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Nikki’s
perfume journal
SCENT OF HOURS
November 22, 1978
Definition--Chypres
Chypres is a highly original group that is based on contrasts between
bergamot-type top notes and mossy base notes. Chypres perfumes tend to
be strong, spicy and powdery. This perfume group was named after the famous
perfume from Cyprus of Roman Times. It is used primarily for women, and
is appropriate for both day and evening wear, especially during winter.
CHAPTER ONE
I told the insurance company I was sleeping when the house blew up.
In actual fact, the cold woke me. I stood at the top of the stairs that
led to my basement at three am of a later winter morning, daring myself
to go down and find out why the furnace was not working. Puffs of dust-scented
air wafted around my ankles. The narrow wooden steps disappeared into
yawning darkness, and even when I turned on the light, it wasn’t
particularly inviting. I hate basements—spiders and waterbugs and
the possibility of creepy, supernatural things lurking. Ammie Come Home
scared the holy hell out of me when I was nine, and I’ve hated basements
ever since.
Standing there with my arms crossed over my breasts, frozen in every sense
of the word, I thought, this was so not in my script.
I made a bargain, to love, honor and cook all the meals, while he promised
to love, honor and do things like go down into the basement in the middle
of the night. This was not strictly gender role stuff—I was a good
cook and I liked it. Daniel was not the slightest bit afraid of ghosts
or spiders.
Cold air swirled around my ankles. I couldn’t move. Frozen, just
as I’d been for the past seven months.
A vivid picture of the house blowing up in a blaze of noise and fire flashed
over my imagination (and wouldn’t they all be sorry then!). Experimentally,
I stuck my head into the stairwell and took a long, deep sniff. No smell
of sulpher, and I have a very good nose. Of course, it wasn’t exactly
an airtight basement.
I shuffled forward three inches.
Halted.
A shuddering hitch caught in my throat. I realized that I could not do
it. Could not physically force myself to go down into that creepy, cold,
spidery cellar and then get down on my hands and knees and look for a
pilot light, and maybe even have to put my hands into a place where there
were spider webs.
No. Way.
In the morning, I’d call someone to check it out. For now, I’d
just have a cup of tea and play with my computer. Instantly, my heart
stopped fluttering. Decision made. I stepped crisply back from the yawning
mouth of doom and closed the door.
From the linen cabinet by the downstairs bathroom, I took a blanket that
smelled of the lavender stalks that I tuck into all the drawers and closets.
The pale purple scent eased my tension as I carried the blanket into my
study, where the computer was breathing steadily, softly, its lights blinking
comfortingly in the darkness.
I turned on the small, art deco lamp I’d found on E-bay and settled
into my chair, blanket around my shoulders and opened a novel I’d
checked out of the library. At least some things were reliable.
Unlike the furnace. Which exploded exactly one hour later with a noise
you can’t even imagine.
Obviously, I lived.
The house, on the other hand, did not fare quite so well.
THE STORY BEHIND THE STORY
THERE BE
DRAGONS HERE…..
A few years ago, I received an email out of the blue from a long lost
friend from junior high. We were best friends, fast friends, joined at
the hip. We shopped together, wore each others’ clothes (at least
until I grew seven inches in one year!), talked on the phone for hours,
then wrote long, long notes we folded into a special shape to take to
each other the next day.
Kelli and I met one afternoon for lunch. She was just as pretty as she
always had been. She was married, with two wonderful kids, a house by
the river, all the warm things I knew she’d always wanted. I envied
her a little—my divorce, though not as raw as it had been—was
still new enough that I wished for the safety she knew. I knew she envied
me a little, too. My travels. My surprising career.
We kept in touch, loosely. A couple of years later, I had a crushed and
sorrowful email from her: she was getting divorced.
Over the next year, we met often. For one thing, by then I had a lot of
single friends and if you’ve never been divorced you know what a
strange transformation that is. My new friends would make room for Kelli.
By that time, I’d also navigated most of the stages of adjustment,
and I’d gone along with enough other women (and men) on their divorce
journeys to be able to offer some helpful hints.
And one day, I realized this is something a good half of us will experience
at some point in our lives: we will go from being half of a solid partnership
to being single at midlife. There are some crazy things about it. There
are some chances to grow. Some navigate the journey well and find themselves
on new shores a year or two later. Some—and we all know them—can’t
do it. They get lost in drink or sleeping around. They can’t let
the old relationship go and turn bitter or cold. They lose faith and never
want to trust someone ever again.
I wanted to write about a woman navigating the waters of a divorce she
didn’t want—blindsided, sorrowful, sometimes stupid, sometimes
scared, sometimes brave. Nikki, who eats too much ice cream and really
didn’t see it coming and is not at all sure she can do it alone,
was born.
MADAME MIRABOU is about the dangerous waters of midlife crises and the
fresh starts we can grasp if we just have a little map to get us around
the sea monsters. I hope you enjoy reading it!
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