The Scent of Hours: A Novel by Barbara O'Neal

Author:Barbara O'Neal [O'Neal, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lake Union Publishing
Published: 2024-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

11

Nikki’s Perfume Journal Entry

Ingredients: Castoreum

Class: Animal

Castoreum is a dried follicular substance that comes from the secretion of the prepuce glands of male or female beavers. This secretion is stored in a gland that produces an oily substance. The beaver uses the oily substance to waterproof its coat and to mark its territory. The gland is treated with volatile solvents to obtain resinoids and absolutes. Today, beaver secretions are mostly replaced by synthetic substances.

Sundays at Annie’s were very busy. She served an organic brunch buffet and it was renowned far and wide. The sideboards in every room groaned with generous slices of orange and green and yellow melons, sliced bloodred tomatoes, steaming trays of free-range eggs and organic meats, overflowing baskets of grainy, fruity muffins and sticky Danishes. Eggs and pancakes were cooked to order, and that was what kept us busy.

It was surprisingly agreeable work. The customers were generally in fine spirits, happy to be breakfasting with family or friends, alive and eating well on a fine Sunday morning in Colorado. The buzz of their voices was a composition of pleasure, men and women and children punctuated with laughter. Hard to imagine a more satisfying sound.

I was off at one, and sat down at the bar to have a soda before I left. I counted tips happily, stacking up bills and quarters in neat piles for Zara to cash in for me.

“Want a mimosa?” she asked, holding up a wine bowl with a liquid the color of dawn. “Somebody ordered one and changed her mind.”

“Tempting, but no. I’m driving.”

“Oh, please,” she said, and put it down in front of me. “It has maybe a half serving of champagne. Live a little.”

I plucked the cherry and orange garnish from the rim. “What the heck. I’m going to eat too.”

A woman with dark hair sleekly pulled away from her face sailed into the bar. She was strikingly beautiful, with enormous blue plum eyes and high cheekbones, and the lean limbs of a teenager. “Hallo, Zara!” she sang out in an English accent. “How are you?”

Zara slanted a glance my way. I gave her a perplexed glance in return. Was I supposed to know this woman? She shook her head. “Good, Hannah. Tequila?”

“Please—and make it a double, if you would. I’m just home from the Islands, and you know how depressing it is to return from holiday.”

That, I thought, would explain the pecan-colored tan on her bare arms and legs. She wore a skirt of pale turquoise, embroidered with beads and glittery things on the hem. I separated dimes from the pile of change and watched Zara pour top-end tequila into a mixing glass with ice, put a lime in the bottom of a martini glass, and strained the now-cold tequila into it. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” She sipped. “Ooh, perfect. You’re always so good.”

Zara dried glasses from the rubber matting by her sink. Her body posture was extraordinarily stiff and I wondered what the history was between these two. Clearly, Hannah either did not realize or did not care that Zara found her about as appealing as a woman-size cockroach.

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