A Gift of Fragrance

Geoffrey’s head turned before he knew what had caught his attention, not expecting the scent of cinnamon and clove to reach him here, among the first-edition shelves. Maybe someone was carrying a cinnamon latte from the coffee shop? In the heartbeat it took to remember that food and drinks weren’t allowed in this part of the bookstore, he stepped to the end of the shelf to see a navy blue, orchid-topped fascinator in retreat atop a head of chestnut brown curls. The spices stayed behind, however, unraveling a wondrous tapestry of scent as the orchids disappeared. The cardamom registered next, and, what was that? Vanilla? Lavender? Roses? Geoffrey shook his head, as if to rid his mind of the impossible. For most of his 75 years he’d worn his sense of smell like a kind of superpower. On occasions like this, however, present to an entrancingly cohesive mix of aromas he never would’ve thought to combine, it caught him off guard. He told himself that last undertone couldn’t be roses, or perhaps it was a remnant from his visit to the Rose Garden earlier that morning. But here was a hint of cedar, where did that come from? Haunted by the fragrance, he noted as well that the headwear was clearly shaped like a Phalaenopsis, but people should know that Phalaenopsis orchids don’t naturally occur in navy-blue. Shrugging off his irritation with the artifice, he resigned himself to being forever mystified by women’s fashion.

Geoffrey’s academic career as a botanist was closing, the last of his doctoral students graduated and his campus office already occupied by the department’s newest hire. He’d come to Portland for one last professional conference: a chance to be in the company of academics, some of whom he’d known for decades, and to hear what new questions the up-and-coming researchers were exploring. Having spent his own graduate years in Oregon, Geoffrey had arrived before the conference launched on Monday, in order to enjoy some of his favorite haunts and the company of a grad school buddy. As it turned out, Harmon had a family commitment over the weekend, but he’d promised Geoffrey some personal time after the conference if Geoffrey could linger for an extra day before heading home.

Portland’s roses were Geoffrey’s special delight. Now, on the first Sunday in June, Oregon’s International Rose Test Garden was in full bloom. He’d anticipated the flowers for weeks, entertaining himself on his cross-country plane trip by mentally dissecting the scents of some varieties he expected to find on the legendary hillside: citrus qualities of the Lady Emma Hamilton; pear, almond and elderberry notes of the Boscobel; spicy tones of the Fragrant Cloud. The garden did not disappoint; it was a heaven of visual and scented splendor. Chairs were being assembled for a wedding to take place that afternoon, and the roses seemed to be reaching skyward with full color and fragrant glory in their own celebration of the upcoming nuptials. There were moments when Geoffrey had to sit on one of the garden benches and close his eyes for a few moments to clear his head and mind from the overwhelm of olfactory and visual wakening. He told himself, anyway, that his need to rest wasn’t because his heart was acting up again.

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Ardis was up by five-thirty, although she wasn’t due at the catering kitchen until nine o’clock. Even on Sundays, the morning hours gave her time for the meditation, yoga and journaling practices that had gotten her through the last two years. Her Aunt Helen and 14-month-old son Josiah began to stir as she was pouring cereal and brewing coffee. Ardis checked to make sure that everything she needed for later was in the car: gown and shoes in the garment bag; dress gloves and jewelry in her purse; headpiece in the customized box she had designed herself. She inspected her creation once more, reassured that the glue had set and the clips were firmly attached. In the bathroom she took a tiny bottle from the medicine cabinet, considering it carefully over the lump in her throat. “You loved Maya as much as I do,” she thought. “You would approve of my spending the last of it on her.” She added the bottle to the zipper pouch holding her jewelry and gloves, and replaced it in her shoulder bag.

Before leaving Ardis kissed Josiah in his high chair once more and reminded Helen of her long day ahead. There wouldn’t be enough time to return home between finishing work and getting to the Rose Garden for Maya’s wedding, and the reception would likely last into the evening. Hoping she’d have time for a stop at Powell’s to pick up the first edition book she’d ordered for Maya and Derek, she’d asked Cassandra for the afternoon off, even though the crew would be cleaning up after the Rotary brunch.

The brunch went smoothly, although the Rotarians had heartier appetites than Cassandra had planned for a Sunday morning. Ardis waited until after changing from her server uniform into her wedding outfit to empty the precious bottle with one final spritz. As always, she felt Troy’s presence as she held the treasured bit of weighted glass. Their fifth anniversary was their last celebration before he’d been deployed and this had been his gift. “We have to live like anything is possible, remember?” he said, shrugging off her concern about the price as he misted a few droplets behind her ear. Then he sprayed a scrap of silk so he could keep her scent close in Afghanistan; it was in his pocket when they pulled him from the rubble.

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By the final day of conference meetings on Wednesday Geoffrey was replete with new information and the pleasure of like-minded companionship. The conference organizers had arranged a gala closing reception at the World Forestry Center that evening which, unbeknownst to Geoffrey, featured special recognition of his contributions to the advancement of botanical study. Because Geoffrey’s career had been primarily devoted to orchids, attendees and event staffers alike, including the employees of Cassandra’s Catering, were invited to sport orchid imagery in the form of ties, shirts, jewelry, or any other manner of accoutrement. It was just after the award presentation that Geoffrey spotted the navy-blue fascinator being worn by one of the servers. Since Harmon had chaired the organizing committee, Geoffrey sought him out from the crowd to ask about its wearer. “Oh, that’s Ardis O’Connor,” he said, “She’s a friend of Maya’s, you know, my niece who got married on Sunday? The two of them and Cassandra, who owns the catering firm, met in college and stayed close ever since. Ardis has had a rough time. Her husband died in Afghanistan a couple of years ago, shortly before their son was born, just as she was starting up an online business. Fashion accessories, I think it was: scarves, hats and so forth. No doubt she made that one. You must forgive her, Geoffrey, for sporting a navy-blue Phalaenopsis. When it comes to fashion, no one cares about scientific accuracy.”

“Of course not, Martha taught me that many times over. She loved her brooches, as you well know, and I learned early on not to tell her that a peacock’s eyes are not the color of garnets. I believe I saw Maya’s friend, what did you say her name is? Ardis? Once before - - or, at least, I saw her hat thingy the other day at Powell’s. Actually, I smelled her before I saw her. The fragrance was an extraordinary combination of notes, like nothing I’ve encountered before. I’ve been sorting out that scent ever since, trying to identify all the ingredients.”

“Maybe it came from The Perfume House, the place over on Southeast Hawthorne? They occasionally sell proprietary fragrances, but only in very limited quantities. You should ask her!”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. She might take it the wrong way or think me presumptuous.”

“Listen, Geoffrey, I’ll tell you what. Saturday is Carol’s birthday and I don’t yet have a gift for her. Why don’t we go over to Hawthorne Street tomorrow morning before I take you to the airport? We’ll stop in at The Perfume House and while I find something for Carol maybe you can sleuth out whatever Ardis was wearing. I know how much you enjoy that sort of thing, and hopefully you can solve your mystery.”

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“Aunt Helen! What’s this package on the hallway table? I haven’t ordered anything lately and there’s no return address. And who wraps packages in brown paper anymore?”

“I don’t know, dear, it came in today’s mail, too small to be a book and too heavy to be a pair of earrings. Why don’t you open it?”

“Do you think it’s safe?”

“Well, it’s kind of small to be a bomb, if that’s what you mean. Go ahead and open it!”

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“Dear Ms. O’Connor,

You don’t know me, although we have crossed paths before -- twice, in fact. Our mutual friend Harmon Lowry assured me you wouldn’t take offense if I reached out to make your gentle acquaintance by way of this small gift. You’ll recall working at a reception two weeks ago at the Forestry Center, that featured orchids? As one of the attendees, I could not help but notice the striking navy-blue headpiece that Harmon said you probably created with your own hands. This is an ability for which I have the utmost admiration, as I am sadly lacking the sort of creative vision that must have inspired such a delicate contribution to the milliner’s repertoire. My own creative abilities lie with my sense of smell rather than touch. I have spent my adulthood and my academic career steeped in all things olfactory, with a special interest in plant odors and a personal focus on orchids. The world of fragrance has both delighted and horrified me many times over, but never before have I come across such an astounding combination of ingredients to match the one enclosed in this package. My nose first alerted me to your presence on the Sunday before the reception, when you passed by me as you were leaving Powell’s Bookstore. Over the next few days I attempted to discern by memory the scent you wore, until Harmon introduced me to The Perfume House. When I described the notes I had identified, the attendant immediately produced the source of this superbly aromatic marvel. Harmon also told me about the recent loss of your husband. Please accept my profound condolences and best wishes for the successful launch of your business, as well as this small gift of “Kirah.” Know that you have brought surprising and unexpected delight to someone who thought he’d already smelled the very best the world has to offer. Wishing you well in all things, sincerely, Geoffrey W. Carlyon, Ph.D.”

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“What is it, sweetie? Why are you crying?”

Ardis sat down in her rocker, speechless, as Josiah climbed into her lap. Tenderly holding the bottle in one hand, she stroked her son’s hair with the other, then took the tissue Helen offered for her tears. She recalled opening the front door to the uniformed officers who’d come to deliver the worst imaginable news two years ago. Ever since then, she now realized, some part of her had been frozen, as if holding her breath, wondering how she could possibly continue to function in the new version of life that didn’t include her husband. But breathing felt different now, in this moment. No amount of journaling, yoga, or meditation had brought her such a degree of calm, of confidence, even excitement.

“Anything is possible, Aunt Helen. Troy and I promised each other in our wedding vows to live as if anything is possible, and here’s the proof, a perfect gift from a perfect stranger. So that’s what I’m going to do. C’mon, Josiah,” she said, gathering her son into her arms. “Let’s go make some hats!”