The Scent of Rain (23 page)

“It must be hard not to have answers as to why Mark didn't show up that day.”

Daphne nodded.

“There were no warning signs?”

“I'm sure there were many, but I missed them. I loved him.”

“That's why they say love is blind. Was he a believer?”

Daphne nodded. “He went to church with me whenever we were together.”

Anne flattened her lips as if that didn't offer any proof.

“Well, maybe not. But I felt like a princess whenever he was around. He laughed at my jokes. He knew everyone, and he has this way about him that makes people feel important when they're with him. And he wanted to marry me.” Her countenance fell. “I thought.”

“How long were you engaged?”

“A year, but a lot of that time I was still in Paris finishing up my perfuming degree. We met in chemistry. At UC–Berkeley.”

“It's probably too soon to know what you learned from that relationship, but I have learned from every relationship in my life. Even the ones that hurt me severely.”

“You had someone hurt you like this?”

“Well, not exactly. I've had pastors I trusted turn out to not be as truthful as I liked. I've seen men I really admired hurt my husband to get ahead. I think that hurts more, when someone hurts Roger. Or my children.”

Daphne stared out the window and tried to memorize the markers they passed, see how the town was laid out and where she might get groceries if she needed them. She felt ridiculous staying with complete strangers. She didn't need to be taken care of; she was ready to get back to work. Or work on getting back her sense of smell. Something that gave her a renewed sense of purpose.

“I'm not saying my experiences compare to being left on your wedding day. Just that when people let us down, it's not always because we did something to deserve it.”

“I'll never understand what I did to Mark to warrant his treating me that way. As if I were nothing more than something on the bottom of his shoe. I loved him. And even after what he did to me, I can't bring myself to hate him.”

Anne patted her hand. “Someday someone will be worthy of that love, dear. Mark wasn't.”

Daphne wondered if anyone had called Mark to tell him of her near-death experience. Would he have cared if she'd died in that rattletrap he'd bought? Would he have taken any responsibility for it? She hated to admit that she still hoped the man she loved might return to her. But had that man ever existed at all, or had she simply created the perfect hero and he fit the suit?

Maybe the hero in her dream—her boss—was meant to represent a different way of looking at life. When she had time, she'd try to figure out what it all meant. Dreams never meant what literally happened in them. She knew that she didn't harbor romantic thoughts toward Jesse.

While she was in the hospital, Daphne had asked the doctor about her lost sense. They ran a few tests—she didn't want to think about the cost—but all they'd concluded was that her issue was “psychosomatic.” A cold way to put it, she thought. She supposed if there was any way to reframe the gas incident at the house, besides the fact that she hadn't been blown to smithereens, it was that her timely passing out had spared her the humiliation of seeing Jesse rescuing her with full cognition. Also, a neighbor, Mr. Riley, was apparently a nice man who'd told Jesse he'd keep watch over the house until she returned. She liked that neighbors still did that. It almost made her want to get a newspaper so someone could collect it when she went on vacation. Maybe she could find a way to make Dayton work, even if Gibraltar hadn't.

“Here we are.”

Anne's house stood in a quiet neighborhood with other ranch homes just like it. Sixties, pale yellowish brick halfway up the exterior walls, and the rest white stucco. As they drove up, Anne's husband came out the door as if he'd been waiting for them with one hand on the doorknob.

“Well, this is our bloom—Daphne, is it? Welcome, welcome!”

Roger had the essence of Santa Claus. If Daphne had to give him a scent, it would be Irish Spring soap. He was a man's man— big, lumbering, and with a full head of hair that he'd obviously tried to dye into the brown family.

“Welcome to our home. Your friend Sophie's plane has been delayed, but she called from Denver to tell me she'd take a taxi when she arrives. You Californians are so worried about putting people out. We
like
to go to the airport. It makes us feel like world travelers, doesn't it, dear?”

Anne agreed.

“Thank you, Roger. I hope I'm not going to be here too long. I won't be any trouble.”

“Nonsense. Hasn't Anne told you? We get lonely when it's just the two of us. Now, I had a contractor go over to your place this morning—”

“Roger, let her at least get into the house.”

“Sure, sure.” He went right on speaking as they walked inside. “You know, Daphne, it appears that the stove was hooked up wrong. It was just leaking little vapors all along, ever since it was installed. It wasn't original to the house, so obviously some do-it-yourselfer didn't know what he was doing. Never play with gas or electricity, Daphne. Most everything else— Oh, and plumbing. You don't want to mess with any of those things. They can cause so much damage if you don't know what you're doing.”

“Roger!” Anne chastised. “Let her into the house.”

“She's in.” Roger took Daphne's bag.

The house had a low ceiling and was filled with antiques and collectibles on doilies. Everything seemed breakable, and yet it all had obviously made it through the last fifty years. Against one wall there was an enormous elaborate upright piano that looked like it belonged in a church.

“I'm going to put you and Sophie in the boys' old bedroom, so you can be together. That's all right, isn't it?” Anne said.

“It's perfect.”

“She should be on the plane by now,” Roger said.

Daphne could hardly wait. If she didn't talk to someone about how she still couldn't smell—someone who couldn't fire her—she might go mad. Daphne wasn't the kind to keep secrets; it was almost worse than losing her sense of smell. She felt like such a fraud, and yet as much as she trusted Roger and Anne, she didn't know what Jesse had said to Gibraltar about firing her. Considering that she had lied, she figured he had the right to tell whatever story he liked.

Anne pointed to a huge stack of post boxes in one corner. “Those are your wedding gifts. I've got them boxed up and ready to send back—I assumed you were sending them back. They were in the hall closet inside the house.”

“Yes, but—I planned to write thank-you notes and tuck them inside. My mother would kill me if I didn't say a proper thank-you.”

“No problem. I tucked in a note saying you'd had a small accident and I'd be handling things if they had any questions. I think it's best to give everyone as little information as possible to cut down on the gossip.”

“Wow, you thought of everything.” They walked back to the living room, and Daphne sank into the sofa, wondering what she'd do with all the time on her hands. “I'll never be able to thank you.”

“Never mind,” Roger said. “If we only do for people who can do for us back, we have our reward in full. Isn't this what St. Paul said? ‘Care for the women and orphans'? With your parents off in Europe, you qualify as an orphan. Even if it's only temporary.”

Daphne smiled, but inwardly she winced. She'd always felt like other friends' parents parented her while hers were off at opera openings and fund-raisers. Being in a warm, comfortable house only made her think of what she'd thought she'd have with Mark. She'd purposely picked a man who didn't have aspirations for high society—but apparently he'd had more than she imagined.

“Let me show you to your room,” Anne said again. “It's right this way.”

They walked down a dark hallway and came to the end of the passage. The room was small and stuffed with furniture from every era. There was a dresser from 1950 or so, big and blocky, and two twin beds without headboards, and an antique rocking chair that looked like it belonged on the front porch of an old-fashioned general store.

“I hope you'll be comfortable here, but if you need more space, you can take the room next door as well.” Anne sat on the bed. “Daphne, I haven't heard you release a breath since I picked you up. Relax. People here like to take care of their neighbors.”

“It's just—I'm not helpless. I can go with Roger to work on the house.”

“I don't think you realize just how much work that house is going to be. But speaking of work, I'm going to call Jesse and find out what the story is.”

“I wish you wouldn't. He had his reasons.”

“I don't care what his reasons are, he didn't give you a fair shake.” Anne acted as though something disagreed with her. “You should just go and get settled anyway. Don't worry about a thing.”

How did she argue with that logic?

“By the way, a letter came for you at the office from your ex-whatever-he-was.” Anne pulled a blue envelope off the dresser. “Jesse didn't want to give it to you, but it is yours. Yet I agree with Jesse: I can't think of any excuse that would suffice for what that man did.”

“He didn't want to give it to me?” For some reason, the news made her hopeful. She'd searched for the letter that Mark sent to Jesse, only to find it inexplicably missing.

Roger appeared in the doorway, and Anne drew him into the discussion.

“Roger, tell Daphne she doesn't need to have the whole kit and caboodle of a husband and family to settle down. She's never had a home. Now she has one.”

“A right nice one too,” Roger said. “You've got a nice neighborhood and a good solid structure. Just needs some loving care.”

“And the ability for me to pay the mortgage. But Sophie sent my cologne sample to my old boss in Paris, so I'm hopeful something might come from that.” She wasn't really, but what point was there in saying so?

Anne crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knee. “Well, Paris, that's a pretty strong draw. Dayton probably can't compete with the likes of Paris. But I'd wager that Jesse could hold his own with any decent man in any society.”

“Jesse fired me, Anne. Remember?”

“He what?” Roger shouted. “But Anne told me that Dave hired you; how is it that Jesse can fire you?”

“That's just what I said!” Anne cried. “Roger will get to the bottom of this.”

“No, I wish you wouldn't. Roger doesn't even work there.”

“But he's Jesse's pastor,” Anne said, ignoring Daphne's groan. “I'm going to start lunch. My man gets like a bear if he doesn't eat. Can't allow guests to see that happen.”

“I have a hard time believing that Roger ever gets mad.”

“And I have a hard time believing Jesse was ever angry with you, so I guess we'll have to trust one another.”

There was that blasted word again. But without a car, a place to live, or a job, Daphne supposed she had little choice in the matter. In any matter. She stared at the letter from Mark, and all she wanted to do was rip into it.

“I'll have Roger bring in the knitting basket, and you can knit until it's time for lunch.”

“I really don't like to knit anymore. Jesse was just being nice. I'll help with lunch. There's nothing wrong with me. Please don't make me sit in here and do nothing. I'll go crazy.”

“All right. You read your letter and then come find me in the kitchen.” Anne grasped her wrist in a show of warmth and left the room.

Daphne lifted the blue envelope to her nose, hoping for a whiff of the cologne she'd created for Mark, but again she smelled nothing. She'd been on her iPhone all night in search of a reason for stress-induced anosmia but couldn't find any such disease. The causes of a lost sense of smell were generally more serious than stress. She didn't have any sort of cold or infection, so it couldn't be that, and the gas leak hadn't happened until afterward, so it wasn't toxically induced. The loss had been sudden. And complete. Which also didn't bode well for finding the cause.

If she'd only lost part of her sense, the future would seem brighter, but it wasn't going to be something she could hide for long. Even if she didn't work at Gibraltar, what else was she capable of doing with her background?

She slid her fingernail under the blue-lined envelope until the seal gave way, then she took a deep breath and unfolded the letter. Typed, not handwritten. She clutched it to her chest. “At least you typed a full letter and not a text.”

“Are you talking to me?” Roger had reappeared with the knitting basket that seemed to follow her around like a stray dog.

“You startled me. No, I was just narrating my letter for myself.”

“Talking to yourself is a sign of insanity.”

“I think it's just a sign of working in a lab by oneself with lots of solvents.” She grinned. “Tell Anne I'll be out in a minute.”