The Scent of Mimosa

Reflections

''Vincent?'' Cassandra asked as they sped back into the heart of town. ''You never told me what you thought of the perfume?'' She looked at him with anxious eyes. He hadn't said a word since they left the warehouse, had hardly even looked in her direction. She may love the fragrance, may know how good it is, but what if he did not like it? For the first time in her life, she found herself seeking approval for one of her perfumes. She realised that his opinion actually mattered.

There was a jarring screech of tires as the car swerved to a halt at the side of the road. Cassandra put her hands to the dashboard to stabilize and then looked across at Vince in alarm. His face was stern, almost to the point of anger.

''You don't know?'' he asked, his eyes blazing. Did he think the perfume wasn't good enough?  The thought sent shards of ice through her body.

"I wasn't sure...,'' she stammered. ''If you don't like it, I could always change something, do the whole thing over if necessary....''  Her voice faded nervously as she waited for his reaction.

''Do it over!'' he blurted. ''Cassie! Are you mad! It's perfect. You said so yourself.  It's more than perfect, it's... it's unbelievable.'' Cassandra felt her stiffened muscles sliding into relaxation.  Vince was happy with her work. Everything was ok, after all, yet somehow it didn't feel as if it was. She realized he was rubbing his brow with one hand, looking concerned.

"I should have told you, should have said something. Of course I should have," he said. "I was so distracted by my own thoughts for a while. Your side of the work is all done. The rest is up to me. Testing your fragrance this morning just got my mind working. It gave me some ideas you know?'' 

She looked at him thoughtfully. She certainly did know. In the time that she had known Vince, she had not seen him so fired up. Now, she recognized the fire she could sense in him. It was the sign of inspiration. It was the same way that she felt about her own work. She nodded.

"There are things that I need to do now," he continued. "Work I need to finish up. I think it would be best if I go back to my hotel for a few days, but then I think we should celebrate. Come to dinner with me on Saturday Cassandra. I'd like to take you somewhere special.''

Cassandra spent Saturday afternoon rummaging through the old walnut armoire in her grandparents' bedroom trying to find something to wear. She had not been out in so long she had had little need for fancy clothes, but this evening she wanted to look special. If Vince had completed his work already this could be the last evening she would be spending with him. Her gut clenched at the thought.

Her grandmother had so many gowns, most of them far too formal for the occasion. Cassandra's hands filed through layer upon layer of silk, tulle, and organza, rejecting each as she went, until at last, at the very back of the closet she found it.  

Covered in plastic wrapping, it had remained untouched for decades. The cocktail dress was made of silk-chiffon in a delicate shade of peach. Over one shoulder, a crusting of beads and sequins cascaded down to the V-neck and from the waist, the skirt flared full. It was from the forties, the war years, from when her grandmother had been as young as she was now.

Slipping the dress over her shoulders, Cassandra surveyed herself in the mirror on the inside of the armoire door. It fit her perfectly, flattering the paleness of her skin and accentuating her long legs. She gave a little twirl, allowing the silken fabric to caress her knees. She was sure this was the right dress. It made her feel just the way she wanted to feel this evening: beautiful.

Digging in her grandmother's vanity, she unearthed a pair of earrings. They were tiny, pink enamel roses, worthless enough not to have been sold off with most of the other jewelry pieces.  They matched the dress prettily. With one hand, she twisted her hair up into a loose chignon, a style she never normally wore, and examined the effect.

The mirror before her held a woman heart-breakingly familiar. Her essence was captured in the hairstyle, in the jewelry, in the gown and most of all in the wistful smile she wore. Cassandra was staring at the spitting image of Sara MacFayden-Guipard: her grandmother.

''Grand-mère,'' she whispered, touching her hand to the glass. The mirror-woman lifted her hand also and reached forward – their fingers touching tip to tip. She felt as though she were reaching through time, her grandmother's world colliding momentarily with her own. Someone had seen that Cassandra needed her. Some magic had brought them back together.

''Grand-mère,'' she said again. "I know that you wanted something else for me, a different life. I am so sorry that I failed you.'' She looked down as a single tear welled in the corner of her eye. ''But things are changing now. I can feel it, and I think that you would be proud.'' Cassandra looked up again, and the figure in the mirror gave a thin smile in response before disappearing into clouds as the wetness in Cassandra's eyes obscured the image.

Sealing the closet door, Cassandra stood briefly with her eyes pressed closed, calming her breathing and re-centering herself. Then she lifted her clutch bag from a nearby armchair and slowly went downstairs.