The Secret of a Heart Note

  If I die, so will Court.

  With a last burst of effort, I reach up and grasp the edge of the board with my fingertips. Hoisting myself back out of the water, I fling my arm over the board, filling my lungs again with air.

  Court’s submerged to his nose.

  “Court!” I use my free arm to pull myself closer to him. My limbs feel numb and sluggish. Move faster! Just a few feet more.

  I reach out to Court, but miss and the board flips again. Back under the water, I sink. Court’s body dangles in front of me, the collection bag with the bladder wrack floating next to him. His leg kicks out once, pushing his head above water.

  I wiggle and thrash my way back to the surface as well, desperately flinging my arm over my fickle raft once again. Got it. Keep going.

  Finally, I catch him under the shoulder. With more strength than I thought I owned, I lift him up a few inches and lug him toward me. Gasping, he heaves his arm over the board, somehow managing to tuck it under him again.

  I yank off my glove with my teeth and comb my frozen hand through Court’s hair in search of the stinger. It’s right behind his ear. I dig it out, though I know it won’t do much. The poison has already spread.

  My eyes fill with tears as Court struggles to breathe, his grip on the board weakening. To help keep him afloat, I jam my arm under his and pedal my legs back and forth so I don’t sink, racking my brains for a solution. No plantain weed, no EpiPen, only salt water, seaweed, and myself.

  Myself.

  Human saliva is a powerful thing, and the secret ingredient for our elixirs. How powerful, then, is a love witch’s saliva? Mother says our bodies contain the memories of the plants we handle. It’s why we never get sick and heal so quickly. But kissing him? It’s anyone’s guess where Larkspur drew the line, but clearly kissing lies on the other side of it. I could end up like Aunt Bryony.

  I almost laugh out loud. Who cares at this point? The ocean has closed a fist around us anyway. We will die here and no know will know except the sea lions.

  Court blinks as if trying to straighten his vision. His mouth hangs slack, lips blue with cold or shock, probably both. I wait until he draws in a breath, then without wasting another second, I press my lips into his.

  Since this will likely be the only kiss I ever get, I give it all I’ve got, despite the tangle of hair covering my face, the salt burning my eyes. Ours noses bump together and his lips, half-parted already, yield under mine. He tastes sweet as apples, his mouth deliciously warm despite the frigid temperature. My stomach drops as if I’m in free fall, and for a moment, I think I have joined the cormorants diving somewhere near. But then his gasp catches in my throat and vibrates down to the deepest chambers of my heart.

  The sea swells again, lifting us higher, but the movement doesn’t break our connection. Finally, though I want to stay there longer, I pull my head back. Court’s skin loses its bluish cast, and his eyes regard me like I startled him out of a dream.

  I cry out as another wave yanks the board from my one-armed grip. Then the water swells over my head, cutting off sound and holding me in place. I kick my body upward, but the sea squats on me like a twenty-ton giant. I stop moving to preserve breath.

  They say in the moments before death, significant events rise to the mind, the last bubble of memory. I see my seven-year-old self running through a South African warehouse full of spider plants, great blooming things that sucked up Mother’s scent with their powerful odor collectors. Their spiky fronds grabbed at me as I shouldered past them, sniffing desperately though my nose was so swollen from crying that I could barely breathe. At last, I picked up a filament of Mother’s black currant top note. When I finally found her, she was looking at her watch. “Impressive, dear. That only took you seven minutes. I thought it would take at least ten.”

  Incredibly, the ocean shifts, and my head pops up again. Though I strain to keep it above water this time, another wave crashes above me, and I can’t draw a breath before going under. The currents pull me this way and that, and I’m not even sure which way is up anymore. I’m a single berry trapped in a shaking mold of Jell-O.

  I’m sorry, Mother, I blew it. May the news fall gently.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN INFATUATION AND LOVE CAN BE

  MEASURED BY THE DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO PAIRS OF LIPS.”

  —Justicia, Aromateur, 1836

  A HAND CATCHES mine, and then his strong arms snatch me from the grave and gather me to him. I suck in air, sweet air. Just as I seize a lungful, I start to sink back under. But Court’s arm tightens around me.

  “Mim, grab the board! Listen to me, grab the board. You can do this.” His voice sounds different than I remember, tighter, and I can hear him panting.

  Despite the hundred-pound barbell attached to my arm, I throw it over the surfboard.

  “Catch your breath,” he murmurs from behind me, arm circled around my waist. “You’re doing great. Think you can get your legs over?”

  “Sure,” I pant. “Right after I”—gasp—“finish running this marathon.”

  His grip tightens, as if he thought I might be serious. Perhaps it’s against lifeguard protocol to joke while you’re on a rescue mission. I accidentally kick him and he lets out a soft gasp.

  “Sorry.”

  “Relax for a second. I’ll just hold you.”

  I muse at my stomach’s ability to do somersaults, even after its owner has been starched and hung to dry.

  I rest in Court’s warm embrace until I can catch my breath again.

  “You ready?”

  No. “Yes.” I push myself up over the surfboard, aided by Court who pops up on the other side to hold it steady. Then I’m once again lying on top of the wobbly mattress. Court grabs the flat end, and with more power than I thought he had left in his engine, kicks us back to shore.

  We slide onto the sand, my mouth so parched and salty that my tongue feels like a piece of jerky. I’m vaguely aware of Court handing me a bottle, and then I’m glugging water down greedily. A searing sunset lights the ocean on fire.

  We pull ourselves back up the cliff, though the going is slow, even with Court helping me. My head reels, and the giddiness in my stomach has spun into something more like nausea. Melanie’s steamer feels tight and clammy, like it’s eating me alive. My every movement causes the sand trapped inside to rub my already-raw skin. When Court finally unlocks the passenger door, I collapse in the seat with my legs hanging out, feeling dangerously close to throwing up. Court helps tug the suit off me. I don’t care that the towel covering me slips, exposing my white legs. I just want the steamer off.

  Then Court’s back in the driver seat, somehow clothed again.

  “You okay to drive home?” I murmur, too tired to move more than my head.

  “Good as new.” He feeds me a sweet grin.

  My saliva must be pretty potent. He should be in the hospital. I sniff for confirmation that he’s alert, but don’t catch much beyond salt, and more salt. My nose must be worn out, too. I search his neck for signs of the bee sting, but don’t see a single mark. “How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His hands seem steady on the wheel, and his gaze, alert. I rub my eyes but the sand scratches my lids, so I shut them. Just a moment to recharge.

  The next thing I know, we’re in my driveway and Court is opening the door to the Jeep. He offers his hand, but I shake my head.

  “I’m sorry I fell asleep,” I croak, thirsty all over again.

  “You needed it.”

  He collects my bike and bag. Soon, I am stumbling into the house. “Kitchen’s over there if you want something to drink or eat. Mind if I go put something on?”

  “Sure.”

  I ascend the staircase, taking a long whiff as I go. Dust motes. Pillow feathers. Dried violet blossoms. Thank the lilies, I still have my nose. Larkspur’s Last Word didn’t bite me.

  Once in my bedroom, I step into clean underwear, then hastily wrap myself in my
chenille bathrobe. It makes me look like a whorl of cotton candy, but after the suffocating grip of Melanie’s steamer, it feels like heaven against my skin. I stick my head out the window and shake the sand out of my hair.

  The creaking stair warns me that Court’s on his way up.

  “In here,” I call out.

  He appears holding two full glasses of water.

  “Thank you. You saved my life.”

  He shrugs. “You saved mine, twice. So I still owe you.” As we gulp down our glasses, his eyes take in each of my possessions: the stuffed alpaca, the chipped mirror that never lies to me, and my bamboo alarm clock that currently reads 7:06. The wainscot surrounding the room suddenly strikes me as babyish, like the rails of a crib.

  “I can’t believe I conked out. What happened?”

  “Besides nearly drowning, you might have had vertigo. We learned about it in lifeguard school. The movement of the ocean can make you pass out.” He sets his glass down on my dresser next to my empty vial of BBG. “I don’t know how you did it, but you saved us. My throat was closing. I couldn’t see straight and everything was cramping inside. But when you kissed me, all of it stopped. I felt strong again, like I could do a triathlon.”

  “I can’t explain it. Mother says we’re walking medicine cabinets.”

  “So as long as I have you around, I’ll never fear a bee again.”

  “As long as I’m around, there will be bees. I’m like honey to them.”

  “You trying to scare me away?” He steps closer to me. “Because, if I had you around to kiss me, I might even want to get stung.”

  His gaze brushes my mouth, and I start babbling. “What happened to your board?” I don’t remember him retrieving it after he helped me up the cliff.

  “My board?” He takes my hand and tugs me even closer. His touch sends a shock down to my toes. “I sacrificed it to Poseidon. But your seaweed’s safe. I left it in the garden.”

  My seaweed? Oh good gerbera, I nearly forgot. Most of the day is gone. I need to start sorting and processing the botanicals before everything loses its potency.

  “You swam pretty good for someone who doesn’t know how to swim.” He puts his arms around me, goading my heart to a trot. “But when you let go, well, I’ve never been so scared in all my life.”

  Now he’s studying my face like he did the room. His eyes rest on my forehead. Then they creep down to my nose with the bump. Finally, they land on my mouth, and there they stay for at least a count of ten. I’m sure he can hear my heart pounding, the whoosh of the blood racing through my veins, and maybe even the creaking of my knees as they buckle.

  “I—I can’t—” Larkspur’s Last Word. I can’t fall into the trap. Think about Aunt Bryony. Mother.

  “Can’t what?” he asks softly.

  “This.” I stumble backward into the dress rack I forgot was behind me. I grab it before it falls.

  “I don’t think your spray works on me. You said it should work immediately. But even after you sprayed me the first time, it didn’t change how I felt. I still spent a night writing cheesy Halloween poems for your candy grams.”

  The candy grams were from him?

  “Then you sprayed me again at Meyer, and nothing changed for me. If anything, I have it worse now.”

  It doesn’t make sense. Maybe the BBG went bad, though that’s never happened before. Or maybe Court is immune. We’ve never come across a BBG-immunity before either, but it doesn’t mean one can’t exist. Of course, it would be my luck that the one person I’ve fallen for is the one person who is resistant. What am I talking about? I can’t fall for anyone, especially right now, when I’ve already made such a muddle of things. It would muck up both of our lives, destroy everything I’ve worked for.

  I attempt to organize my thoughts, but it’s hard when he’s standing just a few feet away. The Rulebook sits primly on my nightstand. A layer of dust dulls the gold lettering on its leather cover. I can smell the particles . . . actually, I can’t smell the particles. Maybe it’s not as dusty as I thought.

  He closes the distance between us in one step, gazing at me with an intensity that makes every nerve in my body tingle. My head feels floaty, like its full of helium, and it’s not his smell that is causing it, but a hyperawareness of what could happen, of what could be. In fact, I can hardly smell the campfire scents. He encircles my waist with his hands, tugging me closer, tilting his head . . .

  The phone rings. I jerk back at the sound. Mother. It’s as if she knew.

  I put my finger to my lips in the universal hush sign, then answer.

  “Mim? I’ve been trying to call you for the last few hours.”

  “I was in the garden. I thought you weren’t going to call until Sunday.”

  “Why do you sound out of breath?”

  “Just running to get the phone.”

  “So what happened?”

  “What h-happened? With what?”

  “Ms. Salzmann.”

  “Ms. Salzmann.” It takes me a few moments to remember. “Fine, she’s fine. Everything went fine.” I cringe. If I have to repeat fine three times, obviously things are not fine. “I delivered the flowers—the Prescott roses. She—”

  “Oh, Mim.” I can hear the disapproval even through the static.

  She knows. Somehow, she can see through the phone to Court brushing sand off my cheek. I give him an apologetic smile and turn toward the window. “Yes?”

  “Prescott says ‘let’s be friends,’” comes her breathy scolding. “I’ve told you that. Next time, try the Bourbon.”

  “Right.” I nearly laugh with relief. “So, how are you doing?”

  “You got my email, didn’t you? You never replied.”

  “I haven’t checked yet.”

  Court’s cell phone rings. He hurries to silence it.

  “What was that?”

  “Just the computer.” Dummy. The computer’s in the workshop. Oh, but maybe I’m in the workshop. Come on, Mim, pull it together. Pretend he’s not so close he could reach down and place a kiss on your neck. Everything is fine.

  “So look at the pictures and tell me what you think.”

  “Pictures?”

  Her sigh sounds like paper rattling. “In your email. You said the computer’s on, right?”

  “Right. Well . . . hmm . . . something seems to be wrong with the connection.” I draw it out, like I’m actually waiting for my inbox to open. Court lifts his head from his cell phone.

  “Oh, I’ll just tell you. I saw these beaded bags at the market. One had a tiger, the other had a dolphin or whale or something. Which would you prefer?”

  “Whale or something.”

  Court smiles.

  “All right,” says Mother. “Are you eating well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t forget about tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Tomorrow. “Oh yes, Dr. Lipizzaner.”

  “Lipizzaner is a horse. Lipinsky.”

  “Right.”

  “He’s hard of hearing, so remember to speak loudly. Now, get some sleep tonight. Oh, but first, make sure the orchids are getting enough water. I’ll call you Sunday.”

  “Okay.”

  Even after we hang up, I swear Mother’s still in the room somewhere.

  “Everything okay?” Court murmurs into my hair.

  I spook away. “Yes. You?”

  He sighs. “Coach is going to kill me for missing tonight’s strategy meeting.”

  “Will he bench you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to talk to him. But I don’t want to leave you.”

  “No, you should go. The Panthers need their captain.” That, and if he stays any longer, I might be tempted to do something that would cause the Rulebook to spontaneously combust. I lead the way out of the room before I can change my mind. “And I should start your mom’s elixir.”

  At the front door, I nearly push him into the driveway in my haste to avoid further romantic entanglement. He turns and stands firm in the
doorway.

  “Mim, we nearly died today. Maybe we should both take it easy.”

  “I will.” I give him a too-bright smile.

  “Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” A dab of sand by one of his ears challenges me to rub it off, but I resist.

  “Of course. Thank you for driving me today, and for everything else,” I say in a rush. Before he construes that as an invitation, I firmly close the door.

  I watch from the window as he backs out his Jeep, then motors off. Then I collapse on a rocking chair, a little trembly in the knees. As the chair gently rocks me, Court’s eyes appear in my mind, dark like ash bark with hints of gold. His dimples seem perfectly placed in their asymmetry. I linger over the expressive line of his mouth, a mouth that tells me so much without speaking a word. And, then, of course, there is his smell—

  My eyes pop open as I remember his mother’s scentprint. I cannot sit here and daydream. Certain ideas, once they take hold, like the ruthlessly creeping kudzu plant, require years to eradicate. I’ll need to avoid any further amorous encounters with Court before I can remake the BBG. Next time, I’ll make it twice as concentrated.

  Before I know it, my eyes blur. I bury my face in the Welcome Home pillow Mother embroidered when she was expecting me. The truth is, I don’t want to BBG Court with a stronger dose. I like that he likes me. In her last letter to her love, Percy, before she died, Hyacinth wrote, Somewhere between right and wrong lies a garden surrounded by thorns, and I have met you there.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “UPROOT YOUR WEEDS BY THE ROOT, LEST,

  LIKE THE HEADS OF THE HYDRA, THEY MULTIPLY,

  DESTROYING ALL IN THEIR PATH.”

  —Angelica, Aromateur, 1723

  MORNING LIGHT FILTERS through the window of the storage room at the back of the workshop. The ottoman on which I’m sprawled is too short for a bed, but that didn’t stop me from falling asleep on it after an intimate night with bladder wrack. I carefully dried each frond, then processed it into a fine powder.