Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  “I’m better at it some days than others.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  He really was spectacularly attractive. The silky curls, the deep eyes, that ease of movement. I couldn’t make up my mind how old he was. Forty? Forty-five? Lines fanned out from his eyes, and there was a certain look to his hands that made me think he was around my age somewhere.

  This vivid awareness flustered me, and I turned and went down the path, holding out my hand to dry the mud on my palm. We made it to the bottom without further incident, then headed down Ruxton Avenue to the main part of town.

  “Do you like to hike, Nicole?” he asked.

  “I used to. Haven’t done it much over the past few years for some reason.” I paused, wondering suddenly why that happened— and a dozen reasons crowded in: soccer with Giselle, Saturday afternoons in my garden, dinner parties to plan or to attend, shopping with the rest of the world. “How ’bout you?”

  “Oh, yes. My father always walked when I was a child—he would go to a small lake nearby our home, and walk around it nearly every day. It seemed a good habit to me, and it has kept him fit, and well.”

  “That’s how it was with my grandmother. She used to march us all over town. It was sort of shameful in my family to take a car if it wasn’t a very far walk, like to the store or the post office or something.”

  “That’s very healthy.”

  “I suppose.” It made me remember holiday dinners. “At Christmas or Thanksgiving, we’d all spill out into the street and go ambling around the neighborhood after lunch.”

  “It is a good city for walking, once one adjusts to the altitude.”

  “Did the altitude bother you when you got here?”

  “Yes. I lost quite a lot of weight at first, too, which I liked.” He smiled, patted his lean middle with that elegant hand. “But now it’s come back.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. It annoys me how easily men lose weight.”

  “Women always diet, diet, diet. You strike me as too sensible to eat badly.”

  I looked at him for a clue to what he might mean by that. “I’m not always this plump,” I said in my own defense. “I wasn’t doing much for a while there but feeling sorry for myself and eating ice cream.”

  A glitter lit his dark eyes, and he imitated my stance by putting his hands behind his back. One eyebrow lifted. “You do not seem plump to me, only female.”

  Oh! Feeling like Marilyn Monroe, I tried not to preen. “Thanks.”

  We made it to the main stretch of shops. Next to my car, I paused. “This one’s mine.”

  “Look at your hand,” he said, pointing.

  Across my palm, where the mud had dried in light smears, was a shimmer of gold flakes. “Is it mica? Fool’s gold?”

  “I don’t know.” He grinned at me. “It’s beautiful.”

  I wiggled my fingers, and light glinted off the thin gold flakes. “Amazing.”

  “The mountain must like you.”

  “Maybe.” I smiled at him. “Thanks. You made me feel better.”

  “You’re welcome. I will see you again.”

  Words froze in my throat. Any of the ordinary words that adult women used to encourage men they found attractive, like I hope so, or Would you like to see a movie, or any number of other possibilities. Gone.

  I just nodded. “Well. Bye.”

  “Do you have e-mail?” he asked.

  “Um. Yes.”

  His eyes crinkled. “May I e-mail you?”

  I laughed a little. “Yes. It’s easy: nikki@scentofhours.com.”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  From my back jeans pocket, I produced a stick ballpoint. He spread his palm and said, “Tell me again?” When I repeated it, he wrote in tiny block letters across the heel of his palm.

  “I haven’t seen anyone do that in a long time.”

  He raised his eyes, and it seemed, suddenly, as if he might be embarrassed. “Old habit.”

  I looked at his face, at the high bridge of his nose, the darkness of his eyes, and still couldn’t add, I look forward to your e-mail. It seemed too much to want. “I’ll see you,” I finally said.

  He nodded. “Good.”

  I climbed into my car and drove home. I was imagining a nice hot bath in my oversized oval tub, a tall glass of wine, some takeout from the Chinese down the street, paid for with my tips.

  But the universe wasn’t finished with me yet.

  6

  Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  SCENT OF HOURS

  Time: 5:30 P.M.

  Date: Any November weekday in the 1990s

  Bottle: frosted silver glass. Moon-shaped stopper.

  Elements: Cold silvery twilight, roast baking, dark falling around rooms cozy with yellow lamplight, the sweet reassurance of child safely doing homework upstairs, onions perfuming the air.

  Notes: How do you make a scent that smells like supper? Cinnamon, apple notes, no florals, a little woodsmoke, snow. Hmmm. Costus blend number one as a base. Middle notes, black pepper, cinnamon, green tea. Wormwood? How do I reproduce the scent of snow? Clary sage, a hint of lime for the freshness? What does security smell like?

  Call it: WINTER SUPPERS

  I climbed the stairs to my apartment, threw my keys on the table, and carefully scraped the mud with gold/mica flakes onto a piece of paper. It sure looked like gold. It didn’t matter, particularly, except that it was cool. It did seem like a kiss of approval from the lady of the mountain.

  My cell phone rang, and I reached into my purse to see who it was. Pam’s Aspen smile showed up on the viewfinder. I flipped the phone open. “Hi!”

  “Hi, Nicole. Are you home?”

  “Yep, just got here. What’s up?”

  “I’m at Kit’s house. We’ll be there in a minute.”

  I scowled. “Who’s ‘we’?” I didn’t want to deal with Evelyn.

  No answer. I looked at the phone and saw she’d hung up already. Argh. I smelled like cooking, like old grease and stale coffee, and any makeup I’d applied this morning had worn off by now.

  People would find out eventually that I was working at the restaurant, but I wanted to preserve the illusion of my selfsufficiency at least a little longer. And who knew, perhaps the insurance inquiry would go fast enough that I would have a settlement pretty soon, and then I could quit before anyone knew.

  I hurried into the bedroom and stripped off my work shirt and bra, and rushed into the bathroom. I ran water into the sink, soaped a washcloth, and prepared to give myself a quick sponge bath. At second thought, I stripped off my jeans, too, and kicked them into the corner.

  By the time the doorbell rang, I had combed my hair, washed the day off me, and had put on a pair of khakis with a fresh, summer-weight sweater.

  I flung open the door, and there was Pam, carrying a lamp. It looked vaguely familiar. “Surprise!” she cried.

  Behind her was Kit, hauling a small table up the stairs. The effort showed in her ropy forearms. I blinked, standing there at the door as two burly guys came behind them, a sofa balanced between them. “What’s going on?”

  “Lady, this is heavy. You want to tell us where to put it down?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Let us in, silly goose, and I’ll explain.” With her usual air of mastery, Pam pushed by me. I was forced to leave the door and get out of the way of the men. Kit followed behind them.

  “This all right?” the man said, indicating the empty space along the wall.

  “Sure, I guess. Put it down.” When he pulled the protective blankets off the couch, I recognized it immediately. It was a slightly battered sofa with the peach and green swirly patterns of the late eighties, and recliner options at each end. To Pam, I said, “That’s from your family room, isn’t it?”

  “I know, I know.” She put down the floor lamp, which I now realized had arched over the couch. “It needs to be cleaned, and I have a certificate here for you to call them and have them come in to take care of i
t.” She patted her purse. “There’s more stuff downstairs. I’ll be back.”

  I didn’t know what to do. Or feel. Or think. My cheeks burned as the guys headed out with burly swaggers to get God-knew-what-else.

  Kit put the end table down by the wall and gave me a bright, false smile. “We should have done this before. I just didn’t realize how dire the situation was.” She tossed a curl off her forehead and looked around the room. “This is cute! I like it. And what a great view of the mountains!” She put her hands on her hips and looked at the horizon, an exaggerated pleasantness in her expression.

  I stared at the table, which I thought I remembered from the downstairs hallway in her house. “Thanks,” I said. “I guess I’ll . . . um . . . put on some coffee.”

  “Great. I’ll go help with the chairs. That’s a lot of steps, isn’t it?”

  Through the door, I saw Roxanne, smoking in the open-air hallway. She leaned against the wall, frankly observing the commotion. Her choppy haircut and short skirt made her look much younger and hipper than Kit, and I saw Kit notice.

  Roxanne blew out a stream of smoke and raised her eyebrows at me.

  I lifted a shoulder and went to make the coffee.

  Pam and Kit didn’t stay long. They’d hired the movers and cleaned out their houses of unwanted furniture to help me, and once it was placed, they seemed to be in a hurry to get out. Back to their lives, their little families, where nothing untoward had yet shattered their safety, where they’d all eat supper prepared from fresh, whole foods and not too much fat, and sip wine as they served up leafy green salad.

  I was left standing in my newly furnished apartment, smarting from throat to gullet. The smell of coffee lingered, but there was no wintertime dark flavor of onions cooking, of supper calling everyone in from their chilly corners. I turned away from the open door after waving them down the stairs, and stared at the stuff in my living room.

  I recognized every single thing they’d brought in. The couch from this family room; the lamps from a back bedroom where we often dumped our coats during parties; the dining room table that had been in Evelyn’s garage since she’d bought a new one two years ago. There was a white twin bed, night table, and dresser set painted white with gilt, which would furnish Giselle’s bedroom, and I knew had once belonged to Crystal Merriweather, the daughter of one of the soccer coaches, who’d gone on to medical school.

  I knew they meant well. I could just imagine how the conversation had gone, too, could hear the concern in Pam’s voice as she’d said to the others, Nicole is doing so well after all this drama—she’d praise me first—but I was at her apartment the other day and she barely has a stick of furniture.

  They would have all clucked and tsked and said, Oh, I feel terrible for her and We need to do something. They would have fallen silent, drunk some more wine or coffee or eaten another tidbit of salad, and then someone had come up with this plan, made a list of what would be needed: She’ll want a couch, and lamps, and a table. Oh, and don’t forget Giselle’s room.

  They meant well. So why did I want to cry? Or take an ax to the lot of it? I had never felt so humiliated in all my life.

  From behind me, a voice said, “It’s just their voodoo, you know.”

  I turned around, and Roxanne was standing in my doorway. “What?”

  “They’re afraid,” she said, leaning on the threshold, looking like the dangerous divorcée in every single inch of her slinky body, “that they’ll end up like you. After all, your husband loved you, right? And you guys were the couple everybody thought would stay together forever.”

  I crossed my arms against the burn of anger in my chest. Even more so. Everyone just loved being able to pepper their parties with a mixed couple. It gave us more cachet than PhDs or Ivy League or a job in the arts. “Yes.”

  “So,” she continued, “they have to find some way to make you different from them, so they bring you their cast-off furniture and pretend they’re safe.”

  I met her eyes, wishing I was not dripping tears of bitter fury, that I was the kind of woman who would beat somebody up when she was mad instead of standing there crying. “I could just kill them.”

  She nodded. Her hair was fantastic, moving in glossy shifts that left little choppy pieces around her sharp jaw and cheekbones. “My kids are watching videos. I could bring over a bottle of wine.”

  The whole day suddenly seemed as if it weighed about nine hundred pounds. “You know, that sounds great. I’ll order a pizza.”

  “Good idea. I’ll pitch in. And how about if I go get Wanda, too? She lives downstairs. Her husband is in Iraq, and you want to talk about miserable! She has three kids under six.”

  “I don’t really want kids around tonight. I worked my ass off today.”

  She gave an earthy laugh. “Oh, honey, I’m a third grade teacher. No fucking way I want kids around. Why do you think I want to come to your house? I’ll send my daughter down there to babysit.”

  “Now, that I can live with. Go get Wanda.”

  Wanda turned out to be a wren of a girl, slightly plump with white skin and brown hair and a very pretty mouth. She wore rings on every finger and her eyes were tired. “Hi,” she said. “I brought string cheese and Ritz crackers and some grapes. Not so elegant, but we live on child food in my house.”

  I chuckled. “Been there. Come on in. I miss string cheese.” Roxanne, who’d been gathering things in her apartment, slid out of her door carrying three bottles of wine, two red, one white.

  We settled around the newly set table and I brought out the cheap wineglasses I’d bought when I replaced my dishes. “This is a nice table, you have to admit,” Roxanne said, rubbing her hand over the grain. “Is it cherry?”

  “Probably. I think it might have been inherited from somebody’s mother or something.”

  “You don’t like it?” Wanda asked, rubbing her hands on the grain. “It’s a heck of a lot nicer than my dining room table.”

  “It’s a weird situation,” I said, and gave a three-second overview as I worked the corkscrew out of the wine bottle. “So, I’d probably love it under other circumstances, but I hate being the charity of the week.”

  She nodded, but plainly didn’t get it. I didn’t bother to go into it. None of these things were my taste—not the apartment or the life, so what difference would it make if the furniture was wrong, too?

  “Did you talk to your husband today?” Roxanne asked her.

  “Yeah. We talk every day, mostly.”

  “How long has he been there?” I asked, pouring wine.

  “Eleven months this time. A year the first time.”

  “This is his second time?” I asked.

  Wanda nodded wearily. “He went with the first wave, and then came home for a while and then went back.”

  “Jesus,” I breathed. Wanda winced, and I apologized. “I just don’t know how you stand it, worrying like that.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  I felt chastened. “Right.”

  “It’s worse for him anyway,” she said. “This tour has been hard on him. Two of his friends have been killed, and they don’t really get enough relief time, and he’s sick of the food, and, well, it’s just not ideal conditions.”

  “How long till he comes back?”

  “Five weeks.” Her smile was wan.

  “You’re not happy?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s an adjustment period. It’s kind of hard, that first little bit. It was rough the first time, but I’d been living with my mother in Nebraska. This time, I decided I wanted to be with the other wives from our battalion and I’ve been on my own out here in Colorado.”

  Roxanne leaned forward, and I settled in with my glass. “So, what kind of adjustments?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Don’t you just spend the first few weeks in bed, making up for lost time?”

  It shocked me. “Roxanne! That’s personal.”

  Wanda rolled her eyes. “You’ll find out that nothing is too personal f
or Roxanne.”

  Roxanne shrugged. “I don’t understand why sex is such a big deal—I mean, why not talk about it? What are we all thinking about all the time?”

  “Sleep,” Wanda said.

  “Money,” I said at the same time.

  “See? That’s the trouble. If you shift your focus, you don’t have to worry about sleep or money. You can just enjoy yourself.”

  “Easy for you,” Wanda said. “I’d rather not think about it, because I’ll just feel frustrated.”

  “Ditto,” I said, and took a deep sip of the wine, which was a simple, busty Italian red.

  I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had sex. It had probably been at least a year. You’d think you’d remember the last time you’d had sex with someone you’d then broken up with, but the trouble was, while we were doing it, I didn’t realize it was the last time.

  “Surely you have a vibrator?” Roxanne said.

  Wanda choked. “No!”

  Neither did I, but I wasn’t about to say so. The idea made me feel pathetic. Needy.

  “Oh, we need to go shopping, then.”

  “Where?” Wanda asked. “What if I see somebody I know?”

  “Like one of the soldiers’ wives who’ve also gone damned near a year without sex, you mean?”

  Wanda shrugged.

  The doorbell rang and I jumped up, stack of one dollar bills in hand, to answer it. A girl as skinny as a cattail stood there in her ill fitting uniform, two steaming pizzas in her hands. She gave the total and I tipped her generously. “Thanks, ma’am.”

  Without fuss, I popped open the pizzas, handed out napkins, and we started eating. I took a big bite of pepperoni and the tension in my shoulders eased away slightly. “I can’t believe I’m waiting tables at my age. So much for college.”

  “Do you have a degree?” Wanda asked. Wistfully, I thought.

  “A sore point, actually. No. I have three years of chemistry. Not terribly useful.”

  Roxanne grunted in sympathy. Then gave me a pained look. “Chemistry? Were you headed for med school or something?”

  “No. I wanted to study perfume. Go to Grasse.”

  “Perfume? Really?” Roxanne inclined her head. “How wonderful!”