The Scent of Rain (12 page)

“We have an idea for a sports detergent,” Jesse said. “It can be marketed toward mothers, but also to single young men. The idea behind it is that it wipes away the memories of sweaty athletics, but reminds people you're an athlete. A contender.”

“The emotion?” She tapped her bottom lip. “Competing?”

“Winning. The emotion is how it feels to win,” Jesse said. “Think of the World Cup after a qualifying soccer game, an iron man after a track meet.”

They stared at each other, then both broke into laughter.

“So not us?”

“Basically, yes.” Jesse chuckled. “You said to create an emotion.”

“An emotion I've felt.” She ripped off a piece of French bread. “But I guess no one is going to buy a detergent called Loser, huh?”

“So we have to reach back a little further. Like the quarterback who peaked in high school. What's your last win?” Jesse handed her the cup of butter pats.

“Getting one of the spots at perfume school when my father told me it was a waste of time to apply.”

“Why did he tell you that?”

“My dad's all business. The odds weren't good, but I had faith. What about you?”

“When I became one of the youngest VPs at P&G.”

They gazed at each other again, and an unseen connection formed between them.

“It's not all in the past. Our wins.” She didn't know if she meant it, but it felt like the right thing to say as a believer.

Jesse shook his head. “I know. God has always come through for me.”

She nodded, surprised by his taking it to a place of faith. “Not always the way we imagine it. I'm wondering what my time here will teach me.”

He cupped his hand over hers. “Me too.”

She cleared her throat, and he pulled his hand away. “So back to Loser . . . which I think should be the code name for our detergent.”

“I love it. That will take the pressure off while we create a winner.”

“What scent were you going to start with?”

“Something woodsy, I think. But that's what we're paying you for, correct? What makes
you
think of winning? A spicy wood? Cedar? Balsam?” He slid the report toward her. “This is your budget, and all the notes will need to be included as well as the formulation. Here are your formulation costs.” He pointed to a number.

“This is it?”

“This is the difference between a spicy-fruit water and home products.”

“We don't want to make it too woodsy, or it will be too masculine. I think we need top notes of citrus to add energy to the sport. The feeling of winning is one of exhilaration. Citrus tingles the senses.”

She rummaged in the briefcase at her feet and pulled out a wooden kit, which she opened to reveal several vials that he could only assume were her key ingredients.

“What do you think of starting with this?” She pulled the stopper from one of her vials and with the dropper dripped a few drops of oak moss.

“You always carry that with you?”

“You never know when inspiration will strike. I just carry the basics.”

“Oak moss is a basic? That's what sugary soup will do, I guess. Inspire.”

She ignored the comment. “Now this is predictable, expected. Wait until I add something to lighten it.” She looked into the depth of Jesse's eyes. The dark swirl of blue and green made her think of a triumphant navy ship, its men lined up on deck in perfect uniform. “Patchouli for health.” She swirled the mixture, and Jesse sniffed the concoction.

“Strong.”

“Too strong without the energizing citrus.” She looked through her vials and found apple and pineapple. “What about this for starters?”

He nodded and looked pleased. She took great pleasure in the thought that her mind and memory could work without her sense of smell. At least in the early stages.

“It's incredible.”

“Maybe it needs an oceanic note for that feeling of freedom.”

Jesse smiled. “I honestly feel like we can win again.”

She put the stopper back on the pineapple vial. “We
can
win again, Jesse.”

“What's the cost of this, though?”

“We don't have to go organic. Everything can be created in the lab. Synthetic can be done cheaply for scent, and we can use the organic detergent granules.”

“This gets me so inspired,” Jesse said. “I feel like we could expand the lines. Even consider some of Kensie's crazy ideas.”

“Such as?”

“Sexy fabric softener.”

She nodded. “I get it. A fresh market. Single women. Maybe even single men. Think about it—everyone loves how fabric softener makes your clothes feel. And there's nothing better than climbing into clean sheets, fresh from the dryer. It's like a warm cloud surrounding you. A cuddly baby blanket effect. But if you're single, and you're going out for a night on the town, do you want to smell like silky sheets or a baby's blanket? Silky sheets have an appeal.” At the way he looked at her, she instantly backed down. “Not that I'd know. I've just been in Paris, you know. Everything is about being alluring and—”

“You don't have to explain. I didn't think you were ready to hit the singles' bars. It's just that I can't remember the last time I went out for more than a church potluck, so I'm not this market.” He smirked. “My sister does the laundry. I doubt she's concerned about my being sexy. The mere thought would probably make her laugh.”

As fresh as her breakup sting was, Daphne had little problem imagining Jesse as sexy. In fact, she suspected that fact was hard to miss by most women, whether he smelled like baby powder or musky leather. For the first time since losing her sense of smell, she felt excited about creating.

“Granted, asking men to buy fabric softener is probably farfetched, but single women? What if you added some spice notes, like amber or cloves? Add a top note of musk or woods? Package it in red, and Scents & the City is born.”

Jesse cocked an eyebrow, and she wondered how it was that she felt she could trust someone whose story she knew so little of—who left so many unanswered questions. But she did. She even
liked
him, and that's what worried her the most, she supposed. He made the feeling of wanting to shoot arrows for hours on end go away. He reminded her that her ability to create went beyond her sense of smell.

“I have to admit that when you didn't say anything about my car on the ride over here, I was worried.”

“Your car?”

“The spoiled milk smell. I found a sippy cup full of milk curdled into a solid this morning. I was worried you might vomit upon getting in.”

Her eyes went wide. “Nope. You don't give me enough credit.”

“Then when that skunk smell on the road didn't dissipate—”

As quickly as confidence had filled her, it puddled around her ankles, and she corked the vial of the scent she'd created at the table. The scent she had no ability to test herself. “Maybe we should get back to the office.”

She didn't meet Jesse's gaze. God forbid that he discover what a fraud she was. Maybe Mark had known instinctively that her career would fizzle as quickly as it ignited. For some reason, she wished she could show Jesse otherwise . . . that she could retain some sense of what it meant to win.

Chapter 7

D
aphne finished her tasteless soup and her first day at work and took a taxi to a hotel nearest to an all-night clinic. The hotel was close to Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, and she seemed to be the only overnight guest without fatigues.

She dropped off her bags and her bow but took a few scents with her to test her olfactory systems with the doctor on call. Freshly expelled essential oils from ylang-ylang and sandalwood, which she'd steam-distilled herself before she left California. She also grabbed the bottle of Volatility! just in case. She'd called ahead and let the clinic know she was coming and had spoken with the doctor himself. He'd taken her Visa number and said he'd meet her at the clinic. She didn't think that was a very good sign, but how many options did she have, on her own in a brand-new city? She rushed out of the hotel before she talked herself out of getting immediate help.

The clinic was a squat brick building with few windows. The doctors hadn't spent much on landscaping, but that was probably due to their laser focus on medicine.

“You're sure someone is here?” the taxi driver asked her.

“I'm sure,” she said, but she took his card for a ride home. She tugged on the glass doors and was met by a young man in a lab coat.

“Daphne?”

She nodded. “Are you old enough to be a doctor?” As a child interested in science, she'd loved Doogie Howser, but she didn't want to be his patient. She stammered, “Thank you so much for staying late. I just started a new job today.”

“I assure you, I am fully licensed. Dr. Seghal Seema,” he said, reaching out his hand. “What new job did you start?”

“I—I work for Gibraltar Industries.”

“Ah. They're a nice stronghold in this town. I guess laundry detergent doesn't suffer too much in the down economy.”

“No.”

“Let's go into my office. Katy,” he said to a mousy woman behind the receptionist's desk, “you can lock the doors now.”

Katy stared at them with an eerie calm, and Daphne shuddered as she followed the doctor into his office.

“Have a seat.”

She sat in a bright orange dental chair, and the doctor pulled a stethoscope from his pocket. “You say it's your sense of smell?”

“Yes, and it's crucial I get it back.” She didn't mention her position, nor did she plan to. Who knew how small of a town Dayton might be?

“How long has your sense of smell been gone?”

“Nearly five days now.”

“Are your taste buds affected as well?”

“Yes.”

“Did it leave you suddenly, or did you lose it gradually over time?”

“Suddenly.”

He took his two hands and felt her neck. “Your glands don't seem swollen. That's a good sign. You haven't had rhinoplasty— a nose job—recently, have you?”

“If I had, it would look more like Angelina Jolie's.”

Not so much as a smile.

“Were you hit by anything? Any blunt-force trauma?”

“No.”

He took out a scope and looked into each ear. “You don't appear to have excess fluid. Any colds recently?”

“None.”

“Allergies?”

“No.”

“I'm going to check your nose for polyps now.”

She winced automatically. “My nose is very important to me. Can you try as much as possible not to touch the edges of it?”

“Of course,” he said as he stuffed in the speculum with what could only be described as blunt-force trauma. Her eyes watered.

He set the scope down, placed his hands on his knees, and rolled backward. “It must be allergies. I don't see anything.”

“Is it—is it possible that an emotional trauma could cause this?”

“Anything is possible, but I highly doubt it.”

“Is there anything that can fix it? I really need to smell.” She forced the desperation from her voice. He didn't seem the type to respond to hysterics.

“This type of thing is usually caused by an underlying infection.”

“So what can I take?”

“Well, I can give you some antibiotics. Of course, we don't like to prescribe them unnecessarily. Maybe some steroids would help with any inflammation that may be causing the problem. You can take zinc. Of course, that can cause a problem if you take too much. You haven't been upping your intake of zinc, have you?”

“Not unless zinc is in wedding cake.”

The doctor blinked. “No, that wouldn't cause an overload of zinc,” he said with all seriousness. “But if it doesn't go away, I think we'll want to do a CT scan. We'll want to make sure there're no lesions or tumors that could be causing this.”

“What about stress? Can stress cause it?”

“You said you just started work today. How much stress could you be under?”

“Well . . .” She paused. “I moved across the country.” She preferred not to tell him that she'd been left at the altar. Something told her he wouldn't get the emotional connection.

“This is short-term. I'm certain of it.”

“What about Botox?” she said desperately. “Could that make my sense of smell work again? I saw your poster in the entryway.”

He shook his head. “No. If anything, it's more likely to cause the problem. Maybe if you took your mind off of getting your sense of smell, it would come back. Do you have any hobbies?”