The Scent Keeper(60)

Victoria lifted her water glass to her nose and took a quick, automatic inhalation before drinking. She caught me watching and gave a wry smile.

“I always check,” she said. “But a fresh lemon makes a difference, don’t you think? When it’s been in the water too long, it smells like there’s a basement lurking in there or something.”

I hadn’t ever had lemon in water; hadn’t spent any time in a basement, either, but I knew what she meant, the way one small note could throw everything off. I’d thought only my father and I felt that way.

“Yes,” I said, relieved and thrilled at the same time.

Victoria leaned forward, more intently. “Where did he take you?”

“An island.” I thought of the archipelago, those dots and dashes of land, a code you could never unlock.

“What did it smell like?” she asked.

I’d expected a lot of questions, but not this one. As soon as she said it, though, I knew it was the only one that mattered. The only one that would tell you what a place, or your past, was actually like.

“Cedar and spruce and fir,” I said. “Applewood smoke. Salt water. That metallic smell right before a storm.” I was picking up speed. “Salmonberries, huckleberries, spruce on your fingertips. Wet dirt—oh, and morels.” I stopped, embarrassed by my volubility.

“You did get my genes,” she murmured.

“There were violets, too,” I offered. “My father always said they were the scent of my birthday.”

Victoria frowned. “Your name was Violet, but you were born on November twenty-second.”

“What?” I didn’t understand. My birthday was the first day of spring. That’s who I was. Green in the air, my father would say.

“I’d remember,” Victoria said dryly. “It was snowing.”

I sat, stunned into silence. I didn’t know this girl, this Violet born in a snowfall. But there was a precision, a factuality, to the date Victoria had given me that my father’s version had always lacked. My father, the scientist—and the storyteller.

“Who else lived there?” Victoria asked after a while.

“No one.”

“That must have been awful for you,” she said.

The soup arrived, graceful round bowls filled with creamy white, the gray shells of the clams scattered across the top, opened as if in silent applause. The fragrance sent me back to the lagoon, the water fireworking out of holes in the sand as I raced across the beach.

Over there, Papa. There they are. Catch them.

What had been real about that life?

“Where are you staying?” Victoria asked, pulling my attention back to the table.

I pushed the memories away, and told her about the hostel. With each description, her perfect eyebrows raised higher.

“Well, that will never do,” she said. “You’re coming home with me. I’ve always kept an extra room. Just in case.”

I breathed in the honey of her perfume, felt it wrap around me.

She kept a room for me, I thought.





THE STORE


Victoria’s building was almost one hundred years old, four stories of creamy white stone with intricately carved pillars rising up along the walls, and delicate curves and notches etched beneath each window. It looked like a castle, dropped into the middle of the bustling city.

“This used to be a department store,” Victoria said as she pushed open the heavy doors to reveal a gleaming, modern lobby. The floors were glossy tile; at the center was a glass table with a vase of tall, scentless flowers. Fake, I realized, but incredibly realistic. Everything was shining, flawless, nothing to catch your toes or thoughts. The contrast between outside and in was disconcerting, but Victoria didn’t seem to find it so. She waved to a young woman sitting behind a sleek counter.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Wingate,” the woman said, studiously avoiding looking at my clothes.

“How did it go, Becky?” Victoria asked.

The young woman’s eyes grew large. “Incredible,” she said, all attempts at professionalism gone. “We’ve got a date for Friday night. Thank you so much, Ms. Wingate.”

“I’m so glad it worked.” Victoria ushered me down the hall to the elevator. “Becky is our concierge,” she said in a low voice as she pushed the button. “She was having some trouble catching a certain young man’s eye, so I gave her a little olfactory assistance.” She smiled.

My mind flew to Fisher. Would I have been able to keep him if I’d been able to use scents, not just smell them? Maybe that other girl had been smarter, known what to do. The thought grabbed my mind, dug in.

The elevator opened soundlessly. We entered into a fragrance of fir and citrus, so subtle it seemed to live in the wood paneling.

Victoria was watching me. “Do you like it?” she asked.

I nodded. I could feel it beginning to wash the smells of the city off me.

“It’s one of mine—a scented transition between public and private lives. It helps remind people they’re home.”

“You made this? On purpose?”

She smiled. “Of course. That’s what I do.”

I looked around and saw a framed directory listing departments in old-style type: menswear, ladies’ clothing, perfume. I pointed to the last item.