The Scent Keeper(52)

“Oh,” she said, stepping back as we almost banged into one another. “I’m sorry.”

She used to do this with him, too, I realized. For just a moment I thought of her, up there in that house, going from one corner of the bed to the next, by herself. I didn’t know how she could stand it.

“That’s okay,” I said, and went to Fisher’s side. We got the sheets and blankets off and took down the curtains before pushing all the furniture into the center of the room.

Henry came in, shaking off the rain. He brought us cans of friendly yellow paint, green masking tape, and two rollers on long handles.

“This will make Colette happy,” he said, giving me a meaningful look as he headed for the door. I wasn’t completely off the hook with him, either, it appeared.



* * *



While Maridel applied the tape to the trim, I got the rollers ready and covered the floor with a tarp. Fisher’s mother was painstaking in her precision, often pulling up a piece of tape and reapplying it to make sure the coverage was perfect.

“That part will be behind the bed,” I said at one point.

She jumped, startled, her fingers going quickly to touch the edge of the tape.

“Sorry,” I said. “I just mean it won’t show too much.”

Maridel shook her head—I tried not to notice how much the movement reminded me of Fisher—and she continued her adjustments. Finally she finished, and we ran our rollers through the paint, pushing them up and down the walls. Maridel worked quickly, never stopping. At first I thought she must be stronger than she looked, but as the day wore on I realized that she simply didn’t care about being tired. It was as if her body wasn’t hers to take care of.

“Have you heard from Fisher?” I asked at last. I couldn’t not ask—even though I knew Fisher would never send a letter his father might intercept.

Maridel nodded, however. “Through Colette.” I hadn’t known. “You got one, too?”

I nodded.

“Did he tell you where he was?” It was hard for her to ask, I could tell.

“No,” I said. We looked at each other then, and I think we both realized that I wouldn’t tell her, even if I did find out. Martin couldn’t know.

We didn’t say much else that first weekend. We seemed to be finding our way into communication, one informational question at a time. It reminded me of those days sitting on either side of Fisher’s hospital bed.

Could you hand me that rag?

Are you ready for lunch?

Yet, the more I watched Fisher’s mother, the louder the questions in my head, the ones I didn’t say, became.

Why do you stay?

How could you let Fisher go?

If I was going to have to work with Maridel, I thought, maybe I could at least learn one true story. It wouldn’t be simple; Maridel was as skittish as Fisher had been during that first big storm on the island. The events of the past weeks had only made it more difficult.

My father had taught me that the best way to get a wild animal to talk to you was to be quiet. So I forced myself to be patient. I let the hours unspool around us. At the end of the day, Maridel disappeared up the path like smoke, but I knew she’d be back. She’d promised Colette, and I knew how Maridel felt about promises.



* * *



I spent the next week of school lunches in the library, but didn’t learn much more about my mother. Over the past five years, Inspire, Inc., had become a huge success. The list of clients—more public now—included hotels and stores, which promoted their connection to the company as a sign of their devotion to their customers, but there was nothing about Victoria Wingate’s private life, and nothing about my father.

All my reading about fragrance got me thinking, however. For good or ill, scent had always been a huge part of my life—but I’d never thought of using it before, not in the ways these articles discussed. When they quoted Victoria, she made fragrance sound like a magic wand she could wield however she liked.

I wondered—if scents could make customers lose track of time, or gamble money they might not have, could you use them to get someone to tell you a secret?



* * *



When I got home that day, there was finally a letter from Fisher in the mailbox. The nursery is fine. The guys I live with are okay. The city is big.

The words were flat, informative, but just. The whole thing sounded like a report written by a reluctant student: “What I Did on My City Vacation.” I wanted to hear from Fisher, but it broke my heart to have a letter that didn’t say all the things I needed. I love you. I miss you. Each letter felt more distant, as if anything he had ever felt for me was slowly but surely fading. Was he writing just because he felt he had to? I had no way of knowing.

And still no return address. No way to write him back.

There wasn’t anything I could do, which only made me more determined to learn Maridel’s secret. I thought of taking it to Fisher, handing it to him like a gift.

See? I love you. I got this for you.



* * *



I knew I had one chance to get it right, and so I waited, watching. I could see Maridel relaxing over time, opening up, much the way Fisher had that first summer at the cove. When she arrived on Saturday mornings, Maridel’s movements would be tense, tight, but over the course of the hours, she became more fluid. Her eyes stopped scanning; she didn’t constantly redo her work. With each new weekend, her transition into our world happened more easily—and each afternoon, she seemed more reluctant to go back up the hill.