“We’d love to,” I say too quickly. After she washes out the chemicals, I’ll sniff and go. Hopefully, Court will be sleeping in like any normal teenager on a Saturday morning. Then again, he’s an athlete. Maybe the type of athlete who rises with the sun and goes on jogs and makes protein shakes. My anxiety floods the air currents with dank, boggy smells.
Kali hooks one eyebrow at me as she follows Court’s mom into the great room. White walls and high ceilings give the place an airy feel. Beneath the chemical smells—floor wax and the plasticky drip of polyester-blend slipcovered furniture—hums the comforting aromas of buttery croissants, orchids, and solid-oak ceiling beams.
Several vases line the rustic console in front of us. Most are crudely formed and unevenly painted, but one is a beauty with a pinkish-green patina and a well-proportioned body. Alice sticks her bouquet into this one, then sweeps her hand toward her prairie chic living room. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.” She hurries down a hallway, slippers slapping the blond tiles.
Kali looks up at a chandelier dripping with crystals while I take a closer look at the odd-shaped vases. The initials “MNS” plus an age, 11, 12, etc., are carved at the base of each sculpture. Melanie Sawyer?
“Sorry about the books,” I whisper to Kali when we can no longer hear Alice. “I’ll pick up some paperbacks at Twice Loved.”
“Forget it. My mom has a bunch we can borrow. So what’s going on?”
“Can’t get a read on her. It’s all the hair stuff.”
Kali whistles. “Maybe she’s sprucing up for you-know-who.”
Mr. Frederics? I don’t say the name aloud but Kali nods at my horrified expression. I sink lower into my sandals. It certainly could’ve happened by now, though early show-ers are rare.
“Let’s chill. Maybe it’s nothing. Rich people like to keep up the package. Placenta facials, seaweed wraps.” Kali hikes to the living room and plops down on one of the overstuffed couches. Feeling heavier than when I first entered, I join her, keeping my eyes, ears, and nose open for Court. Fluffy Sherpa carpets swallow my feet. At the far wall, the plantation shutters on the French doors let in thin lines of white light between the slats.
Kali slides her foot out of her sneaker and runs her toes through the Sherpa. “This must be what it feels like to walk on clouds.”
The muffled sound of men arguing in the backyard jars the serenity. Kali frowns at the French doors. I sit up when I recognize one of the voices as Court’s. “You’re the expert on that, aren’t you?” he snaps.
“I deserve a say. You’re still my son,” says a huskier version of Court’s voice.
“Biologically. You never cared about what I wanted. It’s always about what you want, what will make you look good. But maybe I don’t want to play for the Europeans—”
“—throw away millions—”
“—maybe I just want to be a bum on the beach. At least I wouldn’t be a no-show, lying—”
“Uncomfortable,” Kali whispers.
I nod, while trying to extract myself from the deep cushions. Worse than Court discovering me in his house would be finding me eavesdropping on an obviously private conversation. “Maybe I can scent her over there.” There’s a chance Alice’s scent lingers on a favorite cushion, or the cashmere throw draped over the couch arm. The blanket tickles my nose. The rare plants in her scent are there, but I identify other scents that belong to Court and Melanie. Too contaminated.
Court’s voice raises a notch. “—You never show up when you’re supposed to, and then when you do decide to drop in, you start bossing us around like—”
“I told you, I had a work emergency.”
“Who has a work emergency on a Friday night? She waited a whole hour for you to take her to her birthday dinner last night, and you didn’t even call to tell her you weren’t coming. She had to find out from Darcy. And why is your intern answering your cell phone anyway? Oh, wait, don’t tell me you promoted her.”
Something crashes from outside followed by silence. Alice, hair wet and rinsed of most of the ammonia, hurries into the living room. “I’m so sorry.” She hurries by me to get to the French doors.
Collecting my wits, I inhale.
As she peeks through the shutters, I edge along behind her, sniffing like a basset hound. Her scentprint plays to my nose like a complicated chord. Protea, of course, jasmine sambac, Malaysian coconut, hucklewood, and yarrow. Later, I’ll analyze each note and sniff-match it to the most suitable plant fragrance.
Abruptly, Alice swings open her French doors.
The glare off the Caribbean-blue pool almost blinds me. Mr. Sawyer, in golfing gear, stands over a pile of pastel-colored shards and a tangle of daisies. A straight nose and Superman jawline are the only reminders of his once-handsome features, marred by too many martinis and not enough sunscreen.
Court kneels by the pile, grasping his head. The word lifeguard forms an arc of red letters over the back of his sweatshirt. “You are such a jerk,” Court seethes.
Alice gasps. “What happened?”