Madame Mirabou's School of Love

by Barbara Samuel

  I nearly gave myself a panic attack, and finally decided to just get up and at least worry productively.

  In the fluorescent-lit kitchen, I made a cup of herbal tea, ruby-colored and smelling of peaches, and sat on a bar stool at the clinically designed counter. I put on a CD my sister had made for me, a collection of all kinds of things from our youth, and while “Vincent” played, I started jotting down some notes.

  One thing at a time. Inventory. For the first time, I realized I was going to have to have to standardize some of the perfumes. I’d need a signature line for Scent of Hours Perfumes—establish the flagship set, and offer them on the website, and that way I could offer samples of new blends and experiments to intrigue potential customers.

  That way, too, I could have bottles of my own created. There was no way to be able to fill enough antique bottles with my own scents to make enough money. I could, again, still offer some perfumes in those exquisite little lots, in the beautiful bottles. I’d charge an arm and a leg for them. A slogan flashed into my mind: Rare scents for a rare woman. I wrote it down. Maybe A unique scent for a unique woman ?

  Think about that. In the meantime, if this was going to work, I’d have to figure out my product line, and what scents would go in which bottles. Scents first.

  Flipping through my notebook, the years and years of notes and perfumes I’d made—some seriously, some slapdash, I wondered how to choose.

  From the box I’d shown Niraj, I took several two-ounce amber bottles with labels I’d hand-lettered. These were my own favorites, things I’d been blending for a long time. Wedding Afternoon was a fresh and breezy perfume, with notes of grass and lavender, and the crispness of grapefruit. It wasn’t a rough draft—it had been through a dozen refinements, and I’d reproduced it many times. It also did not require blending in small amounts—I could make it in amounts large enough to market easily. I smelled it now, let it expand in my head, thought about what sort of bottle it would require. Maybe a pale green bottle, a two-ounce size. An atomizer? I wrote those thoughts on my tablet.

  Another favorite, an evening-weight perfume, was the musky Tuesday at Midnight, civet and patchouli lightened by notes of lemon, vanilla, and hay. It was actually a fairly long list of ingredients, and it had been through a dozen experimental stages, but this version was one I’d been reliably making for five or six years, and it was quite stable. What sort of bottle? Something sensually shaped, maybe cobalt glass. No, too obvious.

  Or was it? I thought about some of my favorite bottles over the years—Avon had created some beauties. What if I tried to find something along those lines—blue pillars with a label of starry nights?

  Brainstorming further, what if the essence was blue, and the bottle white or soft pink? Hmmm. I made notes on the tablet by my arm. It might stain, but maybe not. Maybe I could find some colorant that would evaporate upon contact with the skin.

  What other perfumes had I standardized? Lots of them, actually—it just happened if you did this long enough. I flipped through the recipes, things I’d experimented with over the years and loved, things I did not love. Things I’d forgotten. Some were exotically rewarding, but too difficult to make in large batches, or too unstable to reliably reproduce.

  I took out a third bottle, and grinned, pulling a cork out to smell the cologne within. This was a light, playful scent—Picnic with My Sisters. There were notes of sassafras, forest, and chocolate, running water and tobacco—not a cigarette-smoke sort, but the aroma of walking into a cigar store.

  Yes. That would be a nice balance. I thought of the Moody Blues album Days of Future Passed, a composition of songs that followed a day, from “Dawn,” to the very famous “Nights in White Satin.” I lined up the three bottles—two afternoon perfumes, one night. I could change the name of Wedding Afternoon to Wedding Morning. That might work, especially with the hint of grapefruit, and a sense of breakfast—

  Resistance rolled into a ball in my chest. No. All right, then. Wedding Afternoon. Picnic in Cheyenne Canyon. Tuesday at Midnight.

  Did I have anything that would work as dawn, or at least as a base for beginning to create one? I flipped through the journal, scribbled a couple of possibilities.

  Leave it for now.

  Next, I’d need a label, bottles, a unifying design idea. Who did I know who could help me with this? There was really only one person: Evelyn, with whom I’d been very annoyed for no particular reason aside from her smug, plump marriedness. How dare she be so happy when I was so miserable?

  Not fair. I got up to send her an e-mail. When I opened the program, there were two e-mails in the lineup. One was from Giselle, one from Niraj. My stomach jumped. I glanced at the clock. It was nearly four—I’d be going to work in an hour anyway. Whatever the news, it wouldn’t keep me from sleeping.

  First I wrote the note to Evelyn. Very quick and sweet: Help! I need your elegant eye for design. Urgent! Call me and I’ll buy you lunch and pick your brain. Love, Nicole.

  The one from Giselle was all in the subject line: COMING NEXT WEEKEND!!!!!! I opened it, noted the times and flight numbers, and wrote back a giant smiley face of my own, drawn with exclamation points. I’ll have to work some, but will try to get things lined up for you to do. LOVE YOU!!!!!

  TO: nikki@scentofhours.com

  FROM: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  SUBJECT: reasons

  Dear Goldfingers,

  There are many reasons why I “like” you. You have a beautiful, shy smile. Your hair is like cotton candy. And you are intelligent, which is more rare than you can possibly imagine. You do not take yourself or life too seriously. You look at me as if I am dashing, a pirate or someone exciting like that, instead of a man who does such a boring thing as computers. You are sexy and kind and I want to touch you and listen to you talk, and those seem like very good reasons for wanting to spend time with someone.

  We men do not ask for such reassurances, but we sometimes would not mind hearing them ourselves, you know.

  Niraj

  TO: niraj.bhuskar@blipdata.com

  FROM: nikki@scentofhours.com

  SUBJECT: re: reasons

  Dear Niraj,

  Because you have eyelashes that look like they were dipped in ink. Because you have very nice calves, and you knew the name of Marin Marais, and flirted with me by offering knowledge. Because you have a sexy accent and kiss very well and smell like something just out of the edge of my memory.

  And you like to walk.

  Nikki the Needy, who likes to know

  P.S. You forgot to bring my present again. Just saying.

  16

  From Nikki’s Perfume Journal

  SCENT OF HOURS

  Time: 11 A.M.

  Date: May 7, 2006

  Scents: The smell of rain, sweet and salty, grass, and the sharpness of Branston Pickle, and that elusive piney scent of his skin, root beer

  Notes: picnic with Niraj

  Over the next few days, I was very busy. Between work, trying to get the shop cleaned up, and preparing in whatever ways I could think of for Giselle’s visit, I hit the bed at nine-thirty and slept like the dead until four, when it was time to start over again.

  Every day, there was e-mail from Niraj—at least one, usually two or three. Not long or involved, but pleasant. Amusing. Touching bases. I heard from Giselle every day, too, which made it seem as if she really did miss me. In idle moments, while I waited for a pot of coffee to finish brewing at work, or as I scrubbed a wall at the shop, I wondered if things were okay out there. It had been a little odd that even Dan said he missed me while they were in London. Had things not gone well with Ms. Wife?

  There was little time for mulling it all over. Giselle could tell me soon enough. I hoped she would like her new bedroom. I wondered what she would think of my new job, of the shop and my new circle of friends. I wondered what was going on with her life, if she had a boyfriend, if there were new good friends or if she missed the old ones. Did she even keep in touch? She di
dn’t talk about them much. At Christmas, the last time she’d been here, we’d both been so miserable knocking around the old house with the ghosts of Happy Christmases Past that we didn’t even bother to celebrate— we watched movies on TBS and ate microwave popcorn and pie. “This is cool in a sick kind of way,” she had commented at one point.

  I laughed. “I guess it is.”

  “Not that I particularly want to repeat it.”

  “No.”

  This year at Christmas, I’d be in the apartment over the shop. The thought gave me a happy little rush. I knew exactly where I’d put my tree—at the top of the stairs, near the first big window in the living room.

  Providing this whole scheme worked out, of course. At the moment, that seemed as if it would be a miracle in itself.

  Kit and Evelyn met me at the shop Saturday afternoon. I managed to get off work, clean up, and change clothes before they arrived, so my secret waitress life was still safely tucked away.

  A good thing, because they were a little dismayed about the condition of the shop, I could tell. All polite smiles and nods, but when I turned my back, they were exchanging horrified glances, I knew.

  Evelyn was, however, enthusiastic about coming up with some ideas for my labels and logo. She liked the possibility of using an Art Deco font, both for the storefront and the bottles themselves, and in a flash of brilliance suggested the possibility of ocean-liner décor as a possibility. “Or no!” she said. “How about those seagoing things that brought back plants from all over—”

  Kit, listening as she gazed around the shop, said, “But then you lose the Art Deco/Belle Artes connection, and that really works with the perfume angle, and the whole spirit of the Pikes Peak region.” She put the last phrase in quotes with her fingers.

  “Right. Good point.” I pursed my lips, peered toward the mountains.

  “How about a conservatory theme?”

  Evelyn’s eyebrows rose. “Good! What do you think, Nikki?”

  A ripple flew over my skin as I imagined orchids and scented geraniums filling the room. “Yes, I like it. Wrought iron, painted white?”

  “Or wicker, which is cheaper.”

  “Good. Yes.” I thought of clear shelving, and perhaps some palms. “Oh, I love this idea!”

  Evelyn paced forward, then back. “Green and white stripes on one wall, the rest white to make it seem bigger.”

  “We could paint the floor in a faux flagstone design,” Kit offered. “I just did it a couple of weeks ago and it was so much fun!”

  “Love it.”

  We batted around a host of possibilities and came up with a general strategy. Evelyn promised to come up with some sort of solid plan by midweek, and then we could all get busy next weekend. Saturday was the only day they were both free, and I felt my heart plummet. Giselle would be here, at my request, and she’d probably hate being stuck in the shop all day. There was a lot going on in my life, but the one thing I truly did not want to lose sight of was how badly I wanted to spend time with my daughter. Whatever else happened, that had to be my first priority. “Giselle’s going to be here, but let me see what she thinks, and I’ll call you.”

  Sunday, Niraj picked me up at eleven. It was thrilling to open the door of my apartment to a man, and I felt a soaring sense of possibility in looking at him. He wore a pale orange polo shirt that made his skin look admirably rosy, and a pair of shorts and walking sandals instead of boots. His ankles showed a faint tan line, but I loved the look of his fine-boned, high-arched feet.

  The big shock was his hair, which had been shorn into a close short cut, leaving behind only hints of the waviness. I blinked in surprise. “I would have said I loved your curls, but wow, that haircut suits you.”

  He rubbed an open palm over it. “Summer, I like to wear it shorter. By spring, I look like a sheep.”

  “Both are very good.”

  He took my hand, bent in to give me a kiss. “Thank you. You look very pretty, too.”

  We headed to his car, and I shaded my eyes, looking to the west. A bank of clouds bubbled up over the mountains, light and dark. Iffy, for a picnic. “Did you check the weather report?”

  “It may rain a little, but no thunderstorms.”

  “A picnic in the rain?”

  He shrugged. “I am an Englishman. If you wait for sunny days, you will never do anything.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough. Where are we going?”

  “It is a surprise.”

  “You’re being very mysterious.” I ducked into his Land Rover, thinking it was oddly ironic and appropriate that he should drive something with that whiff of the colonial to it. “I feel odd not bringing anything at all.”

  He rounded the car and got in. “It’s nothing so much. I hope you’ll like it.”

  We headed southeast, which intrigued me, and I was slightly disappointed when we did not end up at the Garden of the Gods or Cheyenne Canyon or any of a dozen—a hundred—picturesque places there were to picnic in and around the city, but at Memorial Park, a wide grassy park, mainly devoted to various sports fields. Baseball diamonds, tennis courts, and of course the war memorials. There was a nice lake at one end, but it had had to be drained for some reason, and the whole area was covered with construction equipment and earthmovers. There were various field games going on, and intrepid Rollerbladers resolutely circling the drained lake. A bus from a monolithic local church was parked by one end.

  Niraj pulled his car into a small lot at the northwest end of the park. Catching my expression, he grinned. “Do you mind helping me carry things?”

  “Not at all.”

  He gave me a blue plaid blanket, and a small canvas bag that was heavier than it looked. He picked up a proper wicker basket with wooden handles, a plastic bag, and an umbrella. It wasn’t some fold-up model, either, but a tall, classic, green one.

  “Do you know, I don’t even own an umbrella?”

  “I have many.” He gestured with it to a small hill, near a cluster of men in white shirts and pants. “There, I think. Where we can see.”

  “See what?”

  His smile quirked on one side. “That,” he said, pointing with the tip of the umbrella to a strip of sandy-looking ground with a gatelike contraption at each end, “is a cricket field.”

  I remembered that cricket was one of his favorite things. Pleased, I grinned. “And those, I assume, are the cricket players?”

  “Yes.” He stopped and looked back to the field. “I think this will do. Will you spread out the blanket?”

  The players, milling in little knots around a picnic table piled high with various bags and equipment and chairs and such things, looked at us curiously as we settled in. There didn’t appear to be any other spectators. “Do you know those men?”

  “I sometimes come to watch them play, but no, not really. Acquaintances.”

  Niraj sat down and started taking out all sorts of small plastic dishes from his deep bag. I could see lettuce and tomatoes, each in their own separate container. A glass bottle of Branston Pickle, another of pickled beets. Plastic utensils and plates, paper napkins. More containers. I chuckled. “Quite a lot of food for two of us.”

  “This,” he said with some satisfaction, “is an English salad.” He started taking thin blue plastic lids from the containers—sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, sharp white cheese. There were brown rolls and sliced white bread with butter, and thin ham and sausages sliced into little rounds.

  “I am about to make a pig of myself, I’m afraid.” The wind whipped my hair into my eyes, and impatiently I pulled it back and tied it into a knot. I could smell the rain, and looked toward the mountains. “I hope we don’t get rained out.”

  He handed me a plastic plate. “Please begin.”

  I watched him, and imitated his combinations, lettuce with tomato, buried in salad cream, which tasted—I sampled it—as if mayo had been mixed with mustard. The sausage, ham, and cheese were grouped with the pickle, which was next to the grocery
store deli potato salad. “Sorry, I’m going to skip the beets.” A raindrop splashed my ankle, and I wiped it away. “They make me think of school lunches.”

  “All the more for me.” Busy with his own plate, which he arranged with great concentration, he did not seem to notice that there was rain splatting in little spots around us.

  I put down my plate and opened the umbrella, which was enormous and spread over both of us easily. “Better?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  We covered the food and pulled the bread under the cover of the umbrella, and he moved closer, then reached for the handle. “Shall I hold it while you eat?”

  “No, hold it for one minute,” I said, “and let me get settled.” He held his groaning plate in one hand and the umbrella in the other, and I shifted my plate into my lap and took the umbrella into my left. Our bodies touched and I raised an eyebrow. “Cozy.”

  “It was all part of my plan,” Niraj said, and bent in to kiss me lightly.

  The rain splatted against the umbrella, a little more and a little more, but in my sweater I was warm enough. “It’s so rare to have rain without lightning and thunder,” I commented. “I’ve never had a picnic under an umbrella before.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes.” The smell of rain, sweet and salty, mixed with the scent of grass, and the sharpness of Branston Pickle and that elusive piney scent of his skin. “It would make a good perfume, this moment.”

  “Would it?” He popped a tomato in his mouth. “That is a high compliment.” His attention was snagged by the players. “Oh, look. They’re about to begin.”

  “They won’t wait until it stops raining?”

  “Ordinarily, they would, but they’ve traveled a long way and do not have much time.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “I’m not sure about one of them, but the team going to bat is from Fort Collins.”

  It was at least a hundred miles. “Good grief.”

  “Not many cricket pitches in Colorado.”

  “I guess not.” Even in Colorado, that was a long drive. “Who plays it? Besides Indians, that is.”