“Mom used to put cheese sauce on our vegetables so we’d eat them. Blocks out the taste. Especially cauliflower.”
“Right, cheese sauce.”
A winding pathway cuts through a crazy quilt of coastal scrub with dense patches of somber golden yarrow and California lilac—a common heart note that attracts humans and bees alike. The bees go crazy for the pollen-rich clusters of the lilac’s heady purple flowers, which are fruitier than the common variety grown on the East Coast. We follow the path to the edge of the cliff, where a sign reads Photography Allowed.
The skies are so blue, they erase the line of the horizon and melt into the Pacific Ocean. Despite its name, Playa del Rey, or King’s Beach, is the smallest beach in the reserve. It gets its name from the glittering sand that surrounds the cove like a crown. A narrow pathway snakes two hundred feet down the side of the cliff to the beach.
Court whistles. “Makes me wish I could fly.”
“Makes me wish I could swim.”
“You don’t know how?”
“There’s not much time to learn with so many plants to tend.” Cool wind burns my cheeks and I warm them with my sleeves. I survey the surroundings for somewhere to sit, and decide on a boulder at the top of the descent. “This might take awhile.”
“All right. I’ll just enjoy the view.”
I try not to read into that and settle on the boulder, while Court takes himself to a spot a hundred feet away. Breathing deeply, I shut out the scent of Court, somewhere behind me, and focus on the air. I peel back the heavier scents layer by layer to reveal the more delicate ones hidden inside. The task requires all my concentration. The thicker scents keep folding back into my consciousness like the pages of a newly bound book. But remembering my failure with the Creamsicle tulips, I stop trying so hard. Instead, I take a deep breath, relax my jaw, and let the mystery scent reveal itself to me.
And soon it does. That subtle, salty smell, like miso soup, appears. I follow the wisp of its scent, as elusive as spider silk, and find it leads west. Toward the ocean. Into the ocean.
When I open my eyes, Court is gone. I don’t remember him leaving. The sun won’t drop for another few hours, but the sky has turned a desolate shade of gray. I stand and the breeze whips my clothes all around me. I hug myself. I can’t go into the ocean. That would be suicide for a nonswimmer like me.
The crash of the waves echoes off the high sandstone walls, sounding like the angry roar of a lion, warning me to stay back. Court’s scent reaches my nose as he comes up behind me. “Find your plant?”
I nod grimly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to need to swim.”
NINETEEN
“JUST BECAUSE WE’RE BORN WITH IT,
DOESN’T MEAN IT’S EASY.”
—Torenia, Aromateur, 1922
COURT COUGHS. “IT’Sseaweed?”
“I think so.”
“There’s a ton on the beach.”
“That isn’t the kind I need.” I cast around for a solution—a boat, or even an abandoned fishing pole—but see nothing. “Er, could I borrow your surfboard?”
“Didn’t you just tell me you don’t know how to swim?”
“It’s not far.” I gaze down into the cove where a curve of white foam upon the sand grins at me. “It’s on the surface.”
“It’s cold in there. Plus, that tide will fight you.”
I shake my head, not seeing any other way. The miso-soup scent is one of Alice’s heart notes, and therefore, essential.
He snorts. “You’re not going in there.”
“If I don’t, I can’t fix things.”
