The Scent Keeper(81)

“She’ll take me back,” he said with a wry smile. “She likes to yell like I like to fight.”

“Fisher…”

“I won’t,” he said. “I promise.”



* * *



I let myself into the apartment as quietly as I could, but it didn’t matter. Victoria was sitting on the couch, an unopened book in her lap.

“Where have you been?” she asked, rising. “I was worried.”

I looked at her tangled hair, her exhausted expression, and I wanted to tell her what had happened. But then I imagined how it all would look through her eyes—Fisher ready to fight in the bar, Jim ferrying us over to those wrecked boats. I wasn’t ready to mix those worlds.

“At work,” I said. “I got caught up.”

She came closer, and I saw her inhale, once, through her nose. Her eyebrows drew together, but all she said was, “Okay. Go get some sleep.”



* * *



The next day, I didn’t even try to make progress on the car fragrance. I sat in my office, thinking about how Fisher had listened to my secrets the night before, catching my words and folding them into himself, even as I told him the worst of me.

“I don’t know what to do about Colette and Henry,” I’d said at one point. “I haven’t even called them back yet. How can I talk to them after what I’ve done?”

“How did you manage to talk to me?” he’d asked.

He was right. I picked up my office phone and dialed. Henry answered. I could hear Colette in the background, the metallic clang of a cookie sheet landing on top of the stove.

“Henry,” I said.

“Emmeline. There you are.” His voice was the same as always, the low lapping of the tide against pilings.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve been horrible.”

“Dodge never had much need for apologies,” Henry said. “Neither do we.”

“How did he…?”

“In his sleep. We buried him on the hill behind the vegetable garden.”

I heard Colette rush up and take the phone.

“How are you?” she asked. “When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “I found Fisher, though. Can you tell his mom?”

“That’s a relief. Of course we will.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“We keep her here as much as we can. It’s time Henry and I found a few people to take over this place.” The hint was hardly casual.

“You’re going to be there forever,” I said.

“Just sayin’.” It was something the summer teenagers always said. I used to tease her when she’d use their phrases. Now it made me want to cry and smile, hearing the way she always knew how to bring me home to her.



* * *



At three o’clock I slipped out of my office and left the building, heading for The Island. The place hadn’t started to fill up yet. There were just a couple guys drinking beer at the far end of the bar, and Fisher, polishing glasses behind it.

“She took me back,” he said, “but I’ve got to clean fifty more of these as penance. Want to help?” He tossed me a bar towel. I settled myself on a stool and started working. Izzy walked through; I raised the towel in response to her unasked question.

She turned to Fisher with a roll of her eyes. “I’m not paying her, for the record.”

Fisher laughed.

Over the next few hours, the place filled until the crowd at the bar was three deep. Izzy came to help Fisher, bottles flashing, beer taps flipping up and down. At one point a middle-aged woman pushed her way through the crush of customers until she was standing right next to my stool. She wore a sweatshirt with a pirate on it, and white tennis shoes. A tourist—although how she had ended up at this bar was hard to fathom.

“When am I gonna get a drink?” she complained. Her voice had all the grace of a power saw, and I saw Fisher’s shoulders tighten.

“In a minute,” he said, raising a bottle of scotch and pouring a shot from twelve inches up.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes and I haven’t even gotten to order.” She said it loud enough to carry over the rest of the bar noise. “This is bullshit.” The room quieted.

Fisher’s face reddened; I could feel the heat starting in him. At the other end of the bar, Izzy glared in our direction and dumped ice in a margarita glass.

Fisher turned and faced the angry woman, automatically scanning her expression, her posture, reading her the way the best fishermen do the water. Reading her the way he did everyone, everything.

Ever since we were both young children, I thought, our parents had taught us—whether intentionally or not—to observe the world around us, down to the minutest detail. We had learned, knowing with the instinct of children that it meant our survival. We had both developed skills that few could match.

Since coming to the city, however, we’d used those skills differently—to predict weakness, to win. It brought out the worst in us, as well as those around us. It was time to alter that equation.

“He can guess your drink,” I said to the woman in the sweatshirt. I could feel the energy in the room crack open in curiosity.