Letter? Mother mentioned that Aunt Bryony had written her a letter, but she threw it away.If it was something important, she could have told me in person. She never came, of course.“I don’t think she read it.”
A gasp rattles my aunt’s throat and she’s back to staring at the wagon-wheel lamp. “Someone yelled ‘Whales!’ and Dahli wouldn’t hand over the damn binoculars. So there I was, craning my neck to see the sights, and the next thing I know, Iamthe sights. I must have drunk half the sea by the time Michael hauled me out.”
I press my finger to a throbbing point on my temple as the coincidences line up. We both nearly drowned. We both lost our nose. “So the ocean—?”
“It’s all the salt in it. The seawater literally shocks the nasal passages out of commission. That’s why aromateurs are not supposed to swim.”
“Then it’s not because I kissed Court Sawyer.”
She smiles. “Nope. Michael and I will soon be celebrating twenty years of marriage, and my nose works better than ever, probably even better than Dahli’s. She was always the better nose growing up. I can even eat salty foods now.”
“But Larkspur’s Last Word says not to fall in love.”
“Larkspur was a bit of a drama queen. How can anyone prohibit an act that is as natural as breathing? She just wanted us to watch out for conflicts of interest.”
“So there’s no jinx.”
“Nope. Besides, if she was going to jinx us, don’t you think she would’ve mentioned it?”
It all sounds so reasonable, the way she explains it. A knocking starts up between my ears, like the beginning of a headache. Igrip the edge of my seat and feel the soft wood give under my fingernails. So I could have had a relationship with Court, assuming I hadn’t botched it up so royally by lying to him.
“Did you try to contact Mother again after the letter?”
Aunt Bryony snorts and sets an elbow on the table. “I called her, but she never picked up. I figured she was still mad, and so I left her alone.”
“How long ago was the phone call?”
“Seventeen years.”
My tea goes down the wrong pipe.
She sniffs. “The ball was in her court.” She sucks in her bottom lip, the way Mother does when she’s brooding. “Forgiveness is a gift you give yourself. Obviously, she didn’t want the gift.”
So if Mother had just read the letter, I might have grown up with an aunt. Why had Mother never reached out to her sister in the years following? Wasn’t she concerned, or at least curious? Perhaps there are some injuries for which even the greatest aromateurs cannot self-heal. My heart sags in my chest, and for the first time since Mother left for Oman, I miss her.
Not long after eating Aunt Bryony’s soup, I go limp as an unwatered Gerbera daisy and can’t stop yawning. Aunt Bryony follows me into my bedroom. The bright colors of the quilt kaleidoscope together in my tired mind. She regards the quilt a moment, then pulls it back.
I drop down into bed. “Thanks for letting me borrow it.”
“It’s yours, Mimsy. I have no one to pass it down to. Just think, you might have twins one day.”
“You don’t have children?”
“We weren’t so blessed.” A smile passes over her lips, then disappears.
“Are you an aromateur now?”
“Yes. I do a pretty good business out there. Wish I had a daughter like you to help me.” She combs her fingers through my hair and I suddenly remember Mother doing the same when I was still small enough to sit in her lap.
I yawn again. “Did you put something in the soup?”
“I put in a whole lot of things. And a few extra winks of sleep every night will help you recover your nose sooner.”
Valerian root, probably.
“But I don’t want to go to sleep yet. I want to hear about your life,” I murmur.
“All right. Where should I start?”
