Chapter 3 Two of Them #2
I've been here dozens of times since I married into the Visconti family, buying groceries and browsing the market and having coffee in the café that overlooks the fountain.
But I've never visited the supply shop on the corner of Via Garibaldi, the one with the hand-painted sign that says Profumi e Spezie in faded blue letters.
I noticed it months ago, but most of my supplies arrive by post, and I've kept putting off a visit. Today I want to choose something in person.
I lock the car and leave my phone in my bag. Rafael can manage an afternoon without an immediate answer from me.
The shop is smaller than I expected, tucked between a bakery and an antique store, with a window display of amber bottles and dried flowers that's seen better days. The bell over the door chimes when I push it open, and I'm immediately hit with a wall of scent that makes my nose wrinkle.
Someone has left several sprayed tester cards on the counter.
Rose, something heavy and woody, and enough lavender to outlast both. I angle toward the open window for a breath of clean air.
A woman emerges from the back room, wiping her hands on a cloth. She's about my age, with dark curly hair pinned up carelessly and an apron that's seen a lot of use. She follows my glance to the tester cards, gathers them up, and drops them into a covered bin.
"My last customer wanted to try everything." She pushes the window wider. "I'm considering making her come back and air the place out. What can I get you?"
"I need smelling strips." I move toward the counter, scanning the shelves as I go. "And bottle caps. The small ones, for samples."
"Professional or hobby?" She sets down her cloth and reaches for a drawer behind the counter.
"Professional." I watch her pull out a box of strips. "Though I'm between projects at the moment."
"Aren't we all." She sets the box on the counter and opens it for my inspection. "These are the standard ones. I've got thicker ones in the back if you need them."
I take a strip and test it between my fingers. Good weight, clean cut, no chemical smell. "These are fine. How many in a box?"
"Hundred." She names a price that's higher than I'd pay in Palermo but lower than I expected. "I can do two boxes for a bit less if you're stocking up."
"One for now." I set the strip back. "And the caps?"
She produces another box, smaller this time. The caps are the right size, properly sealed, no visible defects. I nod approval.
"Anything else?" She starts tallying my purchase on a slip of paper. "I've got some interesting absolutes in the back. Just got a shipment of jasmine that's not half bad."
"I have jasmine." More than I know what to do with, actually. "But I'm looking for a good cedar. Something warmer than what I've been using."
"Cedar." She pauses her writing and looks at me with new interest. "For a base note?"
"I'm experimenting with a blend. Neroli and bergamot, with cedar underneath." I set the strips beside the caps. "I'm changing the bergamot. I thought I might compare a warmer cedar while I'm at it."
"You want something with more body." She sets down her pencil. "Less medicinal."
"Exactly." I put my wallet down. I'd expected to buy paper and caps. This is a conversation worth staying for.
"I might have something." She disappears into the back room and returns a moment later with a small dark bottle. "Atlas cedar. Different supplier than the usual. Tell me what you think."
I take the bottle and uncap it carefully, waving the scent toward my nose without getting too close. The first impression is clean, woody, with a sweetness underneath that's almost honeyed. Nothing sharp. Nothing medicinal.
"This is good." I cap the bottle again. "Where did you source it?"
"A small supplier I've used for years." She searches beneath the counter and puts a business card beside the bottle. "Tell him I sent you. He owes me a less hideous calendar next Christmas."
"I'll make it a condition of the order." I glance at the enormous advertisement pinned behind her, a bottle looming over a sunset. "How much for a sample? I want to test it with my blend before I commit."
"A small sample comes with your purchase." She sets a clean sample vial beside the bottle. "You've bought enough caps to start your own shop. Let me fill one before you put me out of business."
"I only bought a dozen." I open my wallet again, already imagining the cedar beside my rested blend. "You can probably survive the competition."
"With difficulty." She fills and labels the little vial, closes it, and sets it beside my other purchases before naming the total.
I pay while she puts the strips, caps, and sample into a paper bag. The woman watches me with an expression I can't quite read, somewhere between curious and amused.
"I haven't seen you in here before." She folds the top of the bag closed. "Have you just moved nearby?"
"I'm from the next valley over." I don't mention the Visconti name. "I married into the area."
"Then you've had time to discover my mortal enemy." She points past the window toward the bakery. "I walk past it every morning telling myself I don't need anything. Never works."
"I haven't had lunch yet." I follow her pointing finger to the tray being carried into the bakery window. "You could at least have let me leave before telling me that."
"I need company in my bad decisions." She offers her hand across the counter. "Fiorella. I've been here three years, and I still can't walk past their window."
"Serafina." I shake her hand. "If you mean resisting bakeries, I'm no better at it."
"Come back and tell me how that cedar behaves." Fiorella releases my hand and nudges the finished bag toward me. "Most customers never tell me what they make. I'm unbearably nosy."
"I'll bring a strip when I'm happy with it." I accept the bag and check that the sample vial is upright. "Unless you want me to spray it on the wrapping paper."
"Please don't." She points at the covered bin. "A customer actually asked for lavender-scented wrapping last week. For patchouli. I said she'd never smell what she'd bought."
"The patchouli didn't stand a chance." I tuck the bag under my arm. "Did she listen?"
"She came back today and asked if I had rose instead." Fiorella retrieves the largest tester card from the counter's far corner and holds it up with a resigned expression. "I'm still finding the evidence."
I laugh hard enough that I have to adjust the bag beneath my arm. Fiorella drops the final card into the bin with exaggerated care, as if it might escape.
"I should go." I move toward the door. "But I'll come back. When the cedar has had time to settle."
"Come on market day." Fiorella leans around the counter to point at a notice in the window. "Thursdays. The bakery does almond biscuits then. They know exactly what they're doing to me."
"Market day." I push open the door. "I'll remember."
The bell chimes behind me as I step out into the street. The sun is warm on my face. I go next door for something to eat and sit outside with my purchases beside me, making a note to leave Thursday morning free.
I walk back to my car thinking about cedar notes and base accords and a woman named Fiorella who refused to wrap patchouli in lavender paper. For the first time in days, my mind is somewhere other than the space between my husband and his indispensable colleague.
It's a relief. I didn't realize how much I needed one.
***
The house is quiet when I return in the late afternoon.
I put my supplies in my workshop, setting the cedar sample in the shaded cupboard below the blue vase. The roses Beatrice brought are starting to open now, their petals unfurling in the warm light. I'll test the cedar tomorrow, when my nose is fresh and I can give it proper attention.
Dinner is a simple affair.
Beatrice and Corrado eat with me on the terrace while the evening light fades over the groves. We talk about the garden and the weather and a book Corrado is reading about the history of citrus cultivation in Sicily. Neither of them mentions Rafael, and I don't bring him up.
He's still at the office, presumably. Or maybe he's back in the house somewhere, working in his study with the door closed. I don't go looking for him. If he wants to find me, he knows where I am.
After dinner, I change into comfortable clothes and settle in the sitting room with my book. I read three chapters without looking at the clock once. Around nine, I hear Beatrice climbing the stairs to bed. Corrado follows a few minutes later, his footsteps slower and heavier than hers.
The house settles into the particular silence of evening, all the small sounds of occupation giving way to creaks and sighs as the old walls adjust to the cooling air.
I finish my chapter and mark my place.
The clock shows half past ten. Late enough that I should probably go to bed, but I'm not tired yet. The afternoon in town left me feeling restless, full of energy I haven't found a use for.
I take my book upstairs and change into my nightgown, leaving the bedside lamp on while I brush my teeth and wash my face. The familiar routine steadies me. Market day, Fiorella said. I'll go back and tell her what the cedar did with my blend.
I want to tell Rafael about it too. About the shop and the woman who refused to wrap patchouli in lavender paper, about the unexpected pleasure of talking to someone who understands base notes and accords. He'd find it funny.
He used to like hearing about the odd encounters that made up my days.
I pull on my robe and go back downstairs.
The workroom door is open, lamplight spilling into the dim hallway. I can hear voices before I reach it, the low murmur of people wrapping up a long day. I stop just short of the doorway and look in.
Rafael is standing by the desk, a sample crate of oranges open beside him. He's holding one up to the lamp, examining the skin the way I've seen his father do a hundred times. Marisol sits at the corner of the desk with papers spread in front of her, making notes in her quick efficient hand.