The Flame (2 page)

Stop it. Everything’s fine. Stranger things have happened during Mardi Gras. You’re lucky it wasn’t
— She’s at a loss for how to finish this thought. Worse? Better? Are they one and the same when you find yourself on the verge of surrendering to a threesome with your husband and your best friend?

When the smell hits her, she assumes she’s having a stroke. Isn’t that how it works? Burnt toast. That’s what people report smelling in the moment before an artery gives way or one side of their body goes limp.

But while there is a light, toasty quality to the aroma filling her nostrils, it’s more like a top note, and the smells beneath it are multiplying. In her mind’s eye, she sees the petals of a blossom falling away and wonders if that’s exactly what’s happening; if the rain has pummeled a potted flower somewhere nearby with enough strength to peel it apart until its central bud is unleashing raw, earthy scents that are blending with the oil in the gutters. But there are no planters nearby, not on the window ledges or front steps in either direction. Maybe on the balcony overhead…? No, that’s probably not right either. These smells are not of the earth. These smells are…
men
.

She cackles at the thought. Ridiculous! But it’s there. And not just any men either—
her
men.

Her men?
Insane to think of them in that way! Her husband, maybe. But not Shane. Not proud, gay Shane, with his endless series of casual boyfriends. It doesn’t matter. Whatever title she bestows upon them, their combined essences have somehow joined her on this tiny island of dry sidewalk amidst the storm.

Here is her husband’s familiar musk, tempered by a sweeter scent that reminds her of baking bread. It makes her see the dark rings around his nipples and the smooth sweep of his tan, muscular inner thigh where she loves to rest her hand after sex. Then another, less familiar set of aromas intrudes, a lighter bouquet she was accustomed to smelling from a safe distance until a few nights before. Shane is sweet olive with a hint of earthy vetiver, both of which make her see his blue eyes and the gentle angel’s press in his upper lip, the startled expression he gave her after their thrilling and forbidden kiss. A kiss he gave her, in part, because her husband put his hand on the back of his neck and made him do it.

How could her efforts have backfired so badly? She tried to dispel the shocking memory of their—she wants to call it a
mistake
again, but the overpowering smells haven’t waned and for some reason they make it impossible for her to hold fast to the judgment-filled word.

In her effort to forget that night—not a night really, just a few minutes before they were interrupted—she has summoned the smells of it. The smell of them.
Together.
What other explanation could there be?

The wood plank sign hanging above the entrance to the courtyard across the street is brand-new, Cassidy is sure of it. It looks weathered and old but so do the signs for most of the shops in the Quarter, and often because they’ve been treated to look that way. She has to squint to make out the logo, a vague outline of something that’s been carved into the wood and painted gold. A flame, a tiny candle’s flame, and beneath it the words,
Feu de Coeur
. She has only a few years of high school French behind her, but she thinks it means
fire of the heart
.

For a few seconds, she’s convinced the sign is another piece of some elaborate hallucination. But the tiny gold flame and the store’s prim French name can only mean one thing—a candle shop. And thank God, because it’s an explanation. She’s not having a stroke or some out-of-body experience. And she’s not suffering from madness induced by almost taking an insane sexual risk with the two men she loves the most.

It’s a candle shop. That’s what she smells.

The rain has lessened, but not enough to justify walking across the street toward the courtyard’s entrance without fear of damaging the tapestries in her arms. Still, she won’t be convinced she’s not crazy or delirious until she sets foot inside the shop itself.

The courtyard is home to a tiny coffee shop, a gurgling fountain, and riots of banana trees erupting from dirt squares that reveal what fragile cover the brick floor underfoot gives to the wet soil. At first, Cassidy thinks the tinny sounds of 1920’s jazz are coming from the coffee shop where a gaggle of excited, rain-soaked tourists, speaking rapidly in some foreign tongue—German, she thinks, or Swedish—have gathered around an assemblage of cast-iron tables and chairs.

She’s wrong. The music, a spirited counterpoint to the rain’s steady patter, is coming from the candle shop she’s never noticed before now.

A sign just like the one over the courtyard’s entrance hangs above the tiny shop’s front door. From a few feet away, she can see the rows of identical candles lining each shelf in the front window. The glass containers are so large she could pick one up in both hands and her fingers would just barely touch around its circumference.

The smells get stronger as she approaches the shop’s front door, and now that she’s laid eyes on what is most likely their source, it’s almost impossible to believe they contain essences of her husband and best friend. Whatever oils are mixed into these dark treasures, they’ve simply stirred memories deep within her. That’s all—fresh, not-yet-buried-enough memories.

It would be intolerably rude of her to carry the dripping rolls of tapestry inside, and she fears leaning them against the front door would be just as inconsiderate. So she tries propping them against a column a few feet from the entrance, and is still jostling them into balance when a male voice behind her says, “You can bring them in if you want.”

The man is handsome in a delicate, fine-boned way. He polishes the fog from his glasses with the edge of his vest while studying her casually at the same time; his lack of nervousness at her sudden presence suggests the confidence of a storeowner. Even in a neighborhood where people have a tendency to dress as if they’ve walked out of another era, there is a particular otherworldly elegance to his silk vest and tailored linen slacks.

“Oh, I wouldn’t! They’re soaked,” she says.

“They’re beautiful,” he responds with a smile.

“Are they? I guess. Sure. I—I’m Cassidy Burke.” She grimaces and jerks a shoulder in his direction to indicate she’d like nothing more than to shake his hand if her arms were free.

With another comforting smile, the man closes the distance between them and takes the wet rolls of tapestry from her arms before she can protest. She hates the thought of him dampening his immaculate outfit. But before she can stop him, he’s upended all three rolls and placed them just inside the front door of his shop.

Inside, a thick Oriental carpet covers the hardwood floor, and the shelves along every wall are gleaming, varnished mahogany that matches the burnt-umber glass containers holding each candle. But the closer Cassidy looks at the candles, the more she can make out shades of purple amidst the brown. Is the wax one color and the glass containers another? Are the two shades working together to create an effect of syrupy, luxuriant darkness?

There’s no counter or register, just a little desk pushed into one of the back corners where she spots a pile of receipts and a calculator. Several wheels of brightly colored ribbon are pinned to the wall above. The store’s centerpiece is a round table with a black marble top and serpentine supports lined with flecks of ivory that curl upward like jeweled snakes united in the effort of holding the table’s central column upright. There’s a huge vase of yellow flowers, and beneath it a silver tray with a candle just like the one on the shelves. Only this one is lit, and the smells wafting from it have caused her face to flush. They’re causing something else to happen as well, and she hopes, she
prays
, the store’s owner hasn’t noticed. But the rain has soaked her from her head to toe, turning her blouse into a wet napkin over her fiercely hard nipples.

“Cassidy?”
Shane asks. His tone is full of yearning, but she can’t answer him back. Her head is spinning. Her heart is racing and there’s a voice in her head that keeps crying,
It’s happening! This is happening!
And she can’t tell if this voice sounds joyful or if it’s screaming words of warning. The way Shane strokes her breast feels hesitant and awkward at first. But then she realizes the little slips of his fingertips across the fabric of her blouse and bra have a purpose; he’s searching for her nipple, searching for one of the seats of her deepest pleasure.

They’re best friends, have been since they were kids. She’s never kept a secret from him, and he’s never asked her a question she couldn’t answer. But now…but now… Somehow just saying his name in response or saying
“Yes, I’m here,”
will feel as good as saying,
“Keep going. I want this. I’ve always wanted this so much.”

Her husband’s tongue traces a path up the opposite side of her neck, swirls beneath her earlobe. Then his hand slides up her thigh, squeezing—encouraging—and he takes her earlobe gently in his teeth. She shudders. Her sex ignites as if she’s been penetrated and—

“Cassidy’s Corner,” the man says. “That’s your shop, isn’t it?”

Amazing how such a gentle voice could snap her back into the present so quickly. “It is,” she says quietly. Her cheeks must be crimson.

“Lovely place. I’ve been in a few times. Of course, I’m not sure if you remember. Nor would I expect you to, what with the foot traffic around these parts. And it’s possible the other lady was behind the register at the time.”

There’s no trace of New Orleans, or anywhere southern, for that matter, in his impeccable pronunciation. His manner of speaking is refined and utterly devoid of any regional accent, like a British actor who has trained himself for American television.

“Clara?”

“Yes. That was her name. Clara. Two C’s—Cassidy and Clara. What a charming name that would make!”

“Maybe. But I can’t afford to give Clara a cut of the profits, so I’ll stick with Cassidy’s Corner.”

“Indeed,” the man says, laughing gently. “I’m Bastian Drake. And now that your hands are free…” He extends his, and even though it feels rude, she studies it briefly before taking it. There doesn’t appear to be a single line in the man’s palm. Does he spend his evenings soaking his hands in some kind of essential oil? Or maybe he uses those silly gloves Shane tried to get her to sleep with every night until she woke up one too many times with one of them on her forehead and the other halfway down the covers, a slimy trail of moisturizer in its wake.

When she shakes Bastian’s hand, she’s afraid he’ll be able to detect the arousal in her. Something about this fear makes her feel as if she’s doing something morally questionable. She wonders if lingering in some tiny, otherworldly little shop with a beautiful man who appears to have stepped out of time constitutes some kind of infidelity. She feels a warm familiarity for Bastian Drake, but no desire—no
lust
. It’s thoughts of her own husband the candle before her has stirred. That’s all.

Oh, if only that were all,
she chides herself.
If only it was
only
your husband you were thinking of right now.

“Cassidy?”
Shane asks again. She’s loves the halting sound of his voice, the gentle plea. He’s always been a man of impulse and action. He is rough with other men, rough with everything—keys that jam, doors that get stuck. But with her, he has always taken his time and asked for permission. But never has he asked to do something like this.

“Cassidy?”

Her best friend’s breath against her neck, his hand on her breast, her husband gently kneading her thigh and nibbling her earlobe—when she tries to speak under the delicious assault of these pleasures, all that comes from her lips is a long, ragged sigh. And that’s when Andrew grabs the back of Shane’s neck. Before Cassidy can say her best friend’s name, his lips have met hers, his tongue has slipped inside her mouth, and even though his throaty grunt sounds startled, he’s rising up off the bench to meet the full force of her kiss, his hand leaving her breast and cupping the side of her face for the first time…

“Mr. Drake?”

“Yes, dear.”

“What is
in
this candle?”

He smiles. “I believe the question is, what
isn’t
in that candle?”

“A riddle. I see.”

“Perhaps, but not quite,” he says, laughing again. “It’s probably not the best business practice to put it quite this bluntly, but I’m not your average candlemaker.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as an
average
candlemaker.”

“Good point. What I mean to say is that in other stores you’ll find various groupings of scents. Florals on one shelf, spices on another. Not here. Here, every candle is unique.”

“Interesting marketing,” Cassidy says.

“Perhaps, in that it involves faith.”

“Faith?”

“Not in the religious sense, necessarily. But from my perspective, I must have faith that a particular scent will find the customer it needs to find.”

“How often does it work?”

“It appears to be working right now,” he says.

“May I?” she asks, fingering the edge of a label that folds over like a gift card.

Bastian Drake nods. She lifts one edge and reads the message written in calligraphic script inside:

Light this flame at the scene of your greatest passion and your heart’s desire will be yours.

A shudder goes through her. She’s not sure if it’s fear or desire or both, but the innocent sounding invitation combines with the transportive effects of the scent. Suddenly she finds herself setting the candle back on the tray slowly and with a trembling hand.

“Take it.”

Bastian Drake is next to her suddenly. His smooth, pale hand has closed over hers. The candle’s glass base is frozen inches above the silver tray. She braces for a waft of his breath, but none comes. Indeed, the man gives off no smell at all. Where he held the dripping wet rolls of tapestry against his chest just minutes before, his Oxford and silk vest are smooth and dry.