He chuckles. “She thinks she is. She set up a website for me, too.” With his gaze still fixed on the UPS truck ahead of us, he adds, “Cass is just a friend, you know. I mean”—he releases the steering wheel with one hand and gestures with it—“obviously.”
What’s obvious? I don’t ask in case it leads to tricky topics, like feelings. I have to keep things professional for his benefit and mine. Or at least neutral. “I like this music.”
“Los Solitarios.” He turns up the radio. The rich, rhythmic sounds of the Spanish guitar fill the void between us.
Before we drive back to Parrot Hill, we fetch my bike from school. The parking lot is mostly vacant. Court wedges my rusty steed into the back of his Jeep next to a pile of surfing gear.
Once we get home, he sets my bike down on the driveway. The familiar scents of our plants rush at me like children, wanting my attention. Not today, kids. I have an elixir to make, the most important elixir of my career so far.
“You live here? It’s like something out of Disneyland.” Court’s gaze wanders up the stone blocks, skips around the hand-blown windows and stops at the corner turret with the pointed top.
“Is it? I’ve never been there.”
“You’ve never went to Disneyland?”
“We don’t do vacations.” A chicken squawks. I slap my forehead. “I forgot to feed the chickens. They’ll revolt soon. I should—”
Lingering thyme, the note of reluctance, tickles my nose. Saying good-bye has never been more complicated. I sigh. “Be right back.”
I hurry down the path to our solid wooden gate and stand on my toes to unlatch it from the inside. The chickens peck the ground near our wishing well. “Sorry, guys.”
I retrieve Mother’s nut-and-seed mix from the kitchen. When I return, Court is towing my bike into our courtyard.
“Um, thanks. Set it anywhere.” I sprinkle the mix on the ground. The chickens dive for the goodies. “They get cranky when they don’t get their treats.”
Court lifts his eyes from the chickens to the bright clumps of rhododendron that spread across the ground like melting scoops of ice cream. Our plot of land could be the centerfold of Extreme Home and Garden, not that Mother would ever allow photographers in. “It’s”—he searches for the word, and the awed scent of glory-of-the-snow, a plant that bursts with plum-scented flowers even in the highest alpines, thrums all around him—“unreal.”
He walks to the first stone of our path and stares out at the grand procession of ancient oaks, crepe myrtles, and ash trees that lead to our workshop. Papery white poppies with yellow centers bloom along the path, nature’s egg served sunny-side up. I consider giving him a tour, but I’m afraid of where that will lead. Our garden of aphrodisiacs could be a blooming love trap, especially if he’s resistant to BBG.
Then again, I sprayed him good and through, twice. There’s no real danger, despite the fact that he’s lingering.
Court shakes himself out of his daze and walks back to where I’m leaning on the edge of the well. “A wishing well,” he says in awe. “It looks old.”
“Yes. People used to come here to draw their water in the nineteenth century.”
He takes in the pile of rubble under the broken lip. “You should repair that before it leaks.”
“Haven’t found the right contractor.” An affordable one, that is. For him, the repair would simply mean a trip to the ATM. For us, well maintenance doesn’t qualify for the Aromateur Trust Fund withdrawal since it’s not a business necessity. During the medieval age when the trust was started, aromateurs were highly revered as healers, and society provided for their living much like they did for the clergy. Nowadays, any well repair money would have to come from our meager living allowance.
Court leans beside me on the well’s outcropping and studies the wisteria dripping like bunches of grapes from the overhead trellis. An expression of wonder causes his dimples to flatten out. I bask in all the campfire smells of his scentprint, floating around relaxed and unguarded. When I realize I’m staring at him, I drop my gaze to his shirt. Even his alligator logo has perfect teeth.
I really should tell him to go, but my mouth won’t form the words. Our rooster struts by, bobbing its head at Court. It decides Court’s no match for it, and starts pecking at the ground.
“So where’s your mom?” he asks.
“Oman.”
“That’s not an easy place to get to. We had a goodwill meet in Israel, once.”
“It is when you have a private Cloud Air jet.” I’m not supposed to tell people this, but surely there’s an exception for when you’re sitting next to the richest kid you know, and your dress has a stain and a hole, the well’s crumbling, and your last haircut involved hedge clippers. My image could use bolstering.
He whistles. “Nice. Vicky said you charge a grand for your elixirs.”
I snort. More like a grand zero. The thought of Vicky spreading rumors about me sticks a thorn under my seat, but I don’t deny the rumor. Aromateurs are rule-bound to keep our no-charge policy a secret.