The Scent of Mimosa

The perfumer's grand-daughter

SUMMER, 2007

Cassandra could smell the stranger before she could see him. She hadn't yet turned into the Rue Bagatelle when the scents of Italian linen, Spanish leather, and the earthy richness of oakmoss cologne drifted towards her through the hot Provençal air. It was the smell of a chauffeur driven vehicle and of light perspiration beading under a crisp white collar – the smell of masculinity.

It reeked of trouble.

Taking the corner, her eyes confirmed what her sensitive nose had already discerned. The Rue Bagatelle was barely more than an alleyway and usually visited only by tourists intent on exploring the less-taken roads of ancient Grasse. But the man standing barely two meters from Cassandra's front door was definitely not a tourist.

She noted his strong features first: a cleft chin and linear nose, fashioned in smooth olive skin. He was turned side-on to her, and the bright sunlight cast a shadow down his neck from the firm angle of his jaw. Oh, he was trouble alright, she thought. And he was wearing a suit.

Innately, Cassandra distrusted anyone who wore a suit. Experience had taught her that much. Besides her elderly solicitor, Renauld, she had purposefully limited her dealings with anyone who even owned a tailored jacket over the past few years. She figured that since Renauld wore a three-piece it hardly counted.   

Standing in the shadows at the bottom of the Rue Bagatelle, Cassandra pondered how this particular suit would best be avoided.

The stranger hadn't seen her yet. He was on the telephone. Beneath his carefully tousled hair, Cassandra could see the hands-free receiver attached to his ear. It was just the kind of technological gadgetry that she hated. So rude, so brash. You could tap away on a laptop, or navigate traffic while having a conversation, just as if your partner didn't deserve a full slice of your time and attention.

''I'm beginning to think this is all a wild goose chase, Val.'' Snatches of the stranger's conversation drifted down the cobbled street towards Cassandra. ''There doesn't seem to be anyone here. Are you sure this is the address the factory gave you?''

His back was turned directly to her front door, and he was completely immersed in conversation. If she turned and retraced her steps it would surely attract his attention. She figured that her best hope would be to sneak in quietly behind him.

Two elderly tourists in shorts and floppy hats were descending the street, arguing volubly about their lunch. Timing her passage to coincide with them, Cassandra casually strolled up the hill. As silently as she could, she mounted the stone steps leading to her home, turned the key and slid open the heavy wooden front door that had stood there for centuries. She had avoided him. She was home free.

''Hey! Excuse me! Excusez-moi Mademoiselle! - Val, I've gotta go. There's someone here.'' She heard the voice behind her. Damn! He had turned and spotted her. She would have to deal with him now – courteously as she had always been taught to do.

''Monsieur?'' she enquired innocently, re-opening the door a fraction as if she had not seen him.

''Pardon, Mademoiselle,'' he began, approaching and placing one well-maintained hand on the door frame to prevent her closing it. ''Je cherche la maison Guipard.''

His French was labored, his accent Anglo-American. Cassandra briefly considered allowing him to sweat by continuing in her native tongue, but as he spoke, she noticed the most appealing dimple present itself beside his mouth and she softened, choosing to grace him instead with her own, nearly immaculate English.

''This is the Guipard house,'' she answered, keeping the door two-thirds closed. She didn't want him to think he was welcome here. But he looked relieved and pulled a glossy ivory-colored business card from his pocket, proffering it through the gap in the doorway.