“Madame Doussan’s French Perfumery”
Oh, Ibby thought. It’s a shop. Madame Doussan owns a perfume shop. Her heart slowed down. In the back of her mind she’d harbored a notion that perhaps Fannie was going to drop her off at this Madame’s house and leave her for good.
Fannie opened the door to the tinkling of a brass bell. As they stepped inside, a barrage of fragrances bombarded them. The tiny shop was long and narrow, crammed with glass-enclosed counters on the right side, and thin shelves holding a variety of perfume bottles, atomizers, and a splendid display of bath salts, powders, and lotions on the other.
An elderly woman in a long flowing silk gown burst out from behind a red velvet curtain at the rear of the store and came toward them with a grand wave of her hand.
“I’m Madame Doussan. May I help you?”
“Yes,” Fannie said, pulling out a perfume bottle from her pocketbook.
The bottle was empty except for the dried residue at the bottom. Madame Doussan turned the bottle upside down, noted the handwritten inscription, then took the glass stopper from the bottle and sniffed it.
“This is Oriental Rose, a special blend for a client I once had. Where did you get it?” she asked.
“You made it for me,” Fannie replied.
The woman studied Fannie’s face. “Fannie? Is that you? We haven’t seen you in quite some time. According to the date on the bottom of the bottle, it’s been a good twelve years since you’ve been in the shop.”
“Has it been that long?”
“Yes, my dear. I apologize for not recognizing you. You had such pretty auburn hair the last time I saw you. As for me, my hair has grown so thin that I’ve taken to wearing this scarf every day.” She touched her head. “Please have a seat at the counter.”
Fannie and Ibby settled themselves on the stools as Madame Doussan went behind the counter.
“Would you like a refill of this perfume?” She pulled a wooden box from under the counter and flipped through the file cards. “Oh, yes, here it is. A rose base with hints of amber, vanilla, and sandalwood, with a touch of musk and magnolia.”
“I’d also like you to prepare a special perfume blend for my granddaughter. She has a birthday coming up.”
Ibby, surprised and touched by Fannie’s gesture, grinned widely. The day wasn’t turning out at all as she had expected.
“Thank you, Grandma Fannie.”
Fannie patted her hand. “Please, dear. Just call me Fannie, and we’ll get along fine.”
Madame Doussan placed a carton filled with small glass vials on the counter. “The younger girls seem to prefer a citrus blend—something lighter. Let’s try a few out, why don’t we?”
Madame Doussan opened the first vial. Ibby leaned in to smell it.
“If you don’t like it, you just need to tell me. We’ll move on until we find the ones you prefer. That was magnolia.” She jotted some notes on a file card.
Doll had been right about magnolia—it smelled like sour laundry. Ibby shook her head.
“Try this one.” The shopkeeper held a vial out for Ibby.
Ibby shook her head.
“Carnation is a no as well,” she noted. “Try this.”
Ibby leaned in. This one was more pleasing, soothing.
“Musk. The young ones always like musk. And this?”
“Oh yes, I really like that,” Ibby said.
“Wild orchid. You have good taste, young lady,” Madame Doussan said.
She went through at least twenty more vials until she announced that Ibby had chosen the perfect blend of wild orchid, citrus, musk, gardenia, and spice.
“Feel free to look around the shop while I go back to my workroom and prepare these for you,” she said.
Ibby strolled over to examine the display in the front window. Fannie joined her.
“Madame Doussan’s family has been making perfumes in this same shop for over a hundred years. Those were some of the original perfume decanters,” Fannie said, pointing at the ancient-looking colored bottles.
“They’re beautiful,” Ibby said.
Ibby noticed an old woman skating back and forth in front of the window, making faces at them each time she passed.
“Lucy,” Fannie said, as if to herself.
“You know her?” Ibby asked, astounded.
Ibby went over to the front door and peeped out. The woman, who must have been close to Fannie’s age, had gray hair braided in a long plait down her back. She was roller-skating up and down the sidewalk in a tattered wedding dress and a big floppy hat as a small flock of ducks followed her. When Lucy turned one way, the ducks followed; when she turned the other way, the ducks scrambled to keep up, making low noises as if they were exasperated.
“Everyone knows Lucy the duck lady,” Fannie said. “Story goes that she was jilted at the altar years ago and wanders around the French Quarter in her wedding dress looking for her fiancé. She’s been here as long as I can remember.”
“And the ducks?”