Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  Wanda looked at me. “I never thought about that. It does have to be really weird, doesn’t it? Thanks. That kinda helps.”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Sorry about your dad,” she said.

  “Long time ago.”

  Wanda noticed the same bruises I had on Roxanne’s arms. “Roxanne!” she said, and her eyes were narrowed.

  “What?”

  “You swore on a stack of Bibles you wouldn’t go back to him again.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  At the same time, Roxanne said, “I didn’t. He came over to talk about the kids, and one thing led to another.”

  “Your ex?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Wanda said, and she was genuinely angry. “Look at those bruises!”

  “You’re making too much of it,” Roxanne said, and to me added, “We always liked rough sex, and I guess Lora-Lies-a-Lot isn’t quite as into it.”

  “You sleep with your ex?”

  She shrugged. “Every now and then.”

  I remembered how she’d been stiff and tired the day before. Not a big deal—we’d all been there, hadn’t we?—but . . . “It doesn’t seem like a particularly good idea to sleep with a guy you’re trying to get out of your system.”

  “That’s what I say,” Wanda said. “Not only that, it seems like every time there’s something else that happens. Every time, Roxanne. ” She looked at me. “He sliced up some of her paintings once. She broke his window—all these little violent things I don’t like.”

  Roxanne shrugged. “He’s just another dick.”

  “If that were true, you’d be okay,” Wanda argued. “The truth is, he’s the only one you care about, and it’s gonna hurt you.” When Roxanne sullenly looked into her glass, Wanda said, “Don’t forget about Alison.”

  “Oh, please.” Roxanne rolled her eyes. “I’m not the suicidal type.”

  “Somebody committed suicide?”

  “Yeah, in the apartment below yours, last summer. She never got over her divorce, and on the day her husband got remarried, she killed herself.”

  “Sweet revenge,” Roxanne said.

  “Don’t say that!” I protested. “That’s awful!”

  “Roxanne,” Wanda persisted. “You have to stop it. It’s self-destructive.”

  “Whatever. Okay!” She shook her choppy hair out of her eyes. “Let’s party, girls!”

  “It’s my birthday,” Wanda said, “and I get to say what I want to say.” She put her white hand around Roxanne’s wrist. “It’s dangerous when you play with him. You start getting stronger, then you let him get to you, and you have to start all over again.”

  Roxanne dipped her head.

  “You’re the one always saying that we have to love ourselves first,” Wanda continued. “If your daughter were doing what you’re doing, or if one of us did, what would you say?”

  Roxanne picked up Wanda’s hand and pressed a quick kiss to her wrist. “You’re right, sweetie. And I appreciate it. I know that you care about me.”

  “Good. Promise you’ll talk to the counselor about this?”

  “Yes. Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.” She raised a hand, like a Girl Scout giving an oath. “Promise.”

  “All right.” Wanda raised her glass. “To loving ourselves first!”

  “Amen!” I said. We clinked and drank.

  Two hours later, I helped pour the more than slightly inebriated Wanda into the back of Roxanne’s car, and climbed in beside her. Roxanne slid into the front seat, and even I could see her daughter was annoyed with her. “Who was that guy you were kissing?”

  Roxanne had half picked up a lonely soldier at the bar, and flirted with him, let him buy us shots—which I did not drink— and ended up giving him a giant kiss at the door on the way out. He had to be at least fifteen years younger than her, and I was both shocked and impressed. The woman had what it took.

  To do what? I wondered to myself. Get laid? Get any man in the room? I didn’t know.

  In answer to her daughter, she looked at her rings. “Nobody,” she said. “Just a friend.”

  “A friend? Ha!” Amy pulled into traffic smoothly, bouncing a little in her annoyance. “That’s a funny word for it.”

  I looked out the window.

  “Everybody else okay?” Amy asked.

  Wanda put her head back on the seat. “I drank shots! I never drink shots.”

  “When you get home, you should drink a bunch of water and take some aspirin, or you’ll feel like shit tomorrow.” Roxanne yawned. “How was your night, kiddo?”

  Amy said shortly, “Fine.”

  “Don’t be mad at me. I didn’t mean for you to see that.”

  I kept my attention on the traffic outside. What would Giselle think if she saw me kissing someone?

  “I’m not mad,” Amy said.

  “Yes you are.”

  “Okay, maybe I am. Why do you have to do anything like that? You already had your family and a long marriage. Isn’t that enough?”

  I had to stifle a snort, but Roxanne was wiser. “I’m sorry you saw me kissing someone,” she said again.

  “I wish you guys would all get some boundaries, you know? Kids do not want to think of their parents like this. It’s disgusting.”

  “It’s uncomfortable for you,” Roxanne said, echoing like a good counselor. “I do apologize.”

  Amy let go of a breath, looked over her shoulder to change lanes. “It’s okay.” She turned up the radio. Dido’s “White Flag” filled the car. Roxanne looked at her hands.

  Wanda reached for my hand. “Am I a terrible person for getting drunk?”

  I laughed, patted her cold fingers. “No. And you can call me in the morning, so I can tell you again.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want my husband to come home,” she said, “I do. I’m just worried about the whole thing.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “This friend of mine? Her husband said he can’t stand it at home now. And she says he has bad nightmares, and she thinks he’s going to leave her, or make her leave.”

  “That’s pretty sad.”

  “It is. And some of the wives say they don’t even know who their husbands are when they get home. Like, they’re so different, they’re somebody else.”

  “Wanda!” Roxanne said sharply from the front seat. “Don’t borrow trouble.”

  Wanda recoiled, which of course Roxanne couldn’t see. “I’m not!” she protested. “It’s just scary, you know?”

  I touched her wrist with the tips of my fingers, brushed the delicate skin there. “It’s normal to feel nervous, kiddo. I grew up in this town during Vietnam. Soldiers’ wives worry about their returns.”

  She nodded.

  “There are lots of counselors out there if he needs to talk to somebody,” I added. “If you need it.”

  Amy pulled up in front of our stairs. “If you guys want to get out, you won’t have to walk so far.”

  “Thanks, hon.” I touched her shoulder.

  “You’re welcome.”

  When we got out of the car, Wanda hugged me. Fiercely. “Thanks,” she said. “You really did help tonight.”

  “No problem. Remember the water and aspirin.”

  She waved backward over her shoulder, and I turned to go up the stairs. I was reaching into my purse as I rounded the last bend, so when a figure stood up, I was startled and ready to fight or flee, as necessary.

  It took a long moment to sink in that it was Niraj standing there. Looking sober and splendid in a thin cotton shirt of the palest possible shade of purple. My pleasure in seeing him stung, and that made me wary.

  “Oh,” I said. “It’s you.” I moved to go around him.

  “Nikki, you have a right to be angry.”

  “Thanks for giving me permission.” I brushed by him, and kept going, headed for my door on the dizzyingly high steps.

  “It would be very nice if you could give me one moment to explain.”


  I shrugged, pulled myself up the last turn. “Go ahead.”

  “May I come in?”

  He stood right behind me, that freshness of his skin blowing over me on the breeze. I thought of his mouth and his tongue, and the hope I’d been feeling.

  Then I thought of how crushed I’d felt when he left with no explanation, abruptly breaking our date. “You don’t owe me anything, Niraj. We’ve only just met.”

  He brushed a finger over my arm. “I was very rude, and I would like to apologize.”

  I turned the key in the lock, still undecided. From the stairwell came the sound of Amy and Roxanne’s voices. They were climbing the stairs behind us, and the one thing I did know for sure was that I wasn’t ready for anyone else to see him.

  Pushing my front door open, I turned around and grabbed his sleeve. “Quick,” I said, and he tumbled into the foyer. I pushed the door closed behind us.

  15

  Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  THINGS I LIKE TO SMELL

  6/10/76

  Ponderosa pine bark—like butterscotch

  Cabin bathroom at La Foret Church camp. Herbal Essence shampoo, Irish Spring soap, toothpaste, pine trees

  The smell of scrub oak leaves rotting on the forest floor

  Water rushing through Cheyenne canyon

  Bananas

  I felt Niraj behind me, warmth and presence. My flesh rippled with wanting him. I turned. He put his hand on my shoulder.

  And then we were tangled up, and he was kissing me, and there wasn’t a single cell in my body that resisted. His arms looped around me, and our chests and bellies and thighs pressed tight, the wall hard against my back, and that luscious mouth was on mine, and my tongue hurried into his mouth, and my hands were in his hair, and we were kissing like the fate of three island nations depended upon it. It made me dizzy. His scent. The taste of his lips. The press of his body, against mine. I wanted to rub against him and resisted.

  I pushed against his shoulders. “Okay, okay. Hold on. Let me catch my breath.”

  He pulled away somewhat, but his lips grazed the end of my nose, a gesture I found almost unbearably tender. I ducked under his arm, reached for the light switch, and dove into the circle of reality contained in the middle of the beige, bland room.

  “Start talking,” I said, and faced him, my hands on my hips.

  Good. God. His hair was mussed a little, the curls sticking up on his crown, a lock falling on his forehead. His eyebrows were arched and dark, and those red, lovely lips were slightly moist.

  This, I thought, was exactly how Lucifer should be painted.

  He said, “Do you want the long version or the short one?”

  “Short. Then I’ll decide.”

  “Hannah is crazy. She will not leave me alone and keeps causing trouble, and I have a restraining order against her. I left so quickly so that you would not become a target.”

  I frowned. “You couldn’t say something? Warn me? Call my cell phone?”

  He took a breath. “I handled it poorly. I apologize.”

  I could feel the beer I’d drunk. “I need some coffee.” I headed for the kitchen. “I’m not inviting you to stay over, but since I’m making some for me, do you want some for yourself?”

  A slight quiver moved on his lips. “Yes, all right. That would be nice.”

  “You can come sit down at the breakfast bar here if you like,” I said, and went to the kitchen. The perfumery was open on the counter, along with the thick, battered leather-bound journal of perfume recipes and notes. I closed the book but left it there. I took the coffeepot off the burner and filled it with water. “It’s going to have to be high-test. I’ve had a bit to drink.”

  He smiled. “I can tell.” He settled at the breakfast bar, the open organ in front of him. He folded his brown hands and took a deep breath. “That smells wonderful.”

  I nodded, gestured toward the three tiers of essences and absolutes and various ingredients. “Perfume ingredients.”

  “May I open them?”

  “Absolutely. Smell away.”

  He came around the counter as I busied myself with measuring coffee grounds and pouring water, and taking out cups and spoons and a pitcher for milk. He opened several bottles and smelled them, grunted, frowned, once inhaling deeply. “Intriguing,” he said. “Where is the one you were making? Might I smell that?”

  I nodded, and took a small brown bottle from the lowest rung. Opening it, I wafted it under my nose, again was taken about by the fierceness of it. “Not for everyone,” I said, and handed it to him.

  He smelled it carefully, then held my hand steady so he could smell it again. “This is the one you wanted gunpowder for?”

  “Yeah. Anger.”

  He held it there, not directly under his nose, but to one side. “It is very powerful. I like it very much.”

  “Still not quite there,” I said, and brought it back to my own nose. “It needs a teeny bit more edge.” I narrowed my eyes, looked in the distance, thought perhaps it might be—

  I put it down and gave him a smile. “It will come to me. Best not to start experimenting with it tonight. I’d hate to ruin it.”

  “It smells,” he said, “like something Hannah should wear.”

  “Why is she so angry with you?”

  He shook his head. “I have a history of attracting women who are . . . somewhat damaged. She is badly damaged, and I could not help her anymore.” He met my eyes. “I would rather not tell her secrets, but she is wounded.”

  Every time I spent even five minutes with him, I liked him better. He never said what I thought he would. “Am I damaged?”

  He inclined his head. “Are you?”

  “I’m divorced. Badly. I feel pretty mad.”

  “I don’t know if that always means damaged.”

  In my slightly tipsy state, I liked thinking about me. “No, as dramatic as it is, I don’t feel damaged. Not entirely sane, of course, but just slightly battered, as we all are.”

  His eyes crinkled when he grinned. “Yes.”

  “So, am I out of the running, then? Because I’m not particularly wounded?”

  He chuckled. “On the contrary. I am quite weary of damaged women.”

  “Good.” I smelled Roxanne’s perfume again, then put it aside and picked up one of my favorites. “Try this. Tell me what it makes you think of.”

  He obligingly bent down to smell it. Light looped through his hair, skated down the high bridge of his gorgeous nose. I wanted to put my palm against his crown, and resisted.

  “It smells like summer,” he said. “Like a sunny summer afternoon.”

  I laughed, the sound throaty and delighted, even in my own ears. “You have a nose! That’s wonderful!”

  “Do I?”

  “You do!” I turned toward the counter to flip open the book of recipes. On the page for Wedding Afternoon, I stabbed my finger down. “Look at the list of ingredients!”

  He moved closer, looking over my shoulder. I felt him against my back, and went still, wishing for things I didn’t know if I should want. The beer made it seem too easy to just turn around and—

  As if he’d read my thoughts, he brushed my hair to one side and pressed his lips to the back of my neck. “You seem suspicious of my reasons for wanting to spend time in your company,” he said quietly.

  I closed my eyes. His lips were warm and moist on my skin, brushing sweetly over that very sensitive place. Gooseflesh rose on my entire body, and he put his hands on my hips, moved a little closer. Kissed my neck again.

  “You’re making me dizzy,” I whispered.

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  I closed my eyes. “No.”

  He pressed his body against my back and trailed his tongue over my nape, and I shuddered almost violently. “Oh, that’s so nice!” I said helplessly. His hands slid upward, edged around my breasts, and when I did not object, he moved higher still and cupped them in his hands, kneading gently as his mouth and tongue ma
de patterns on my neck. I bore it as long as I could—so much pleasure!— then turned in his arms and pressed upward to kiss him, my arms around his neck.

  He made a soft noise of relief and then we were kissing, elaborately, lips shifting, moving, slipping, sliding, fitting and not. It was such a luscious moment that I wanted to imprint every detail in my memory—I felt the skin of his neck against the thin flesh on my inner forearm, and his thighs were close against my own. I moved my hands downward, gauging his back and waist as our hips pressed hard together. He moved his hands again, his fingers lightly grazing my nipples. I kneaded his hips. Our tongues lashed and laced.

  He raised his head. “We will be lovers,” he said matter-of-factly. He rubbed his thumbnail over the aroused tips of my breasts, and looked me in the eye as he did it. “But not when you are drinking and can blame it on that. When you are sober and you want me because it is me.”

  I blinked. Beneath my hands, his back was hot, and I reached beneath his shirt to touch his skin. It was surprisingly silky. “You have very soft skin.”

  “Not all of it,” he said, and raised an eyebrow.

  “That part I know, too.” I laughed.

  He took a breath, moved a little away. “Will you make me some coffee now?”

  “Yes. That would be a good idea.” I tried to shake off the shivers. “And then you can go home.”

  “Will you go with me on a picnic Saturday afternoon?”

  “I work Saturday.”

  “Sunday?”

  “All right.” I hadn’t yet been anointed into the Sunday shift every week. I’d have to work up a little to claim the best tip shifts. “Do you want me to bring something?”

  He smiled in a secret way. “No. I think it will be a little surprise.”

  “All right,” I said. Then I made the coffee and sent him on his way.

  Since moving to the new apartment, I hadn’t had as much trouble waking up in the middle of the night as I’d had in the old house. But when three A.M. rolled around, I found myself wide awake, thinking of the fact that I’d just spent most of my cash reserves on a harebrained scheme to sell perfume to the public, and I didn’t have enough inventory or any idea of how to run a business, or anything else.