of coffee and coriander.
I looked for a hostess, but there was no one at the little stand, and I headed toward the bar area. It, too, was underpopulated. Only a single man sat there, reading a newspaper.
But—oh! Hadn’t I seen him the day before? The dark gypsy, dressed in a simple, business-casual way—long-sleeved shirt, khakis, good leather loafers. His hair contradicted the simplicity of the clothes, riotous and complex, black hair that tumbled in ringlets around a strong, Mediterranean sort of face.
As I sat down, he glanced up from the paper and gave me a polite nod. A pot of tea sat in front of him, served the English way, in a plump ceramic pot with a small pitcher of whole milk. Annie, a European, was known for that, pots of good English tea, served with scones and exquisite pastries and fresh cream.
I took a stool three seats down from the gypsy, settled my purse on the bar. Folded my hands. Tried to pretend I wasn’t nervous. That I didn’t want this job very badly.
The scent of the man wafted over to me. Very strong. I focused on trying to pinpoint the elements—ginger, coffee, cinnamon, and below those things the elusive note that’s as unique to each person as a fingerprint. His smelled of summertime. I let it wash over me, taking it apart: pine needles drying in the high altitude sun, very clean water chuckling somewhere nearby, an earthiness of mushrooms, and one astringently sour note, like sticky sap, to bring it all into focus.
Heady. The mix came off him in waves, a little too strong, really, as if he might be sweating. It made the back of my neck ripple.
I didn’t look at him. He turned a page of the paper. Soft classical music played over the speakers of the restaurant, cello, something I couldn’t quite place. The barista/bartender, a youngish man this time, came over. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for an interview,” I said.
“Oh, good! You must be Nicole.”
“Nikki.”
He smiled. “I’m Jason.” A little plump, with kind blue eyes, he said, “Annie is concocting the last of her soup of the day, and told me to get you something to drink and apologize profusely.”
“No problem.”
He put a napkin down in front of me. “What would you like? A latte? A chai, maybe? Mine is very good.”
“All right, I’ll try it.” I caught another snip of the music. “What is this music, do you know?”
“I don’t know. Something classical.”
“Right.”
The man next to me said, in a voice as mysterious and layered as twilight, “Marin Marais.”
“Sorry?”
“The music,” he said, “is Marin Marais.” The accent was British, but something a little more than that.
Glad for the excuse, I looked at him, aware of a pleased little ruffling along my nerves, on my shoulders and my arms, the small of my back—all places that hadn’t been touched and remembered it. He was a delight to look at, my type exactly, those curls, that beautiful nose. He had excellent hands, too, long and dark with well-tended nails. A weakness of mine, good hands.
“Of course.” I nodded. “Thank you.”
“Are you a fan of classical music?” he asked. There was a delicious, slight rolling of the “r,” along with the open British “a”s. Wonderful. “Or Marais in particular?”
“Well, especially cello. I studied it as a girl.”
“Ah. My instrument was clarinet.”
“Were you good?”
“No.” A twinkle lit his dark eyes, the faintest hint of a smile on those beautifully shaped lips. “You?”
“Terrible.” I grinned back. “But I love music anyway.”
“So do I.”
It was small talk, something I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten that the words lent a moment to connect in other ways. His eyes flitting over my face, touching eyes, hair, lips. Mine gathering details of wrist, neck, mouth.
The bartender ambled away to make my drink, presumably. The gypsy said, “Did you know that ‘chai’ is just the word for tea in Hindi?” His accent made me think of PBS imports, of London broadcasters in worn-torn lands. Very British, a little reserved.
The word came to me: “posh.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said now. “That’s kind of funny, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” His mouth quirked. His eyes were luminous, the lashes so black they seemed dewy. “English is a very greedy language.”
With great originality, I said, “That’s true.”
“Did I see you here yesterday?” Hyeah.
I was startled into a blush. “I was here. Were you?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
In a flash, I remembered the group of computer geeks, the beautiful man. “You were with the Blip Data people.”
“And you were wearing a turquoise blouse.”
A pleased flush ran through me. He had seen me! He’d obviously liked what he’d seen.
Boy, did I ever need that.
He smoothed his newspaper, picked up his cup. “Are you applying to work here?”
“I hope so.”
“It’s a good place. Very good tea.” He smiled, and it was an understated thing, a little smile in his eyes, poking fun back at himself. “And chai.”
Jason brought my chai, but he didn’t put it down. “Annie is ready to talk to you, if you want to follow me.”
“Oh!” I stood up. Butterflies whirled around in my stomach. I really wanted this job, and wanting things too much had not been particularly good for me the past few years.
“Bye,” I said to the man.
He lifted a hand.
The boy led me through a pair of swinging doors with round windows in them. With a swish-swish, we left the world of the diners behind and entered Kitchen World. A smell of carrots and soap and sterilizer and faint rot—I thought there might be a bad drain somewhere—and just now, pickles.
Restaurant kitchens are wonderful, mysterious, glorious places, and this was a particularly good one. Old, with wooden floors mopped pale, and a row of high, multi-paned windows in the rear that let in light. The back door was propped open to a view of thick trees, and I could hear the creek.
A thin, sixty-something woman with a sleek pixie of silver hair chopped dill pickles on an acrylic cutting board. Her hands were strong, tanned, adorned only with a plain, narrow wedding band. Behind her on the enormous stove was a twenty-quart aluminum pot.
“Is that coriander?” I asked, stopping to breathe it in.
Annie lifted a brow. Her skin was largely unlined and her eyes were quite startlingly blue, almost turquoise. “Very good,” she said with a slight German accent. “Most people do not recognize that scent so quickly.”
“Oh,” I said dismissively, “I just have a good nose.”
“Do you cook?”
I shrugged. “Not much. Not anymore.”
“Ah.” She scraped pickles into a clear glass bowl. “Why do yo
u want to work here?”
“I need a job.”
“Clearly. Why here?”
Inhaling, I cocked my head. “I like it. I like the food and the organic angle. It feels nourishing. And—” I smiled. “It smells good.”
She liked that. “How long since you worked?”
“Is it obvious that I haven’t for a while?”
“I read your application, dear,” she said, not unkindly, “but yes, there is that air about you, that sudden fling into the world.”
“Oh,” I said, stung. I plucked at the buttons of my blouse. “It’s been awhile.”
She put the knife down, wiped her hands on a white towel tucked into the waist of her bibbed white apron. “Women in their forties usually prefer other work. Less physical. A bank teller, maybe. A secretary. Why pick a restaurant?”
It was not the kind of question I had anticipated. “I hate sitting inside an office. A bank—” The idea made me feel strangled. “No, thanks. I did some secretarial work for my ex and really hated it, honestly. When I heard you were shorthanded, it seemed like a lot more appealing job.”
“Why should I hire you?”
I met her eyes. “For one thing, since I have no life, I’ll be reliable. No running off to get married to another server.”
She grinned. “And?”
“And I love food, taking care of people, being in movement, instead of sitting around.” I lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know how long it will take for me to get up to speed, but I’ll work as hard as I can.”
“Your base pay is not much,” she said. “But the tips are quite good. You’ll make a good wage.”
I nodded.
“Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yes!”
“Then we will try, shall we?”
My heart squeezed. “Really?”
“Yes.” She picked up her knife again. “We cannot function with only six servers.”
“I’ll be here.”
“We’ll start you at breakfast, which is a little slower, as you see out there. Do you have a problem with mornings?”
“No! I love them! What time?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Five-thirty.”
“No problem.”
Taking a peeled, boiled egg from a bowl, she said, “Have Jason give you a shirt and the training book.”
“Thank you.” I wanted to shake her hand, but she waved me on.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll be all right.”
I wandered back into the restaurant, feeling buoyant, almost giddy with accomplishment. I had a job! It was hard to keep myself from grinning ear to ear, like a little kid with a new fingerpainting.
The dark-eyed man was still at the bar, and he shook his paper, smiled at me. “It must have gone well.”
I let the smile out. “Yes, it did.”
“Congratulations.” He held out a hand. “I am Niraj.” The “j” was soft, buzzing.
“Cool name.” Grinning in happiness, I accepted the gift. “I’m Nicole.”
“Both ‘N’s,” he said, as if it joined us. “Nice to meet you.”
Even in my giddiness, it was impossible not to notice his scent, piercing through the heady thickness of freshly brewing coffee, and the cinnamon tea, and the undernotes of soap and bar cleaner, and a thousand other restaurant smells—there was his skin. The perfumer in me tried to pin it, and failed.
Jason came over, his arms full. “Annie said to give you these— shirts, manual, menu, basic stuff. You don’t need to get too wrapped up in all of it just yet—she won’t quiz you or nothing.”
I took the load. Blinked. “Thanks. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, first thing.”
“Cool.”
The British man said, “See you soon, Nicole.”
“All right. So long!”
4
Nikki’s Perfume Journal
SCENT OF HOURS
Time: 10:30 A.M.
Date: Thursday, 4/13/06
Elements: fresh co fee brewing, ginger, pine needles drying in the sun, tangy sweat, tea
Bottle: dark green
Notes: the man sitting at the bar at Annie’s Organix
One thing that startled me, post-divorce, was how much hostility some widows direct toward divorcées. I’m not particularly comfortable with married women, either, but their sins of ever-so-subtle superiority can be forgiven since they’re born of cluelessness. Widows should know better.
Two months after Daniel moved out, I’d been hustled to an ice-cream social at the gigantic First Presbyterian Church, where one of my former neighbors, Evelyn, was a member. She had insisted it would be good for me to get out, talk to other people.
I didn’t know until I arrived that it was for newly single adults. We were all dressed like teachers, with sweaters and skirts and loafers. I’d tried to make myself presentable, though there wasn’t a lot I could do about the pallor that comes of sitting inside on your couch and crying for eight weeks.
Daniel had moved to California and taken our Giselle with him, a decision we’d all made together, and one that had left me alternately hating myself for my cowardice and congratulating myself for being a big person. Either way, it left me echoing around that big house alone. It was good, in a way, to be out in the world, even if it was some dippy ice-cream social. In the eyes of some of the others, I saw the same shell-shocked robotic movements, as if we’d all forgotten how to move and someone programmed us. Walk. Talk. Smile.
Evelyn deserted me to go help in the kitchen. I carried a strawberry sundae over to a long table and sat down next to a woman who looked nearly as miserable as I felt. She was older than me, perhaps her mid-fifties, and her long salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back sharply from her face. “Hi,” I said. “Mind if I join you?”
She half smiled. “Who dragged you here?”
I nodded toward Evelyn, talking with a group of other women near the door. “How about you?”
“My daughter. She’s worried that I am giving up my will to live.”
Curiously, I asked, “Have you?” The thought had crossed my mind. Not to do anything to actively kill myself, but giving up my will to live and pining away held a certain Victorian appeal.
“No. I just want everyone to leave me alone and let me get over this in my own way.”
“Me, too. How long has it been?”
“Eight months. He died on the golf course, unexpectedly. We were supposed to leave for a trip to Scotland the next day.”
“I am so sorry.”
She lowered her eyes. “Thanks.” We poked our ice cream. “How about you?” she asked.
“Two months ago. Another woman.”
“Oh, divorce,” she said. “Well, maybe you’ll work it out eventually.”
“Since he’s moved to another state with this other woman, I seriously doubt it.” A half strawberry slid down the mountain of ice cream and I caught it with my spoon, struggling to keep my voice even. “It was a shock. Never saw it coming.”
“There’s always signs of a breach like that coming,” she said.
“Are there?” I raised my head. “I didn’t see them. And I feel like—” I struggled. “Like I woke up one morning in somebody else’s life, and I don’t have any instructions for how to live this one.”
“You’ll be all right.”
Her faint dismissal stung in a place I’d not felt it before. “You know, it’s not that different, losing a husband to divorce or death.”
“Yes it is. You can pick up the phone and call him if you want to. You can see his face again. You know he’s still in the world, somewhere.”
“Yeah,” I said, “and yours still loved you when he died, didn’t he? You don’t have to deal with loss and betrayal, just the loss.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Did your husband die of a heart attack?”
She nodded.
“There must have been signs. Why didn’t you do something to save his life?” I stood up, trying to hi
de my tears, and walked out of the stupid room and out of the stupid reach of well-meaning friends, and walked all the way home through the stupid wind that at least dried my stupid tears.
After getting the job at Annie’s, I could hardly wait to get home and call my daughter. The ringer was a song I didn’t recognize, and it played the same little bar three times before it flipped over to voice mail.
“Hello, this is Giselle,” she said in a voice that enunciated her consonants clearly. “I’m in London, so leave a message and I’ll call you when I get home.”
Damn. I’d forgotten. With a swift, sharp stab of jealousy, I imagined her on a red double-decker bus, with daffodils blooming in clouds, while a soft drizzly rain made the world cool and damp.
I thought of her with her father and his proper Southern belle of a wife seeing Trafalgar Square and the conservatory at Kew Gardens, which I’d always, always, always wanted to see, and the Thames, and—
“Argh!” I cried, and wished for an old-fashioned kind of phone to slam down hard. Instead, all I could do was flip the cell phone shut and throw it—harmlessly—on the counter.
My resentments rose, fluttering through my chest like bat wings. Trying to escape them, I hauled open the patio door, stepped between the pots and their new fronds, and leaned on the balcony. The light was fading, leaving behind only a long line of gold over the top of the mountains.
Twilight settled on the landscape, darkening the line of mountains, making me think of winter suppers and families gathered around a table in a humid kitchen. A howl burned in my chest. Loneliness, yes, but this one was particular: missing my daughter was a constant pain, as if fingernails were being yanked out, say, or nails pounded into my heart.
I clenched my teeth. This wasn’t about me. It was for Giselle, for the education she could receive, for the lifestyle her father could give her. Even with all the money in the world, I couldn’t give her the education she was getting in California.
Lately, I sometimes thought about moving there. If I lived nearby, I could see her more often. We’d have a chance to be easier with each other, not so much on, as happened with the non-custodial parent. I needed long stretches with her sleeping too late and huffing over having to do dishes and all the other dear, normal details that went along with teenagers.
Madame Mirabou's School of Love Page 4