The Scent Keeper(63)

“What do you say to coming with me to work today?” Victoria asked as she sat down across from me. “I have a hunch you might enjoy it.”

I looked down at my clothes.

“We can find something better than that,” she said with a laugh. “Let’s see if I have something that’ll fit you. Bring your coffee.”

When she opened the door to her bedroom I stopped, stunned. On the far side of the room, surrounding the double doors of the closet, a gridwork of shelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling. In each of the square openings was a small bottle, all different shapes, made of blue, green, yellow, and clear glass.

“My scent collection,” Victoria said. “I started it when I was just about your age.”

I walked over, put a finger on the faceted edge of one of the bottles, saw the liquid within. No scent-papers here.

“They’re beautiful,” I murmured.

“Normally I keep the curtains closed to protect the perfumes, but I love to wake up to the light on them. It’s quite a show in the morning. Now,” she said, opening the closet, “let’s find you something more fun than a sweatshirt.”

I sat on the bed as she brought out one thing after another, passing through the wall of scent bottles each time. I could almost feel them watching, leaning toward her. Loving her.

No closed drawers this time, I thought. No secrets.

It turned out Victoria and I were almost the same size. The jeans she gave me were elegant, dark blue, and tighter than any I’d ever worn, but when I looked in the mirror I was surprised to see the line of my legs, the slim curve of my hips. She handed me a loose sweater, white and soft as baby chickens.

“We won’t make you go full business mode,” she said. “We’ll call it take-your-daughter-to-work day.”



* * *



Victoria drove with one hand on the wheel, using the other to gesture. Her voice raced along with the engine. Her hair was straight today, and her scent was lighter, more air than honey.

“You may have noticed,” she said with a wry smile, “that not everything smells good in a city. My job is to make things smell better—because when they do, people spend more money. They don’t know that’s why, of course. They think they’re buying a shirt because it fits them, or a couch because it’s comfortable. But we know better. We make them want it.”

She plucked her travel mug from the cup holder and took a quick sip as she changed lanes.

“We’re just doing what nature already does, honestly. A flower has a scent for one reason—to attract whatever will pollinate it. Animals use odors to communicate all the time. The difference is, they pay attention to those messages. People don’t.” She put the mug back, and sent me a considering look. “I’m thinking you might be different.”

I was. Dirt Sniffer. Miss Piggy.

“We speak a language other people don’t even know exists,” Victoria said. “I go into a hotel and figure out what scents will make someone feel at home, or not at home—make them feel younger, more confident, sexier. It depends on what the hotel wants.”

She was engrossed in her topic, her eyes bright.

“You have to match the fragrance to the place, or it doesn’t work. Put roses in the men’s clothing department and you’re in for all kinds of trouble. There are big stores in New York City that have a different scent for each department—that’s how careful we get in this business.”

We pulled into an underground parking lot and took an elevator up into the store. As the door opened, a fragrance like the soft pink of a sunrise met me. I looked about and saw snow-white chairs and couches as big as beds, glass vases and silver picture frames. Confident, well-dressed women swirled about, considering a candle here, a pillow there. I knew at once I didn’t belong in a place like this, even in Victoria’s clothes.

“I need to talk to the manager,” Victoria said. “I’m going to check the sales records and see how we’re doing. While I’m gone, you explore. Let me know what you think.”

I wandered about, trying to get my bearings. I went by a metal umbrella stand that reminded me of Henry’s fishing bucket, but the price was more than a week’s stay at the hostel. There was a wall of framed mirrors, all different sizes and shapes, but my reflection in Victoria’s clothes didn’t make sense in any of them. I turned my back to them, and it was then that I spotted the table toward the back of the store. It looked just like the one we’d had at the cabin, unfinished, its legs thick and straight, its top a solid plank of wood. I went over to it as if pulled on a tide, closing my eyes and running my fingers over its rough surface. I inhaled, hoping for an undercurrent of wood smoke or bread yeast. But there was nothing—just life, wiped clean, like the sheets on my bed the night before.

“You don’t like the smell?” I opened my eyes. Victoria was standing on the other side of the table, her expression inquisitive.

“It’s fine,” I said.

“It’s okay. I want to know what you think.”

“It’s just…” I paused. “It doesn’t smell like home.” My words sounded feeble, even to me.

“Ah.” She nodded. “How would you fix that?”

The thought had never occurred to me. Home smelled like home because of what was there. You didn’t make things smell like home.