The Scent Keeper(59)
Your birthday is the first day of spring, Emmeline. The smell of violets.
Oh Papa, I thought. What did you do?
She was turning away. She was going to leave; I could feel it. If she did, I’d never get any answers. I’d be half of nothing, yet again.
“My father was a scientist,” I blurted out. “He hated winter and loved smells. He used to tell me stories about a man named Jack the Scent Hunter.”
She stopped, her eyes sliding back to me. Looking at her was like gazing into one of those enchanted mirrors and seeing a beautiful, older, far more assured version of myself. I could see her making a similar assessment, her expression shifting from irritation to confusion.
“What did you say your name was?” she asked.
“Emmeline.”
Her brow cleared in recognition. “Of course,” she said. Her laugh was short and without humor. “His mother’s name.”
She looked behind me. “Where is your father?” she asked. “Where’s John?”
I shook my head, unwilling to say it. For a moment something strange and private moved across her face. Then it cleared.
“You’re here,” she said quietly. “You’re with me.”
We stood there, facing one another as people passed us on the sidewalk. Victoria seemed unable to move, except for her eyes, which kept looking and looking at me.
A man jostled her, startling her into motion. She pulled out her phone, dialed. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. Yes, I mean it.”
She put away the phone. “Lunch?” she asked me. She sounded like Victoria Wingate again, smooth and confident. She sniffed once, almost imperceptibly, and glanced at my backpack. “I promise we can do better than peanut butter,” she said, and then she smiled.
* * *
Victoria’s car was low and silver, slipping effortlessly through the traffic. Her slender hands were firm on the wheel. Her perfume was so much a part of her it seemed to emanate from the very curls of her hair. I couldn’t stop staring at her. How could someone this stunning be a mother, let alone mine? The mothers I’d seen on television, even the most beautiful guests at the cove—none of them looked like this. It wasn’t just her skin or hair or eyes, because I had all of those, too. It was how she inhabited them. If I were a scent-paper, she was what it was like when it burned.
We pulled up in front of an old stone building. A long awning covered the walkway. A man in a green jacket came out and opened my door, then Victoria’s. I was surprised when she tossed him the keys. She didn’t seem to know him, but she also didn’t seem worried when he drove her car away. I wondered if we’d get it back.
“This place is quiet, and the food is reasonable,” Victoria said, ushering me through the door. The woman at the front greeted her by name, then looked skeptically at my clothes. Victoria said something in a low tone, and after a moment’s murmured consultation, the woman seated us at a secluded table overlooking the garden, handing us each a menu as heavy as a book. A waiter was there instantly, setting down glasses of iced water. Half circles of lemons shimmered between the ice cubes like slices of sunshine. I looked up to thank him, but he was already gone.
“I helped them with their bar,” Victoria said, leaning forward. “As it turns out, you can double the sales of rum drinks just by adding the scent of coconut to the air.” She winked. I’d always thought winks were the strangest of the facial expressions I’d encountered after I left the island. One eye closed, as if in trust of shared understanding; the other open, watching. For Dylan, a wink had been a weapon. With Victoria, it felt like an invitation.
I tried to read the menu, but I kept getting distracted. The aromas from the kitchen filled the room—melting butter, grilling meat, soft and sharp spices. All of them better than any of the restaurant smells I’d had to pass by during my time in the city. My mouth was watering, and my nose was so focused that I could barely skim the first few items.
Sablefish with miso glaze
Duck, dry-aged and served with pureed butternut squash
Wagyu New York strip
I had no idea what these things were, except for duck, which I couldn’t help but feel sorry for. Dry-aged sounded like an especially bad death for a waterfowl.
The waiter returned. “Shall I order for us?” Victoria asked. I nodded, grateful. “Anything you don’t eat? Allergies?”
I shook my head. Nobody had ever asked me that before. On the island, I’d eaten what I gathered. At the cove, I ate what came to the table. Now I’d eat anything that didn’t involve the jar in my backpack.
“We’ll start with the clam chowder,” Victoria said. “We can order more later.” The waiter nodded respectfully and disappeared again. “They make it with fresh clams,” she told me. “It’s exceptional.”
A young woman with a fancy braid in her hair brought us a basket of French bread, still warm from the oven. I watched as Victoria spread one slice with butter that melted as she applied it, releasing the faintest scent of flowers.
“Here,” she said, handing it to me. The crust gave way under my teeth with a delicate crunch, the butter soft on my tongue. It tasted even better than it smelled. After almost two weeks of hard mattresses and strangers and failure, I wanted to crawl inside the comfort of this bread and stay there forever.