The Scent Keeper(21)

The kitchen got quiet. I heard the sound of Colette walking across the room, the shift of Henry’s chair. In a softer tone, Colette said, “It’s been more than ten years since they got here, and no one’s come looking. Maybe there’s a reason.”

“What’ll we tell people?”

“She’s a relative, come to visit. Simple as that. She takes our name.”

There was a long pause. I held my breath. Colette was stirring something on the stove, the wooden spoon rhythmic against the sides of the pan.

“She’s a child, Henry.” I heard the yearning in her voice. “She’s been through enough. Let’s let her be.”

“Okay,” Henry said finally.



* * *



I sat in the living room next to Dodge, my fingers curling in his soft fur, thinking of what they’d said. When I lived on the island, Emmeline was all I needed for a name. My father had been the feeling of his arms around me. My birthday was the scent of violets. Now none of that was enough.

Who am I, Papa? Who were you?

But then I felt the question change, get rough on the edges.

Why didn’t you tell me?





THE SECRET COVE


That night, when I went to my room, Dodge followed, settling down on the floor next to my bed. I could hear him breathing, the sound filling the space between me and the bottle on the dresser, and I realized this was the first time I would sleep in that room with something other than memories to keep me company.

I listened as his exhalations turned to snores. I had a choice to make, I understood—go back or go forward. In the end, it was simple. Back had been reduced to fairy tales in my head, a scent-paper that would burn once and be gone. There was nothing left but forward. I put the bottle in the dresser drawer.

The next morning, Dodge and I got up and went toward the kitchen. As we passed the front door, Dodge went over and scratched to be let out.

I could feel the heat of the house around me, the bottle waiting, holding my past. Dodge turned and looked at me, then scratched again. I reached for the knob and opened the door.



* * *



After weeks inside, I had forgotten the cleanness of the air after a good rain. The storm had washed the world into silence. The evergreens lining the edge of the cove were so soaked they appeared black; beyond them, the clouds reached down toward the ocean, gray meeting silver. In the small harbor were two long wooden walkways; attached to one of them was Henry’s boat, white against the dark water.

I walked down the stairs in my bare feet and lifted my face to the sky, letting the mist coat my skin. I could smell dirt, damp wood, the welcoming green of trees.

“Ahoy, Mistress Emmeline!”

I opened my eyes and spotted Henry working on his boat. He waved, carefully casual, as if I came outside every day.

Behind me, I heard Colette bustling toward the front door.

“Old man, did you leave this thing open? You’re letting in the cold—” She stopped when she saw me. “Well, look at you, all outside and adventurous.” I heard the smile in her voice.

She ducked inside, and reappeared carrying a pair of boots and a rain jacket. “Best to put these on, though.”

She sat down next to me on the bottom step as I pulled on the boots, which were a bit too big. “Welcome to our cove,” she said, and motioned toward the wooden sign hanging over the boardwalk: Secret Cove Resort. “It’s not much, but it’s all ours.”

I looked down the boardwalk and saw a string of little cottages, painted in impossibly bright colors—yellow and blue and peach and red. They stood like a burst of laughter against the evergreens that rose up the slopes behind them.

“Henry does love a paintbrush,” Colette said.

My focus, however, was on the tall, dark hills. They seemed endless, wild, and capable of holding anything. “Bears?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“You’re safe here.”

I turned back and scanned the harbor. Colette followed my gaze. “The fishermen have already come through and gotten their boats,” she said. “They won’t be back for hours—and we won’t have any guests in those cottages until the summer.”

My shoulders relaxed, and Dodge came up and bumped against me.

Colette chuckled. “Don’t worry. Dodge can show you around—and I’ll be right here if you need me.” She put her hand on my back and gave me a gentle push.

“Go explore,” she said. “Nothing can hurt you here.”

My father had said much the same thing, once upon a time.



* * *



Dodge and I set off down the wooden boardwalk. I kept my breathing shallow, my nose alert for any sign of danger, but Dodge seemed unconcerned. He wandered along in front of me, favoring one hip as he went.

As we drew nearer to the cottages, I could see the way they stood on barnacled stilts, their feet in the foamy water of a high tide, their roofs alive with green moss. Their bright colors had made me think they were somehow separate, but I saw now that they would always be part of the cove, part of the woods.

The cottages were silent, full of anticipation, and my boots made soft clomping sounds along the wide, worn planks. My breathing evened out. I peeked in one of the windows and saw an old rocking chair and a bed with a red and white patchwork quilt. I thought of our cabin on the island, alone now and waiting. Would someone else discover it? Would they find our drawers in the walls, smell the runaway’s tobacco?