Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

She raised her head, met my eyes. Smiled.

  “Come over and have some coffee,” I said. “Help me figure out what I’m doing with this shop.”

  She brightened. “Okay.” She pushed the front door open. “Kids, I’m going down the hall to Nicole’s. Holler if you need help.”

  Faintly, they said, “Okay, okay.”

  “Homework hour,” she explained. “If I don’t make them do it right when they get home, it never gets done.”

  “I remember.”

  “God, you must miss your daughter!”

  I nodded, threw my keys on the counter. “I talked to her yesterday, and her dad thinks they might do some more traveling this summer.”

  “But you have a custody agreement, right? Just say no.”

  “Right. I could.” I pulled the coffee filter basket out. “But bring her to Colorado Springs when she could go to Spain? What kind of sense does that make?”

  “The sense that she needs her mother.”

  I dumped coffee grounds into the trash. “It doesn’t seem like it.”

  “Don’t kid yourself—daughters really need their mothers, and even more at her age. Not,” she said with a frown, “that I’ve been doing such a great job of it lately.” She scooted onto the bar stool by my counter. “Now, tell me all about your shop. What are you going to do? And what kind of help will you need?”

  I chuckled. “Oh, you have no idea.” I told her about the mess, the challenges, the garden space on top of the building. She listened actively and made the right noises and volunteered to gather a work crew to help clean it one weekend day. “Between me and you and my kids I bet we could get things shipshape in no time.”

  Cheered, I poured her some coffee. Things were looking up. I had friends, a job, a possible boyfriend, and I was even taking a chance on the thing I’d most wanted to do all my life.

  Life wasn’t so bad at all.

  13

  Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  Definitions

  Citrus is primarily composed of scents such as bergamot, lemon, orange, tangerine, and grapefruit, to which other orange-tree elements (orange blossoms, petit grain, or neroli oil ) have been added. Floral or even chypre accords are sometimes present as well. These perfumes are characterized by their freshness and lightness, including the first “Eaux de Cologne.”

  Roxanne stayed for one cup of coffee, then went down the hall for a short nap. I had carefully not asked any more about the man she’d slept with. Clearly, there had been something dismaying about it, and I wondered if she needed some counseling.

  Well, obviously she needed counseling. But maybe directly about her need to sleep with so many men. It might have been different if it seemed she was enjoying herself. I didn’t buy the idea that promiscuity was always about low self-esteem. Some people really did just want to have sex with a lot of different people at some point in their lives.

  But Roxanne, for all her earthiness, didn’t seem to be having sex for the fun of it. It felt like there was something else beneath it. Fury, probably. A need to punish. I made a mental note to ask Wanda about it tomorrow night.

  I spent the evening making lists. One for the work I’d have to do on the shop. One for the supplies I needed to make perfume in larger batches. One of the inventory I’d need to generate in order to open, and how much I’d need to spend. I thought $5,000 would do it.

  I was fairly sure I could still get a loan for that much. If worst came to worst, I could probably ask Daniel. He definitely had it, and I’d be able to manipulate his feelings of guilt fairly easily. The idea brought a grin to my face, oddly. Who knew I had it in me?

  Happily, I signed onto the computer. There was a chatty e-mail from Giselle, a follow-up to her phone call, with a long, detailed trip report, complete with pictures. There wasn’t a single one of Daniel’s wife. I didn’t know if Giselle had just taken pains to spare me, or if it was accidental, but either way, it was a kindness.

  My favorite was a cameo of Giselle in a tube station. The light was greenish behind her, and the tiles on the wall were tiny. Next to her was a machine advertising Cadbury chocolates. Giselle had obviously found something enchanting, because there was a bright light in her eyes, and her full, red lips were slightly parted. Her hair was scraped back from her face tightly, showing off her high cheekbones, and for the first time I glimpsed the woman she was going to be. The caption below it read, “Dad said you’d like this one best. Do you?”

  I had not realized my daughter would one day be a great beauty, but the evidence was right before me. The strong lines of cheekbone and brow gave way to a delicate chin, which illuminated the tender lushness of her Angelina Jolie mouth, a gift from Daniel’s mother. Her eyes were slightly tilted, her eyebrows flying into exotic arches.

  TO: gisellegiraffe@hotmail.com

  FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com

  SUBJECT: trip report

  Darling Daughter,

  Your dad was absolutely right—I do love the photo of you in the tube. I will have to have a print made. And THANK YOU so much for that long, detailed trip report. One day, we will go together. If you go there to study in college, I’d have a good reason to come visit, wouldn’t I? And then you’d know all the best places to eat and how to avoid the crowds. I’m very happy you had the opportunity, and Spain sounds great, too. Please never ever fret about the travel and me. You have to grab all the chances you can in your life. I’m doing the same. Today I did something wonderful: I rented a shop so I can sell my perfumes. I’m going to call it Scent of Hours (surprise, surprise!) and I hope to get it open by the time the tourist season starts. I am missing you tons, though! Ask your dad to send you out for a long weekend. Never mind—I will. I’m making new friends here, and I have a job—how funny, but I really like it a lot—and I have my eye on a black kitten who is skittish and terrified but obviously needs a home.

  I love you, love you, love you! Be good and be careful and call your mom whenever you think of it!!!

  Sweet dreams,

  Mom

  When I finished the e-mail, I hit SEND, then opened a second and wrote to my ex:

  Hi, Dan. You were absolutely right—that’s a gorgeous picture of our daughter. Did you realize she was going to be a beauty?!? Sounds like she had a wonderful time, and it’s terrific you can give her such great opportunities. Listen, I am missing her madly— could you possibly send her out to visit for a long weekend sometime soon? I’m still waiting for the verdict on the insurance, so don’t have a lot of extra cash, or I’d be more than happy to pay for the ticket. All is going well here. I’m working. The new apartment is boring but clean and neat and has a great view of the mountains. Hope you’re well. Nikki

  I sent the e-mail, and almost immediately, my phone rang. I smiled, thinking it was probably Giselle or Dan, but another name came up.

  Flipping open the phone, I said warmly, “Hi, Niraj.”

  “Hello, Nikki!” His voice, resonant and lyrical, poured into my ear, down my neck, my back, pooling warmly at the base of my spine. “How are you tonight?”

  I tucked the phone closer to my ear, thought of his mouth, moving so close to the phone on the other end. My voice sounded huskier to me when I said, “I’m good. Thank you.”

  “I forgot to give you the little present I brought you from San Francisco.”

  “A present!”

  “Only a little thing, but I meant you to have it yesterday, and I forgot. I’ll bring it tomorrow, if you’re still interested in walking.” His voice softened teasingly. “If you even like me, that is.”

  “Ha-ha.” I grinned as if he could see me. Stopped by the mirror and flipped my hair out of my eyes. “I’d love to. I was even thinking of a walk I’d like to try, if you’re up for it.”

  “I’m sure I will be.”

  “Let’s walk a little way up toward Barr Camp, then. I’d like to get a feel for it. My customers are always running and walking up to it. I’d like to check it out, and I’ll be working in the area tomo
rrow, so that would be a good time to try it.” Enough detail, Nikki, I said to myself. In the mirror, my cheeks were flushed.

  “Perfect.”

  “Okay.” I paused, trying to think of some way to continue the conversation. “Um. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “I was just thinking,” he said, “of your pretty hair.”

  “You were?” I brushed a hand through it. “I was thinking a minute ago of your nice mouth.”

  “Do I have a nice mouth?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “No one has ever said that to me before. Thank you.”

  I laughed softly. “You’re welcome. Why is this so hard?”

  “It is. I don’t know why. After so many times, you would think it might be easier, hmm? I think it never is.”

  “Well, it isn’t so many times for me. I was married pretty young.”

  “Not so many for me, either. I was too plain and strange for the girls.”

  “It’s still hard.”

  “Yes. But not so much that I want to stop trying.”

  “Exactly.” My phone beeped at me, and I pulled it away from my ear to see who was calling. “Sorry, I have to take this call. It’s my daughter.”

  “No problem. I will see you tomorrow.”

  “Bye.” I hated to hang up, but I did it. “Hi, Giselle!”

  “Wrong,” said her father. “It’s me this time.”

  “Dan!” I carried the phone into the living room, discovered I was straightening things on the table before I pulled my hand back and stuck it under my arm. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No. I just got your e-mail and thought I’d call, for a change. It’s been awhile since we had a conversation.”

  My ex-husband has a voice like Barry White. Low, rolling, sexy as a kiss to the hollow of your throat. I don’t talk to him on the phone because it always bothers me. Even with the sound of Niraj echoing, it was hard to listen to Daniel without thinking of having sex with him—and he’s always been an imaginative and energetic lover.

  But I also knew he used that voice and his talents for his own ends, and this was no social call. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m sorry you missed out on the trip to London, and Giselle’s visit,” he said, and he sounded very sincere. Of course. “I’ll be happy to fly her out there for a long weekend. She can check her school schedule and see what would be a good time.”

  “Great! Thanks.” I waited for him to get to whatever this was about. My neck muscles corded, making a minor headache start in the back of my skull. To prod him along, I made a guess at what might be on the agenda. “She told me you might go to Spain this summer.”

  “Good, good. We’ll make sure you have plenty of time together, before and after.”

  “Okay.” Impatiently, I said, “Dan, what do you want? I know you better than this, and you have something on your mind. Spit it out.”

  He chuckled, and it was the velvety rumble of a knowing Buddha. “You know me too well. Giselle just told me about your perfume store, and I thought it was kind of interesting.”

  Interesting. “Well, I’m pretty excited. I’ve always wanted to do this.”

  “It always was your little hobby.”

  Little hobby. “Right.” A hollow place opened up in my chest. “I’m going to let you go, Dan. Have Giselle call me with the dates.”

  “London was great, Nikki. I thought of you a lot. I’m sorry we never went.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t, please. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, that’s all.”

  “Good night, Daniel. Go feel guilty on somebody else’s dime, all right?” I hung up, and stood there with my arms across my chest, maybe trying to hold in the burn.

  My little hobby, indeed.

  TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com

  SUBJECT: a shop! a shop!

  Hi, Niraj. I forgot to tell you this—I am so excited!—I signed a lease on that little shop in Manitou. I’ve never done anything so rash in my life. And of course it’s entirely possible that I’ll fall flat on my face, but perhaps I’ll succeed wildly. I’m very excited (in case you can’t tell). That’s what I’m doing in the neighborhood tomorrow, starting the cleanup.

  See you tomorrow!!

  Nikki

  The next morning, there was one e-mail. From Niraj, who wrote:

  You’ll succeed wildly, I’m sure of it. I cannot wait to hear all about it.

  Two sentences that made me feel like the queen of the world, filled with power and light. I put on some old jeans and a T-shirt, and packed a change of clothes and a towel in my bag—it might not be the most elegant of places yet, but I could shower in that beautiful bathroom. Or could I? Maybe there was no shower, only a tub. I couldn’t remember.

  At any rate, I could freshen up there for my hike.

  I stopped in the King Soopers across the street and picked out heavy-duty trash bags, a new broom and dustpan, pairs of rubber gloves, and industrial-sized lots of cleaning supplies. I drove across town just ahead of the glut of commuters who’d mob I-25 after seven-thirty, and parked in the little place up the alley, which the landlord had told me was mine, a weedy little lot on the south side of the creek. A narrow path led beneath the trees to the back door of the shop, and I let myself into the cold and gloom, carrying the first load of supplies.

  The back area was especially depressing. The sun never shone in these windows, and the sink was ten thousand years old, and the floor was a particularly ugly shade of stained, ancient linoleum. Dirt was in the corners, and a battered door guarded—what?

  I pulled it open. Of course. The basement. Like I’d ever be going down there. At least I had a landlord here.

  I closed the door and picked up my bags of supplies and carried them down the narrow hallway to the front room. From the corner of my eye, I saw the kitten streak up the stairs to the apartment, and smiled to myself. It did occur to me to wonder how he was getting in here, but for now there were more important things to worry about.

  The sun had not yet penetrated into the area in front, either. It was cold and shadowy. The faded lettering on the window looked tawdry, and so did the aqua paint on the baseboards.

  So much work to do!

  An icy panic fell on me—the obligatory, oh-God-what-have-I-done moment—but not even telling myself that’s what it was helped. There was trash in the corners, and dust and grime on every surface, and spiders draping cobwebs all over everything, and it all just seemed so stupidly, absolutely insane. There was too much work here for one person—not to mention, what did I even know about running a business? Nothing. I had no idea what I needed to do, if I would have to have permits or permissions or licensing of some sort.

  Stop.

  The voice came from my gut. Just stop. Breathe. One step at a time. I didn’t have to do everything in the next hour, or even in the next day. If I could get everything together for Memorial Day weekend, I’d have a good jump on the tourist season, and a good idea of how things were going to go. How far away was that? I calculated the weeks in my head.

  Twenty-seven days.

  I could do it. With a determined grunt, I put the bags on the counter, and took things out, one at a time, as if to declare my intentions to the nay-saying voices. Bleach. Thump. Wood soap. Thump. Pine-scented cleaner. Thump. Paper towels, rubber gloves, scrubbers, a bucket. Thump.

  I wondered what Madame Mirabou would say about my chances in the shop. Maybe I should ask Roxanne for a reading. Except, what if it was bad? I picked up a scrap of paper from the floor and wrote on the back:

  —Find out what/if licenses and permissions I might need

  —Call about phone service

  —Call around for a sign painter

  —Buy squeegee for the windows

  It made me feel better, and the last thing I took out of the bags was an aluminum cat dish and a bag of dry Meow Mix. Shaking the bag, I called out, �
��Kitty, kitty, kitty!” and went to the foot of the stairs. The kitten came to the top of the steps and peered down at me. He didn’t look particularly nervous, but he didn’t look as if he was in a big hurry to come down, either. “All right,” I said. “Have it your way.”

  I filled the bowl, held it up for him, and put it down with a flourish on the last step. “It’s here whenever you want it.”

  Thus empowered, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.

  I worked straight till one, when I stripped off my gloves and stepped back to see how much I had accomplished today. The trash was gone and I’d swept the cobwebs from the ceiling and corners, and I’d washed the counters and the display-window floors with a mild cleanser, and then mopped the main floor. It was now at least possible to see the potential in the room.

  Mentally, my list of chores was growing longer, but for the moment, enough was enough. I carried the bucket to the ancient sink in the back room and dumped it, then grabbed my overnight bag and carried it upstairs to the apartment.

  The kitten was asleep in the bathtub, and either didn’t hear me or didn’t care.

  “Hello, there,” I said, and put down my bag. He lifted his head and yawned, showing his tiny pink tongue, then just looked at me. Rather than sending him running away again, I let him be.

  What a great tub! It was grimy and stained, but I thought it could come clean with some hard-core cleanser. I’d learned from my old house that this old porcelain didn’t respond at all well to scrubbing bubbles or anything else so mild. It required powders, with bleach, and elbow grease.

  The floor was pine and would need a good soaking with wood cleaner, then a bucket or so of oil to moisturize it, and there was some peeling wallpaper that needed to be stripped and carted away. Still, nothing could blunt the beauty of the honey-colored light pouring in through the amber stained glass. I thought the walls should be a shade of gold. Butter, maybe, or even a light pumpkin. I’d have to enlist eyes with a better color sense than my own. Usually I depended upon Giselle or my sister Molly, but neither of them was immediately available.