The Secret of a Heart Note

  “Cheese sauce.”

  “Cheese sauce?”

  “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’S seaweed?”

  “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.”

  “If you do, you might drown.” He starts walking back to the Jeep.

  I trot after him. “Where are you going?”

  “To get my wetsuit.”

  “You can’t do it for me. You won’t know which plant to pick.”

  He stops. His shoulders slump as he lets out a great sigh. “Well then, I guess you’ll be borrowing Mel’s steamer. But we’ll do this together.”

  Mel’s steamer turns out to be a winter wetsuit with long arms and legs. It’s not something you just throw on. A pink stripe runs down the middle of the black rubbery fabric. I thought we were the same size, save my longer legs, but rethink that as I sit in the passenger seat of the Jeep, struggling to pull my calf through. The suit is like a thing alive, resisting me every time I try to get a good grip. By the time I bring it to heel, my hair is damp with sweat.

  I lay back against the headrest, panting. Court opens my door, though I’m not sure how he knew I was finished. Well, almost. My back zipper’s still undone.

  He hands me a pair of black booties. “Water shoes.”

  Those are easier to put on than the suit. Finally, I’m ready.

  “Come out and I’ll zip you.” His black suit shows every chiseled cut and projection on his body.

  As he fiddles with my zipper, goose bumps prick the skin of my back. I can’t help blushing. It’s just my back, but please let him not be staring at the birthmark lower down that looks like a pair of lips. When he brushes the hair off my neck, I nearly faint at the whispery heat of his hand.

  He zips me up as carefully as if he’s trying to draw the straightest line he can. In the time it takes to finish the job—a few seconds at most—I feel as if I’ve circled the earth in the Cloud Air jet and landed, disoriented and giddy.

  Finally, he pulls his board out of the trunk. It’s white and roughed up around the edges with a No Fear sticker on the tip.

  “This will keep us topside.”

  I clear my throat. “How, exactly, will this work?”

  “I’ll lie across the deck and paddle us frontside.”

  “Where will I be?”

  He flashes me a lopsided grin. “On top of me.”

  My stomach flip-flops, and my flush travels all the way down to my toes. The thrilled scent of flame lily, also called Gloriosa, peels off me in a thick layer. I blush even more furiously, though of course he can’t smell the honey scent.

  “We’ll have two layers of neoprene between us. No skin contact, I promise.” He holds up his hands in surrender. I mumble something agreeable, as if the idea of me riding him like a human surfboard doesn’t affect me in the least.

  After clipping a pair of gloves to my waist tag, he hands me a canvas bag with towels, and bottled water. “Let’s go before the sun goes down.”

  I sling the canvas bag around my body. After I grab my mesh collection bag, I follow him down the cliff.

  The cove is shaped like a scallop shell. A rock twenty feet across juts out of the water like a black pearl. Two sea lions sun themselves on the rock, two bumps on an otherwise craggy outcropping.

  We pick our way down the zigzagging cliffside pathway. Somehow he manages to get himself and the surfboard down without falling, while I find myself scrabbling down the steeper parts like a crab.

  We rest on a ledge halfway down the cliff.

  After I catch my breath, I ask, “When did you learn how to surf?”

  “When I was ten. Dad used to take Melanie and me down to Santa Cruz when we were kids. Mel could kick my ass back then. Afterward, we’d get Snowshoe Cones.” A shadow crosses his face and I catch the scent of friar plums again, mingled with the damp earth of longing.

  “You miss him.”

  One of his cheek muscles tightens. “I miss thinking I have the coolest father in the world. Now I’m the son of the town lecher. I mean, my dad.”

  I try to imagine how it would feel to be in Court’s shoes. I can smell the bleeding heart that pervades his mood, and I know how angry I would be if anyone ever hurt Mother. But having never had a father, the precise dimensions of his emotions are hard to conjure. Perhaps I’ve been spared a degree of pain by not having one.

  Was my father spared a degree of pain by not having me? I nearly snort aloud. It’s different for him. As a sperm donor
, he probably thinks he’s made some infertile couple very happy. But I will always wonder if there’s a part of me that failed to thrive in his absence, like an unrotated watermelon that stays yellow on one side.

  Then again, I can’t imagine anyone brave enough to take on Mother. She’s a one-woman show, and though I may have my hang-ups over the running of said show, her moral virtue has never been one of them. In fact, I often wish I had her convictions. Somehow, I think it would make life easier.

  Court stares into the ocean, his mouth a tight line.

  “Certain people are supposed to be reliable, like rhubarb,” I tell him. “Once you plant the crowns in the ground, you don’t have to worry about them. They take care of themselves. Parents should be like that.”

  “Yeah. Well, he was no rhubarb. More like . . .” He looks at me for help.

  “Eggplant? They’re sensitive to flea beetles.”

  “Right, eggplant.” He smiles. “You ready?”

  A line of black cormorants swoop down to land on the beach. When we finally touch down on sand, they fly off again.

  The noise of the ocean echoes off the cliff walls. Waves rush up to kiss our feet. I hiss in my breath at the arctic temperature, which freezes me all the way to my teeth. Suddenly, swimming doesn’t seem as easy as it did from above.

  A crop of bull kelp pokes out of the water like Paul Bunyan–size jalapeño peppers, growing and shrinking with the flow of the tides. Massive fronds of giant kelp spread their arms over the surface, making me wonder if they’re hiding something. Water blocks my sense of smell so if something’s down there, I won’t know unless it surfaces.

  Court sets down his board and the tiny No Fear sticker seems to thumb its nose at me. Well, I said I wanted to try surfing, and now it’s come back to bite me. At least I didn’t say crocodile wrestling.

  He pulls on his gloves. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” I try to keep my teeth from chattering.

  As I work on Melanie’s gloves, Court stands the board in front of me. “After I get on, you’ll have to crawl on top of me. Think you can do that?”

  If I didn’t, I definitely wouldn’t tell him. “Sure.”

  The musty scent of elbow bush for awkwardness creeps from his direction. It eases my own awkwardness to smell some on him, too. He slings my collection bag across his own body, then secures the leash dangling from the bottom of the board to my ankle. “Always find the board if you fall off, okay? And try to relax.”

  “Got it.” I take his neoprene-covered arm with my gloved hand, and into the ocean we go. The water shocks me again, but I grit my teeth and keep moving forward.

  When the water comes to my waist, he drops the board. “At least it’s calm.”

  “This is calm?”

  He lifts his chin toward the open ocean beyond our cove. “Sure. Compared to out there, this is a swimming pool.”

  I stare at the board, suddenly worrying that the dings in the side came from sharks. Big-teeth sharks whose sense of smell rivals my own.

  But I don’t have time to obsess on it further because Court’s already rolled onto the board and now it’s my turn. I put one hand on the edge and the other on top of his waist, then hoist myself up. My top half lands in a crisscross over his midsection and I quickly try to scoot the rest of me on top. The board bobs, but he uses his arms to keep it in one place as I maneuver myself in fits and spurts.

  I yelp as a wave splashes me from the side. But soon enough, I’m all the way on top of him. We float for a moment like a hastily made sandwich, and I worry that I’m crushing him, but then he paddles us off.

  “Anchors aweigh,” he says.

  More freezing water hits me in the face and stings my eyes, so I rest my cheek between his shoulder blades.

  I never imagined I’d be this close to SGHS’s star soccer player, but if I had, it would not have been in this particular configuration. Or in this particular outfit. The warmth of his body makes even my hair tingle. I wonder if my inexperience with human touch makes me that much more sensitive to it, or perhaps it’s simply Court who, despite the two layers of neoprene, is setting off every alarm bell in my body. If I can feel every single bump, ridge, and dip on his body, then he can feel every one on mine. I stiffen. Just focus on finding the plant and getting the heck out of the water.

  “Which way?” he asks. At least one of us is still using his brain.

  I sniff. The miso-soup smell comes from somewhere farther right, near the rock with the sea lions. I lift my hand off the board to point. “Over there.”

  Paddling with strong, even strokes, Court bears us toward the rock. It lies about twenty yards away, with the open sea another ten yards beyond. The movement of the water coming into the cove causes turbulence around the rock, forming mini-whirlpools.

  Water sprays into my mouth, burning my tongue with its saltiness. I cry out.

  “What’s wrong?” He looks over his shoulder at me.

  I spit to rid myself of the taste and wipe my mouth on the shoulder of my suit, though that only makes my lips sting. “It tastes terrible,” I say, panting.

  The water splashes my face again but this time I clamp my mouth shut.

  The going is slow since the ocean wants to push us back to the shore. If our motor had not been a varsity soccer player, we might be at a standstill altogether.

  Ten yards out.

  A large swell shoves us at an angle, but Court counterbalances it with his weight. Suddenly we’re moving toward the greater ocean. The water’s fickle, and it’s hard to know if we’re coming or going. My stomach roils at the topsy-turvy movement as we flatten out again.

  “You do this for fun?” I gasp.

  “You’d like it better if you had your own board.” He glances back at me again. The water collecting on his eyelashes drips onto his cheek as he winks. “But I wouldn’t.”

  Oddly, his flirting eases the queasiness in my gut, but I don’t let on.

  He starts paddling again and after a few more yards, I spot it, a small tangle of black kelp with hollow bulbs that grow in intervals like Christmas lights. It’s some subspecies of bladder wrack, a kelp commonly found in the Baltic Sea. The tangle floats in a four-yard-wide channel between the sea lion rock and the high volcanic walls that surround the cove. Water churns like a giant washing machine around the rock and through the channel. We couldn’t go through that. The water would toss us around like a pair of socks.

  “See that blackish stuff tangled in the giant kelp?”

  He stops paddling and lifts himself up to see.

  “I should’ve brought a fishing pole,” I mutter.

  “I’ll swim it. But that means you’ll be on your own for a minute.”

  “Are you sure? It looks kind of rough.”

  “Piece of cake. I’m a certified lifeguard.”

  I remember the lifeguard sweatshirt he was wearing the day of the bee sting. Still, even seals drown.

  “I’m going to slide out from the right.”

  “Okay,” I say dubiously.

  Shifting one limb at a time, I uncage him. He barrel rolls into the water in one smooth motion, then quickly resurfaces. As he holds the board steady, I spread myself on top of it.

  “Relax, okay? The easiest way to float is to relax.”

  “Relax. Got it.” Laying my cheek on the board, I command my muscles to melt. Just another comatose sea lion here. Nothing’s going to happen.

  He treads water beside me for a moment, then smoothly glides away.

  When Court reaches the channel, the water pulls him behind the rock and out of sight. I push myself up to try to see better, causing the board to slide around under me. Don’t panic. Relax. “Court?”

  One of the sea lions barks, then flips onto its other side.

  What if the water current’s too strong? What if it drags him out to sea? The seconds plod by. This was a bad idea, a very bad idea. So I’m locked in the tower, it’s not worth Court’s life. Why didn’t I think this through a little
more? “Court!”

  No response.

  The board starts to turn to the left so I no longer face the channel. Water chases itself around the black rock, throwing up white mist and seafoam. Cupping my hands the way Court did, I dig in and try to turn the ship around. The water numbs my arms but I keep going, until finally I’m facing the channel again.

  Court’s head pops out of the surface. He drags himself by long strokes toward me.

  I whimper in relief.

  “You didn’t miss me, did you?” His voice carries across the water.

  “A little.” Now the board’s turning away again. I hoist up my arms and let it. He’s halfway back to me when I hear him cry out. I jerk my head around. Court, not ten feet away, puts a hand to the side of his head. His face pinches like he’s in pain.

  “Mim,” he gasps. “A bee.”

  TWENTY

  “THE AROMATEUR’S POWER LIES NOT IN HER ABILITY

  TO SMELL, BUT HER POWER TO GIVE.”

  —Ferne, Aromateur, 1832

  I DIG IN both arms and paddle furiously. “I’m coming!”

  My floating platform threatens to derail at my frenzied splashing. I can’t help Court if I don’t calm down. Relax. One arm after the other like he did.

  The water is thick as cement, and each stroke leaves me breathless. Bees don’t like the ocean. One of the bees buzzing around the California lilac must’ve fallen asleep in my hair and then awoken when I got splashed.

  Court struggles to keep his face above water. Where is his EpiPen? Left back on the shore when he changed. There’s not exactly anywhere to put it on a wetsuit. Who knows if an EpiPen is even waterproof?

  The ocean swells and when it drains back out of the cove, it pushes us toward the channel, toward the whirlpool. My stomach drops at the movement, and I break into a cold sweat. “Hang on, I’m almost there.”

  Gritting my teeth, I redouble my efforts to paddle toward Court but a wave hits me from the side, and the board flips over.

  I remember to close my mouth just as I plunge into the icy depths. In a panic, I clutch at the board, but I can’t get a grip. It’s too slippery. My head dips underwater. Madly bicycling my legs, I try to pull myself up, but the water pushes me back. Shoving aside thoughts of imminent death, I try again.