The Scent of Rain (11 page)

He searched for conversation to fill the awkward silence. “We should go somewhere else.”

“This is fine,” she said as they were led to their table.

The waitress, who smacked her gum and wore too much makeup, including drawn-on eyebrows in the shape of an exaggerated rainbow, set down two scratched jelly jars full of iced water. “You ready to order?” she asked as she pulled a standard number two pencil from behind her ear.

“We'll need a little time, thanks,” he said.

Daphne's eyes scanned the room, but he couldn't begin to know what she was thinking. She had that way about her, as if there was an entire world spinning in her head and she released none of it to the public.

“I should have asked for the name of a nicer restaurant, but I go out so rarely. My sister and I used to come here because it was loud, and if the baby cried, no one cared. It's time to update my repertoire.”

Daphne crossed her hands in front of her on the table. “I don't know what you mean. I prefer this over something fancy. Especially today.”

“Most of the restaurants I frequent give free toys away with the meals.”

She grinned and lifted her menu. “I hope I can hear you, is all. I'm anxious to know what my first project will be. Dave seems pretty anxious for us to get started.”

“Dave's always that way—get used to it. Let's order first. You have to be starving. They don't feed you on planes anymore.”

“No, but my mother packed me a meal.” She perused the menu, then looked back up at him. “She's Greek.”

“Huh?”

“Greek mothers like to feed you. They have a tendency to think their children are nothing but skin and bones. Even when they're spilling out of their clothes.”

He wasn't going to touch that with a ten-foot pole. Everything looked exactly right with her skin and bones.

Daphne dropped her menu on the table and with laser accuracy aimed her blue eyes directly at him. “Kensie told me your wife died. I'm so sorry. I felt like I should tell you so you didn't think I was gossiping.”

“I'm sure she did. I bet it was a real struggle for her to keep her mouth shut for three minutes.”

“When you said you weren't married earlier, you didn't explain, but I couldn't help but notice you have a wedding ring tattooed on your finger. It seemed a relatively benign thing to know about your boss. If he's married. How many kids he has.” She shrugged her shoulders.

He opened his mouth to reply when the waitress reappeared.

“You ready?”

“No,” he said, rather gruffly, and she vanished again.

“I thought maybe you were avoiding the topic of marriage with me because you knew I just got dumped.”

Jesse thought about what Kensie had said about communication being a large percentage underwater. No wonder he didn't understand women.

“No, that wasn't it at all.” He lifted his ring finger. “My wife was allergic to metal, so rather than rings, we both had this design made.” He dropped his hand again. “My life's not for the faint of heart. I just figured you had enough to deal with, and we'd keep this strictly professional.”

“Except for me needing help to get back to Paris and you needing me to stay through Christmas. Professional besides that, you mean?”

“I guess I do. You're very direct, aren't you? Not a lot misses your attention.”

“It comes from having your senses deepened in perfumery. I don't miss much. The exception being that I was about to be left at the altar.” She laughed.

“You're laughing?”

“I figure if I missed that, I missed something even bigger, and this is God's way of sparing me. Not that it feels that way at the moment.”

She didn't know how true that statement was, Jesse thought. But he had read Mark's letter, and he did know.

“Can I get you something to drink here?” The gum-smacking waitress stood over them again, with her pad uplifted.

“Uh . . .” Daphne seemed discomfited by the interruption.

“I'll have a Coke,” Jesse said, to hurry the waitress on her way. “Daphne?”

“Coffee,” she answered.

“Any appetizers?” the waitress asked.

“No.” Jesse shook his head and focused on Daphne again. Every time they started to find their footing, the blasted waitress interrupted.

“Ready to order?” she asked.

“Not just yet,” he snapped. “I'm sorry,” he said to Daphne. “You were saying?”

She paused and lifted the wax-covered bottle. “Interesting decor. Some of the old-school restaurants in North Beach have these.” She blew on it, and dust flew into a cloud and forced a cough. “I'm so sorry,” she said, laughing. “I don't know what made me do that!”

“Probably the fact that you're used to dining in better establishments. You have a great laugh, by the way.” He fiddled with his salad fork and noticed its water spots. “You may not believe this, but I used to be good at wining and dining clients when I was at P&G.”

“I'm sure you were,” she said, laughing again. “And I'm only laughing because I would totally do this. I'd remember some place fantastically in my mind, recalling the scents that lured me back, and then reality would strike when someone else asked what I'd been thinking. So I like it. It makes you very human.” She shook her head. “But don't bring a date here.”

“Duly noted.” He set the fork back down. “Did Kensie also tell you that there was suspicion that Hannah took her own life?”

“Well . . .” Daphne looked at the red-checked tablecloth rather than meet his eyes.

“She didn't commit suicide. She had an allergic reaction to the wrong medication. She was so young, and she knew about her allergies, so there was an inquiry into her death and time for rumors to get started. It turns out the pharmacist had filled the prescription wrong and gave her an antibiotic that caused anaphylaxis.”

“You don't owe me an explanation. I haven't taken anything Kensie said seriously.”

“I appreciate that, but I don't want you to look at me like Kensie does—like I'm a monster in a true-crime novel. If Kensie bothered to Google the event, the inquiry's findings are public.”

Daphne laughed. “You don't seem like a star in a Lifetime movie, but I'll keep that in mind.”

The waitress slammed the coffee cup to the table, spilling some of its contents. Daphne ripped open a salt packet and poured it into her cup. Jesse opened his mouth to say something, but after she sipped it and had no reaction, he supposed it was some French delicacy.

“I mean, the thing is,” Daphne said, “usually people say, ‘I'm divorced,' or ‘It's complicated.' Or even ‘I've never been married.' But you said, ‘I'm not married,' so it made me wonder if you were trying to spare my feelings. And I just wanted to say you don't need to worry about that. I know I was dumped. It's not going to interfere with my work, just as I'm sure all of your history doesn't interfere with yours. It's a strange world we live in when our business is so public, isn't it? That's why I'm public on my Facebook. I figure if someone wants to know it, they'll figure it out anyway. May as well hear it from me.”

Her forthright way left him dumbfounded. Hannah was always so reticent to share herself with him, even after four years of marriage. If she had told him more about her problems after Ben's birth, could he have changed the outcome?

“Willard told me I should go back to Paris.”

“He did?” Why didn't that surprise him? “You'll find out there's no shortage of opinions at Gibraltar.”

“It was nothing against you. He seems to really admire you. He just isn't sure that your department is going to make it, and he thinks I might be out of a job soon.”

“I think you'll be fine. It's me who may be out of a job. But if you were my sister and not the employee sent to save my department? Yes, I'd probably tell you to go back to Paris too.”

“I can't go back. At least not yet.”

“Rigatoni all right with you? It's the house special.”

She shook her head. “Just soup for me. The rigatoni might be too strong for my palate.”

The waitress brought him another Coke and refilled Daphne's coffee.

“Two minestrone soups to start.” He handed her the vinyl-covered menus. “Thank you.” He looked back at Daphne. “Isn't coffee strong on your palate?”

She pressed her cup to the table, her pink fingernails still wrapped around the white utilitarian cup. “Usually, but . . .” She reached for her water and gulped half the glass down.

He pulled his reports from his briefcase. “How did you get into this business?” he asked.

“I've always been fascinated by the smell of things, how scent is so connected to memory. I guess you could say it was the way I escaped as I child. Into my imagination.”

“Escaped from—?”

“Boredom. My family was small, and my parents were busy. I love the power that scent has, the ability to transform the energy of a place—like an earthy smell, or something as simple as a scented candle. It made me happy and made me feel loved when no one was around. Like an imaginary friend I could call up anytime.”

“You light up when you talk about it. What's the scent say about the energy in here?”

“Listen to me talking about myself. What's
your
favorite smell in the whole world?” she asked. “I should know something about my boss if I'm going to design for him, right?”

He thought for a moment. “I'm not sure it's marketable. My son. It's a mixture of baby shampoo and him. Can't really explain it, but that smell calms me like nitrous oxide. Reminds me that the struggle to do it all is worth it.”

“Most people can't explain it. That's why you hire marketing geniuses like Kensie. And why I create on emotion and not from a marketing plan. An emotion will stick with you in your memory and make your connection to a scent stronger. It creates loyal customers—that's why perfumers are always looking for the next Chanel No. 5. A scent that is fairly inexpensive to make, but one that customers are willing to pay for over the next one hundred years.”

Their soup came, and the waitress set the bowls before the two of them. Daphne bowed her head and said what must have been a silent prayer, then she did the oddest thing. She took the sugar container and sprinkled a heaping helping of sugar into her soup.

“Uh . . .” He reached his hand up but thought she must know what she was doing. Maybe with that special palate there were things a girl had to do. No doubt she had some quirks, with such strong senses.

She nodded as she tasted the soup. “Good.”

“You like it with sugar?”

She looked at the sugar container and then back at him. “Sure.” She stirred her soup zealously. “Doesn't everyone? Takes the bitterness out.”

“I didn't notice it was bitter. I guess my palate isn't as refined as yours.”

She smiled. “Let's talk about my first project, shall we?”

He felt so comfortable talking to Daphne. Maybe because this stranger shared her vulnerable thoughts over the sticky glass table. Maybe because she poured sugar in her soup and didn't care what others believed about her. He felt himself relax around her. It felt so good to not be so tightly wound.

But just the thought of opening up emotionally and making a fool out of himself made him shovel his soup into his mouth to avoid speaking.

Everyone carried baggage, she supposed, but the way she saw Jesse's, with his tortured eyes and his lack of faith in a job he obviously had done well, enlightened her to her own set of faults. No one probably saw her situation as dire as she did. Resilience was required. Life was meant to be lived triumphantly, not passed in the dark corners of one's worst moments. She saw where she'd gone wrong with Mark, believing what she wanted to believe about him, creating her own hero in her mind and pushing away the shadowy questions she had—all in the name of love. Love, or denial?