He smiled. “No one so well as we do, of course, but it’s a game played in all the old Empire countries—India, the West Indies, South Africa. Now watch this and I’ll explain what they’re doing.”
It was a little like baseball, in that one man threw the ball and another tried to hit it. The pitcher was called a bowler, and the action used to bowl the ball was quite athletic. The batter both tried to knock the ball a long way, as in baseball, but also to prevent the ball from knocking down a little fence behind him.
I watched and ate, enjoying the polite little claps Niraj broke out in now and then. “Well done,” he called.
More, I liked the pure pleasure of sitting with him on a plaid blanket in a park I’d never think of as boring again, having a picnic in the rain.
When we finished eating, Niraj took my plate and put it aside, and put his arm around me. “Is this all right?”
“Very.” Our thighs touched. I wished mine were thinner, but his were so lean and lovely I didn’t waste much time mourning my own shortcomings.
We simply sat there, close, umbrella overhead blocking the soft misty rain, and he made comments sometimes and rubbed my arm now and then, and shifted to hold my hand. And I had the sense to think, Uh-oh, but not enough to do anything about it.
At the end of the day, he walked me to the door of my apartment and I struggled with what to do—invite him in? Not invite him in?—and we were silent as we went up the stairs. “I had a great time, Niraj,” I said.
“Am I forgiven now for deserting you at Annie’s?”
“You already were.”
He squeezed my fingers. “Good.”
At my door, he paused. “I will not come in today.”
Which spared me the problem of deciding for myself. “All right.”
“But I’m going to kiss you.”
“That’s all right, too.” In fact, my whole body gave a shout of delight when he stepped close and put his arms around me, and our chests pressed together, and our thighs, and then our lips. His body fit mine exactly, our limbs lacing the right way, heads the right heights, his sturdiness balancing my softness. His tongue slipped inside my mouth, exploring, inviting, and he knew how to dance and tease, to play. As the kiss deepened, he pressed me into the door a little and his erection nudged my pelvic bone in the most ancient of greetings. I pressed back, my hands on his buttocks, and the electricity between us exploded. He made a little sound and tilted his head and our kiss was suddenly a lot hotter, a lot deeper. His hands moved on my shoulders, my back, my hips. My nipples awakened. I wanted to rub against him.
I don’t know how long we stood there kissing like that. A long time. Long enough that my hips were softening and I was in a seriously hot fantasy of what it would be like to feel my naked breasts against his chest.
But not yet. I pulled away a little, put my hand on his face. “Thank you. I have to stop now. You’re making my blood boil.”
His eyelids were heavy, making his eyes look as seductive as melted chocolate. His lips brushed mine once more. “Mine, too,” he said.
Our eyes met, all in silence and vivid connection, and his thumb moved on my ear. “I have not met someone I liked so much in a long time, Nikki. It’s not anything I can name, either, not your hair—” he brushed a lock away from my face “—or your beautiful lush breasts, which I do hope to see without their coverings one day”—a river of desire rushed through them, through me, at the idea—“or your intelligence, which is very appealing to me.”
I waited, feeling a buzzing electricity rushing through my veins. His lips, so full and well cut were above mine, and I thought of his understated Well done at the match, and the heady, narcotic deliciousness of his scent.
“It’s just you,” he said. And smiled. He took a breath and released me. “Will it be too much to ask you out for dinner next week? There is a wonderful restaurant I like very much, Mona Lisa, and I would love to take you there.”
Mona Lisa was a fondue restaurant with a wine bar, and I’d wanted to eat there for ages. “Oh, I’d love to.”
“Will Wednesday be all right?”
“Yes, perfect.” I frowned. “What shall I wear? Will you dress up or not? Colorado is so casual, I never know.”
“I’ll wear a jumper and nice slacks. Will you wear a skirt?”
I smiled. “Would you like me to?”
He lifted a shoulder. “American women never wear skirts enough for me.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.” He kissed me once more and was gone.
Monday, I found myself fretting about money, and called the insurance company. Again.
I already owed Daniel money he’d loaned me for living expenses after the house blew up. My income from Annie’s was not as terrible as I’d feared, but there wouldn’t be much left over, month to month. The shop would likely not be self-supporting for a while— that was what I needed the cushion for. The person handling my claim was not in her office, and I tried dialing through to a supervisor, but was put on hold for thirty minutes, and sighed with exasperation before hanging up. It had been sixty days already. Surely they had sorted it all out by now.
Without that claim, I would be in dire straits.
There was only so much tension a person could stand. This week, Giselle’s visit and getting the shop ready had to be the top of the list.
I did spend several days in the apartment, both getting things ready for Giselle’s visit and preparing perfumes to use as inventory. My cash flow was very small—minuscule—so I set side a certain amount of tips per day to use toward the purchase of bottles and labels, and I would have an order ready to go when the capital reached $400. I’d earmarked $100 flat to paint the walls of the shop, and bring in plants. The shelving was still not an idea I’d solved.
I brought groceries into the house, all the things Giselle used to like but I didn’t know if she did these days. Some of it was very expensive, something I’d never noticed when Daniel was paying for our groceries and all I did was hand over the debit card. The sweet cereals, the frozen goodies, all of them cost a fortune, and I decided to set aside a little bit of cash for her arrival, and we could go shopping when she got here. And, too, I planned to bring her to Annie’s, which was the food I mainly ate these days. Breakfast when I got there, lunch before I left, some day-old bakery goods or almost-ready-to-spoil meats and cheeses. The rest of the time, it was ramen noodles, which are surprisingly filling and cost about a quarter per meal.
The night before I was to meet Niraj for our dinner date, I was aware of a low-level anxiety floating through my body, landing in my chest—what if Giselle hated everything in my life? In my gut— what if this perfume shop was a bust? What would I do then? What if Niraj—I couldn’t think what I feared about him, about that situation, at least not specifically. It was all terrifying. Or maybe I did know what that fear was: what if I fell in love?
Stop.
To stave off all my fears, I got busy and sat down at the organ of my perfume trade. With a sure hand, I took a clean two-ounce bottle and filled it halfway with jojoba oil. Then, without even any hesitation, as if some Being beyond me was doing the choosing and mixing, I added sunshine and pine trees and dew, the ginger scent of a man’s skin; coffee, bar cleaner, a kitten’s clean black fur.
Dawn, I would call it.
17
Nikki’s Perfume Journal
DEFINITIONS
Ambergris, Class: Amber
Not to be mistaken with yellow amber ( fossilized resin of plant origin), is a sperm whale secretion. Sperm whales produce it to protect their stomachs from the beaks of the cuttlefish they swallow. Once released, it must stay in the water for a long while before developing its characteristic odor. Ambergris is used in herb teas and dyes. Nowadays it is mostly replaced by a synthetic version.
Mary joined me outside when I took my breakfast early Wednesday morning. It was cool outdoors, overcast and threatening a storm, but the qui
et of the creek appealed to me more than going to the break room upstairs.
“How you doin’, girl?” she said, settling next to me on the wooden bench. Her apron was covered with flour and she spatted at it. “How’s the special this morning?”
I widened my eyes in a swoon, nodding, my mouth full. It was a Southwestern-style quiche, with fresh guacamole on top and whole-grain muffins with raspberry jam in the center. It sounded like an odd combination until you tasted it, and then you wondered why avocado and raspberry were not obviously married all the time, like bagels and cream cheese.
“It’s unbelievably good,” I said finally. “Have you ever put the raw fruits together? Avocado and raspberry?”
Her lips turned down in contemplation. “Can’t say that I have. Sounds interesting. Wonder what we could mix it with? Olive oil? Pineapples?”
I chewed the muffin meditatively. “How about a nut of some kind? Almonds . . . no, maybe pecans?”
“Not quite. Maybe mint. Maybe . . . pears.”
“Oooh!”
“I’ll have to play with it. The trouble is, both are real soft, bruise easily. Keeping them in good shape for presentation might be a challenge.”
“Mmm. True.”
“You keep thinking, though. There might be a way. It’s a good idea.”
“Thanks.” I examined the texture of the muffin and broke a piece off. “How’s life anyway? Heard from your son yet?” She had a son who’d been invited to a music camp.
“He’s happy as a pig in slop. I’m glad it worked out. I think he might really try to get the courage to apply to Juilliard.”
I grinned. “That would be something, huh?”
“Yeah.” She snorted. “ ’Specially considering all I got was my GED.”
“I’m pretty sure my daughter will end up in some Ivy League school. She’s absolutely driven.”
“Yeah? Why doesn’t she live with you?”
I tossed crumbs to the birds. “There are extenuating circumstances.”
“Like what? You a drug addict?”
I laughed. “Hardly.” I waved a hand, not willing to discuss it with Mary this morning, for sure. “It’s just complicated.”
“Huh.”
“She’s coming to see me next weekend.”
“Is that right?” She twirled her towel into a whip. “So, you seeing old Niraj?”
I blinked. “Um. Kind of, I guess.”
“Zara said it’s more than kinda. That he’s hot for you.”
“She did? How would she know?”
“A friend of hers works with Blip Data, too. They been on a project or something. Friend said Raj is grinning ear to ear over his new girlfriend.”
In spite of myself, I grinned. “I was just sitting here wondering what to wear tonight. He’s taking me to Mona Lisa.”
She whistled. “Fancy!”
“I’ve never been there. And I really don’t have anything to wear. I’m not the same size I was when I got divorced, and I haven’t needed any fancy clothes.”
“Well, if it’s a little big, that’s not such a problem, right?”
“Yeah, if that were the problem. I’m bigger, not smaller.”
“He liked you small and you rebelled when you divorced?”
Startled, I gave her a look. “You know, I never thought about it, but I bet you’re right. I was this size when we met, and he said he liked it, like a woman with curves and all that, and then the minute we moved over to that damned house, he was nagging me all the time.” I narrowed my eyes. “He’s now married to a skinny woman, too.”
“Lost himself. They just do.”
“Whatever. I’m not interested in solving it. He’s gone, I’m done. That’s that.”
She chuckled. “And there’s Niraj, making things better. That’s a fine-looking man.”
“Absolutely.” I touched my diaphragm. “I’m nervous.”
She wrapped her hands in her apron. “Be careful with that one, all right? I’m fond of him and he seems all brazen and full of himself, but he’s had a hard road, and he’s the real deal.”
“Hannah?”
“Not just her. The one before broke his heart.”
“I thought he followed Hannah here.”
“Yeah. There was one he nearly married, back at home in England.”
I gave her a perplexed look. “How do you know so much about him?”
“He’s my boy,” she said, mysteriously, and winked. “Don’t you worry about all that. Just be good to him, a’right?”
“We haven’t been going out long, Mary. It’s still very casual.”
“Is it?” She met my eyes. “You think he’s your rebound guy.”
“Maybe. Or a transition person or whatever. I haven’t been with anybody else. What are the chances that my marriage ends and the first guy I meet is the one I want to be with?’
“It happens. And honey, you oughta see your face when he comes in a room.”
“Oh.” I blushed.
Her laughter was low and rich. “C’mon, baby, let’s get our bottoms to work.”
Niraj arrived at my apartment about five minutes early. I dashed to the door and flung it open. “Come in, come in. I’m not quite—”
I halted. He wore a camel-colored silk shirt and raw silk slacks. He looked elegant and pulled together and somehow still relaxed. In his hands he carried a bouquet of pink carnations.
“You look like an advertisement for something really expensive,” I said. “Cognac, maybe, or a very fast car.”
He grinned. “Has anyone ever told you that you give wonderful compliments?”
“No. Thank you.” I waved him into the living room. “Come in.”
“These are for you,” he said, offering the carnations. “And I wish I were as talented with words as you are, but all I can say is that you look wonderful.”
“I will be better in one minute. Please sit down, I’ll be right with you.”
He came closer. “Will I ruin makeup or anything if I kiss you hello?”
“No.”
He bent down and pressed his lips to mine lightly. “Hello, Nikki.”
“Hello, Niraj.”
A little flustered, I headed back to my bedroom and carried the flowers with me, then realized what I was doing and brought them back to put on the counter. He gave me a smile. “Shall I find something to put those in?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” I laughed lightly. “Check over the sink.”
In the bathroom, I leaned in to finish putting on my mascara, then flipped a comb through my curls one more time. The lipstick was a sheer copper glaze—I’d never really gotten the hang of anything more than that.
I stepped back. The dress was one I’d found in one of the summer storage boxes, just a simple black dress with no sleeves and a square neckline. My middle was bigger than it had been, but so were my breasts, and I was pleased by the way they filled the neckline. My hair looked good, the legs were still in good shape, and there was a man out there who wanted me.
I tossed a beaded black shawl around my shoulders and slid into my shoes, a pair of forties-style sling-backs that made my legs look longer. “Okay. Are you ready?”
Niraj stood up, and his gaze washed me from head to toe. “I can’t decide whether to first admire your cleavage or your legs.”
I struck a pose with one hip cocked. “Take your time.”
The restaurant was cozy and quiet, with classical music playing and little alcoves all through the restaurant. The wall by our table was lined with empty wine bottles, with notes written in honor of the celebrations they’d marked. Karl and Anna Fredrick—10th Anniversary Dinner. Harold Thomas—55th Birthday. Hale Family Reunion. Several engagements.
The food was wonderful. The service was excellent. But it was Niraj I admired and enjoyed. He entertained me with stories of his brothers and sisters, of his adjustment to living in North America. In turn, I gave him stories of my youth, which I’d spent partying, and the delights of my old garden
.
But all I could think about was leaving the restaurant to go back to his house or mine, and putting my hands on his skin. Every time his gaze flickered over my shoulders or arms, I felt it all the way down my spine. And I wasn’t alone. He stumbled in conversation, apologized, did it again.
After fondue of every course, we arrived at the last, a chocolate fondue with raspberries, angel food cake, tangerines, and bananas, all served with a marvelous coffee. “I am not going to be allowed to eat for a week after this,” I said.
“Me, either. But it was worth it, was it not?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
He paid and we held hands as we went out to the street, where we paused in the mild night. A soft breeze ruffled my wrap, tickling the back of my arms. His hand was warm.
“Well, now we have some choices,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I can drive you home.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“We could go for a nightcap somewhere.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
His fingers shifted in mine, tightening. “Or we can go to my house—either for a little while, or a longer while.”
I smiled. “Will you hold my wine-drinking against me?”
“It depends on what you hold against me.”
“Ah, I see.” I leaned closer. “What would you like me to hold against you?”
His eyes were heavy-lidded. “Everything. Naked.”
“That sounds good to me.”
He kissed me. “My house, then?”
“Yes.”
It was only up the street, and we were inside his living room in five minutes. The scent of fir and ginger, the particular perfume of his skin, silkily wrapped me up as we came into the room. Niraj took my purse and put it on the table by the door. A small Van Briggle lamp stood there, a woman shining light into the foyer. He turned back and took off my wrap. “Come,” he said, “into the living room with me.”
We sat on the mission-style couch, sank into the big cushions, and he said, “Would you like some coffee or tea or chai?”
I met his eyes. “No.”
“Good.” And then he was kissing me, and I put my hands in his hair. I tugged his shirt from the back of his pants and put my hands on his back, feeling the swoops of muscle on either side of his spine, the sleekness of skin, the extraordinary heat.
Madame Mirabou's School of Love Page 22