“You don’t have children?”
“We weren’t so blessed.” A smile passes over her lips, then disappears.
“Are you an aromateur now?”
“Yes. I do a pretty good business out there. Wish I had a daughter like you to help me.” She combs her fingers through my hair and I suddenly remember Mother doing the same when I was still small enough to sit in her lap.
I yawn again. “Did you put something in the soup?”
“I put in a whole lot of things. And a few extra winks of sleep every night will help you recover your nose sooner.”
Valerian root, probably.
“But I don’t want to go to sleep yet. I want to hear about your life,” I murmur.
“All right. Where should I start?”
“At the beginning.”
THIRTY-THREE
“UNLIKE MORNING GLORIES, LOVE CAN BLOOM
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY.”
—Lavender, Aromateur, 1949
I MISS THE rooster crowing, and sleep until past noon. I take my time dressing, feeling more at peace than I have in a long time. My aunt’s presence calms me like chamomile tea. Mother is more like triple espresso. Mirror-image gray streaks. Identical, yet opposite.
Once outfitted in my favorite gypsy skirt and oversize sweatshirt, I hunt for Aunt Bryony. Overnight, order has been restored to the garden, leaves swept, branches trimmed, dead flowers picked off. She must have worked all night and all morning.
I find her in the workshop, vigorously shaking a fist-size mixing flask. Spider plants have been placed at strategic locations, one near the lavender stain and a few on the worktable. A line of test tubes stand in traditional arc formation at the table.
She wipes the sweat from her brow onto her apron and smiles. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. Thanks for cleaning up. You should’ve let me help.”
“Oh, we saved the mud tubers for you. Neither Kali nor I wanted to get our nails dirty.”
“Kali was here?” Something bright and effervescent bubbles up inside me.
“I like her. She smells wholesome.”
Aunt Bryony smiles at me, probably detecting the bright mandarin I must be giving off—the childhood scent of hope. If Kali came to help with the garden, maybe she’s over being disappointed in me. Maybe things can go back to the way they were. “Why didn’t she stay?” We always have lunch together on Sunday.
“She said she had things to do.”
“Oh.” The mandarin must be fading. It’s strange not to smell my own emotions anymore.
“I see your mother never joined the twenty-first century.” Aunt Bryony nods to Mother’s antique beam scale. “Still doing everything the long way. They even have machines that will shake the vials for you, did you know?”
“She doesn’t trust them.”
“Naturally.” She holds the mixing flask up to the light and swirls the liquid, which is the same dark amber of her eyes. She unstoppers the flask and sniffs. “Perfect, as always.”
“Thanks.”
She fills the sink with soapy water. I collect glass vials in a tub and bring them to her. “Actually, the last batch didn’t work so well.”
She hoists an eyebrow at me and an owl-like seriousness descends upon her features. “Neutralizing mist always works.”
“But—”
“But nothing. Now, tell your Mother her spurge weed’s going mushy.”
I nearly drop one of the vials. “Wait, you’re not going to see her?”
“No, honey.”
“It was so long ago. I’m sure if you explain to Mother what you wrote in the letter, she’ll understand.”
“We drifted too far apart on our own boats. And you know swimming was never our strong suit.” Aunt Bryony returns Mother’s apron to its hook. “Come, walk me to my car.”
Thanks to Aunt Bryony and Kali, the main garden and the house are up to Mother’s standard of cleanliness. Still, I can’t help but frown.
Aunt Bryony takes my cold hand in her hot one. “Cheer up, honey. Your mother will always be on your side. You know, between the two of us, your mother is actually the nicer twin.”
“Mother?”
“Whenever we argued, Dahli was the one who gave in. Even that time with Edward.”
“Who is Edward?”
“The boy who was sweet on Dahli.” She cuts her eyes to me, gaping as I walk alongside her. “We heard him bragging about his ‘parts’ and so we spied on him and his friends by the creek. Dahli goes, ‘Zucchini, my foot. More like zuke-teenie.’” Aunt Bryony grins, and her cheekbones bunch up like crab apples. “Anyway, the boys chased us to the road, but couldn’t go farther because they weren’t wearing clothes. Next day, Edward’s bringing her violets.”
Her grin fades. “I didn’t realize she was pressing the violets in the telephone book, and I used it to whack in a nail. The flowers were fine, but we still got into it.”
Mother’s favorite bookmark has violets in it.
“The groundskeeper, William, locked us into the workshop and wouldn’t let us out until we settled our differences.”
“Did you?”