To outsiders, our garden’s the picture of serenity, an impressionistic painting of sight and smell. But if Mother saw it, she’d freak. It hasn’t felt a rake or pruning shears for days. I can smell seven types of weeds, all gearing up to spawn weed babies. But I have bigger shoots to pull at the moment.
The workshop lock sticks again, but I jiggle the key patiently until it surrenders. Once inside, I cover all the plants I harvested today with muslin and set them under drying lamps. Alice’s elixir must be as fresh as possible, so I won’t start mixing them until I get the miso plant. Unlike Alice’s complicated scentprint, Drew’s only contains forty-two notes, basic ones that are all found in ourgarden. Most people don’t grow into their full range until their twenties.
Back in the garden, I carefully dig out a woody stalk of horseradish, one of Drew’s main notes. Used to treat impotence, the horseradish looks like a horse-size phallus. Proof that nature has a sense of humor.
The nutmeg tree diffuses an eggnog scent from several paces away, and thoughts of Court wiggle their way in. Maybe I shouldn’t go to Playa del Rey with him tomorrow. Who knows what will happen on a deserted strand of beach, sunlight glowing off his very ripped body . . .
But Court’s my only option. Buses and trains don’t go to Playa del Rey, and it’s too far to bike. I could take a taxi, but then what? Is the taxi supposed to wait around while I find the plant? Mother would know if a few hundred dollars went missing from the account. I just need to pull it together. Act professional.
I trot back to the house for a shower. I need to clear my mind before I begin on Drew’s elixir.
My neglected pile of books and papers nag at me from the dresser. So does the stack of candy grams on my nightstand, which I still haven’t had time to scent, let alone read. But that’s okay, because I also haven’t had time to make another batch of BBG.
The pile of laundry collecting in the garage is rank enough for Mother to smell in Oman. As I strip off my clothes, the phone rings. It’s Mother, finally calling. Thank God they haven’tinvented smell-e-phone yet, or she could smell the heartsease flooding from my pores.
“Hello, dear.”
“Hello.”
“Why are you yawning?”
“It’s eleven.”
“It is? Oh, I am sorry. I got my times mixed up. Then why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Just . . . tidying up. Didn’t want to miss your call. How’s everything there?”
“The coconut palms are outstanding. I wish I could bring one home. What did you eat for dinner?”
“Um, leftovers. The thing in the fridge.”
“Oh, the spinach quiche. Was the basil still fresh?”
“Top note retention of 70 percent at least, very zingy on the liftoff.”
“Perfect. I worried about that.” She wants to know if the weed situation is under control and if the camellia bushes smell like they’ll bloom on time. I answer in between bouts of yawning.
“Tomorrow you have to fix Ms. Salzmann, remember?”
Oh, shallot. How could I forget? “Of course I remember.”
“Lemon curry is her dominant.”
“Right.” It’s going to be a late night.
“One more thing. Did you follow up with Ms. DiCarlo?”
“Yes.” I let out giant yawn, this one purposeful, hoping to head off further questions and thereby avoid falsehoods. IfMother senses trouble, she might return early.
“All right, good. I won’t be able to call you until Sunday. I’m flying to Egypt to look at the cassia.”
“Okay. Sunday. Got it.”
“Mim? Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
No, but now is not the time to start. “Yes, Mother. Good night.”
Ms. Salzmann’s stucco bungalow with its peculiar dome shape sits at the end of a cul-de-sac. A bouquet of red and pink roses lies cradled in the basket of my bicycle. I managed to stick myself only once when I arranged them this morning.
