The Secret of a Heart Note

  To my surprise, Cassandra’s window slides down. A series of white bangles adorn her tan arm. “Hey, Mim. What’d you think of the performance?”

  “You were great,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel.

  “Thanks. Kali rocked that house, too. She’s awesome!”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “See you!” She backs out and roars off.

  Court treads up, his mouth tight. He pulls off his sunglasses and squints at my cooler, like the sunlight hurts his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

  His words are so curt, they rob me of my reply. My aunt’s nose wiggles like Mother’s when she’s trying to read the situation. She bends her gaze toward me, then chirps, “Good morning. We’re here to talk to your mother. We want to make things right for her.”

  Court sweeps aside a purple blossom with his foot. Then, with a dark look at me, he pulls out his keys. “Fine.”

  The house is bright, but quiet, and smells faintly of lemons.

  Court heads down a hallway. “Mom!”

  Aunt Bryony and I remain in the entryway with Melanie’s vases. Closing her eyes, my aunt points her nose to the ceiling and inhales.

  Court returns down the hall, followed by his mom. Even in yoga pants and sandals, Alice walks carefully, with poise, just like one would expect from a Miss California. She rolled the sleeves of her Go Panthers! T-shirt past her freckled shoulders, and her smiling face is clean of makeup. “What a delightful surprise.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Alice. This is my aunt Bryony.”

  “How lovely.” Alice squeezes Aunt Bryony’s hand. “I see the family resemblance.”

  I hand the woman my stalk of hyacinth. “This is for you.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes squeeze shut as she buries her nose in the periwinkle blossoms. “How I do love your visits.”

  I have to keep myself from making tracks out the door, down the hill, and maybe to Alaska.

  She places the stalk into one of Melanie’s vases, this time, one of the earlier, clunkier pieces, then sweeps her hand toward her prairie chic living room. “Come, sit down.”

  The tiled entryway spills into thick carpets. A ukulele rests on one of two overstuffed chairs. Court removes the ukulele and leans it against the coffee table.

  Aunt Bryony and I each take a chair, and I set the cooler on the carpet. My chair engulfs me like a cloud, too fluffy, too suffocating. I scoot to the edge. Alice settles on a matching couch opposite my aunt and I, and Court sits beside her. He leans his chin on his hand and glares into the carpet.

  “We’ll get right to the point,” says Aunt Bryony. “Mim?”

  All three pairs of eyes draw to me, one encouraging, the other confused, and the last unforgiving. I squeeze the armrests and a trickle of sweat escapes the hatband of my bucket hat.

  Alice turns her fine-boned face toward me.

  “Alice, I very accidentally gave you an elixir meant for someone else. I am very, very sorry.” I try to keep my voice steady, but it trembles at the end. I keep my gaze trained on Alice.

  “An elixir?” Alice’s mouth, still smiling, hasn’t caught up with her disbelief. “Is that one of your love potions?”

  “Yes.” I let the news sink in. A gust of hot air blows on me as the heater turns on. It’s hot enough in here.

  Slowly, Alice shakes her head, causing her ponytail to wag. “Who?”

  I let her figure it out herself.

  “Franklin.” The sight of her perfect nose turning red stabs me in the heart. I try not to throw myself in front of her and beg her forgiveness. Aunt Bryony’s chin bobs up and down.

  Court curses. Alice grimaces at him, then she returns her gaze to me. “How did it happen?”

  I can’t tell her about the espresso otherwise she’ll figure out it was meant for Ms. DiCarlo. “You touched something that had elixir on it.”

  “But who was supposed to get it?”

  Aunt Bryony gently adds, “We’re not at liberty to say.”

  Alice presses her hand to her mouth. Then she shakes her head. “I don’t believe it. I’m sorry. I know how I feel and it can’t be because of some love potion. It’s just impossible.” Her knuckles go white as she interlaces her fingers. She looks to Court for help.

  “Mom, it’s true.”

  “You knew about this?”

  “Yeah. We spent the last few days on a scavenger hunt for plants to puff you with.” He glances at me. “Explain.”

  Alice hugs herself. “Puff?”

  I toy with the hem of my shirt. “A PUF is an elixir to rid you of your feelings—”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying my feelings aren’t . . . real?”

  Aunt Bryony twists her gold wedding band. “The elixir just opened your eyes to Mr. Frederics. Your feelings are genuine.”

  Court’s mom doesn’t have a single filling as far as I can see.

  I show her the cooler. “The PUF can also be a special kind of flower. It’s painless. Just a swipe on your skin.”

  Aunt Bryony’s iridescent beads clack together as she leans forward. “It won’t erase your memories of Mr. Frederics. It just makes you less attached to them. The heart is like a balloon. The PUF just tugs it back to earth.”

  “A balloon? No, no.” Alice shakes her head.

  Court rouses himself out of his black mood and puts his arm around his mom. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She wiggles out from under his arm. “I’m sorry, Mim, I just can’t believe it. I like Franklin, and I think he likes me, too.” Tears collect in her eyes and she wipes them with her palms. Court passes her the tissue box.

  The sound of someone shuffling down the hallway causes all of us to lift our heads. Melanie, clad in sweats, glares at me. Her face is puffy like she’s been crying. She asks, “What’s going on?”

  Alice waves her hand distractedly at her daughter. “We have visitors.”

  Melanie locks her arms in front of her and glowers at me.

  Alice switches back to us. “I mean, we’ve had a great time this week, when I wasn’t yard sailing, and I just don’t see how that can be fake.” Her pitch goes high and she places a hand over her chest. After she collects her composure she reaches for the ukulele resting against the table.

  “It’s not fake.” I do my best to ignore the frost coming from Melanie’s side of the room. “You really do like him, but he came to us originally for help with someone else.”

  “Ah. What if I don’t want to be puffed?”

  Court squeezes his eyes shut and I can’t help wondering if he’s remembering when he asked me a similar question.

  “It’s your choice. A PUF will take away the hurt, though.”

  Court glances up at me, then returns his head to his hands.

  Placing the ukulele on her lap, Alice tentatively plucks each string. “It’s just so embarrassing. I baked him a cake. And a pie.”

  Aunt Bryony opens her hands. Her nails are buffed to a high shine. “The embarrassment is all ours.”

  Alice starts strumming a series of minor chords.

  Court rubs at his jaw and looks at his sister. Shaking her head, Melanie stomps away. Alice stares through the distressed finish of the table as her fingers pick out a slow, depressive tune.

  “Will you be telling him?” Alice doesn’t break her rhythm.

  “Only to the extent that we failed to fix the correct target,” says Aunt Bryony.

  Mr. Frederics has to know? I hide my surprise by staring at the crystals dripping from the chandelier.

  “He would never know that you received the elixir, unless of course you wish us to tell him.” Aunt Bryony leans back, absentmindedly twisting the gold band around her finger.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To put your actions in the right context.”

  “Right. D-do most people in my situation choose to undo it?”

  “It’s only happened twice, and in both cases, the parties elected not to be PUF’ed. As Lord Tennyson ob
served, ’tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”

  The strumming stops. Alice passes her gaze over all of us, her face faraway. Then she starts up with her uke again.

  Aunt Bryony rises. “Take as long as you need to decide. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  I linger, looking for my feet in the fluffy Sherpa carpets. “Court.” His gaze snaps to me, but I can barely meet his eyes. “It could work on you, too.”

  He scoffs, a sharp exhale of breath, and shakes his head.

  I back away, a smaller, more wilted version of myself. “Again, I’m really sorry.” Head down, I follow my aunt. Once the carpets end, our footsteps clack noticeably on the home stretch of tiles to the front door.

  As we reach the front door of the great hacienda, the ukulele stops midsong, and the notes hang in the air.

  “Stop,” says Alice, pushing off against Court’s knee to standing.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Mom.” Court lets out a frustrated groan. “Are you sure?”

  Alice pads to us, shoulders straight and head lifted. “Yes. I have already loved and lost. I’d rather not do it a second time.”

  Court moves reluctantly behind his mother.

  “As for Franklin, if there’s someone else he loves, I don’t want to interfere.”

  Aunt Bryony opens the cooler. The bud transformed into a papery white bloom with three petals, bursting with golden marmalade hues. “Your mother would be proud of you,” she whispers in my ear.

  Alice squeezes her eyes shut and bares her wrist, as if this were a blood transfusion and not a simple swipe of the skin.

  Court, who has ceased making eye contact with me, watches my fingers pluck a petal to injure the plant. I slide the torn petal across Alice’s skin. She sighs, a breathy hmm. The PUF will reverse my erroneous fixing, but I cannot put things back the way they were.

  For anyone.

  THIRTY-TWO

  “‘WHY DO THE PLANTS SMELL LIKE US?’ YOU ASK.

  WHY NOT? WE DRINK THE SAME WATER,

  WE BREATHE THE SAME AIR. WE SHARE A HISTORY ON THIS EARTH.”

  —Ruza, Aromateur, 1818

  BACK IN AUNT Bryony’s rental car, we glide to the fountain. Thankfully nobody has pinched my bike. “What if Mr. Frederics really does like Alice? Is there an exception to the no-rekindling rule?”

  The emergency brake makes a ripping sound as she steps on it. “No, we can’t fix her again. It would be unfair.”

  A vision of an old and feeble Mr. Frederics seated in front of a TV tray flashes in my mind. He stares at a pink bakery box, sun-bleached white after decades of decorating the mantel.

  “You’re a worrier, like your mother. Here’s a secret for you.” She leans closer to me. “We’re not as powerful as we think.” Her amber eyes glitter. “Sometimes things happen that have nothing to do with our flowers, and the best we can do is the best we can do.”

  I hop out of the car to fetch my bike.

  She rolls down her window. “Meet you back at home.”

  Home.

  Afternoon sunshine makes the garden glow by the time I drop my bike in our courtyard. The light catches the droplets from our water misters and turns them into fireworks. I shuffle into the kitchen, where Aunt Bryony’s dropping vegetables into a pot of heating water.

  She smiles at me. “You’re back just in time. Sit down.”

  I pour myself onto a chair.

  “What possessed her to paint all the cupboards blue? It’s damn depressing.”

  “They’ve always been blue.” Like her clothes. Like her.

  “Not always. They used to be buttercup yellow.” She plucks the seven spices from the cabinet used to make Seven-Spice Soup. I watch her moving about the kitchen with ease. She knows where everything is.

  “Your mother still keeps them all separate, I see. She could save a lot of time by putting all seven in the same bottle, but no shortcuts for your mother.” She taps one of the containers with her fingernail. “Still even using the same rusty tins.”

  A bubble of defensiveness rises up, even though I know she means no offense. “We need to live frugally.”

  She hooks an eyebrow. “Please. She could sell these for a hundred times what we bought them for. The vintage look is very popular right now. The more banged up, the better.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know.”

  She shakes her head. “Dahli did always have trouble letting things go.”

  My gaze travels from the old spice tins to the chipped bowl we use for guacamole. Mother should’ve thrown that ugly thing out after she cut her thumb on the broken edge, but somehow, there it still squats in its usual spot on the counter. I never thought of Mother as sentimental, but I’m beginning to realize there’s a lot I didn’t know about her.

  Aunt Bryony positions a bell pepper on the cutting board, then starts chopping with a few slow strokes. The chopping increases in tempo until the very last slice, which she pops into her mouth.

  “Mother chops the exact same way.”

  She smiles at me, lost in a thought she doesn’t share. After adding the pepper to the soup pot, she rejoins me at the table and places her still-damp hand over mine. “So, are you ready to tell me why you called?”

  For a split second, I forget. Then the ugly truth pours down on me. I needed advice on how to fall out of love. But now it’s too late.

  I tap my nose, a nose whose only purpose now is to generate stuff for me to wipe. “I lost my nose.”

  Her eyebrows go crooked. “I figured. You smell like boiled beets.”

  My knee knocks into the table leg. Boiled beets—the telltale sign of desperation. “H-how? You can smell?”

  “Didn’t your mother tell you? It came back.”

  “Your smell came back?” I press my hands on the table to keep me steady.

  She nods. “The salt killed off all the old nose receptors and it took about four years to grow them back, but now they’re stronger than ever, just like how agapanthus becomes more hardy when you cut them down to their crowns. Aromateurs have always been good at adaptation.”

  “But sometimes, if you cut the agapanthus down too severely, it just dies.”

  “No, no. You can still smell this soup, can’t you?” I nod. “Your agapanthus didn’t die. And you’ll be able to go into the ocean whenever you want now.”

  “The ocean?”

  She looks at the wagon-wheel lamp that hangs from the ceiling. “What exactly did your mother tell you about me?”

  “She said you almost drowned. And then you lost your nose because you fell in love.”

  She leans her forearms against the table ledge. “You do know what a lie smells like, don’t you?”

  “Of course. She wasn’t lying.”

  “But I made it very clear in my letter.”

  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, I am the 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 fa
ll 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. I grip 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.