The Perfumer of Grasse – Part 2: The Last Note

They worked through the summer. Mornings in the laboratory, with the windows open and the bees drifting in from the orchard. Afternoons in the fields of lavender below the hill, where Margaux would crouch among the purple rows, breathing deeply, while Idris sat on a stone wall with his sleeves rolled up and his notebook balanced on his knee.

"Describe it again," she would say.

"Warm," said Idris. "Like bread, but sweeter. And there was rain on the stones, in the afternoon, when the storm came over the ridge."

She would write it down, and mix a drop of bergamot with a whisper of cedar and try again.

Over the weeks, the scent began to take shape. A base of sandalwood, soft as skin. A heart of lavender and warm honey. A top note of something sharp and bright, like a laugh.

"That's her," said Idris, one afternoon, breathing in the strip of blotter paper Margaux held out to him. His eyes closed. His voice was rough. "That's exactly her."

Margaux watched him, her own breath caught somewhere in her chest.

"You're remembering her," she said gently.

"I'm remembering you," said Idris, and opened his eyes. "You laughed just like that, in the field, when I asked you about the rain."

She stared at him. "What?"

"You were standing right there," said Idris, very quietly. "Twenty years ago. I didn't know it was you until I saw you in the laboratory door. Your hair was longer then. But your laugh hasn't changed."

Margaux sat down slowly on the wall beside him. Her knees were trembling.

"You said you didn't know her name."

"I didn't," said Idris. "I didn't know yours until last month, when I asked the people in town who the best perfumer in Grasse was. And they said Margaux Lemaire, and I remembered the laugh, and I thought I was going mad."

The bees hummed over the lavender. A breeze came off the hills, carrying the sweet smell of figs.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Margaux asked.

"Because I wanted you to make the scent without knowing," said Idris. "I wanted to see if you'd find it on your own. And I was afraid, if I told you, you'd think I was only after the memory."

"And are you?"

"No," said Idris simply. "I'm after the woman who made it."

She laughed, shakily, and reached out to take the blotter from his fingers. The scent was warm and sharp and sweet, like a summer afternoon she had almost forgotten.

"Idris," she said. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to start again? Here, today, with me?"

"Yes," he said. "Can I kiss you, Margaux?"

"Yes," she whispered. "And if I want you to stop, I'll say so."

"Of course," said Idris, and leaned in, and kissed her as the lavender swayed around them.

It was slow, warm, a little uncertain, and then certain, like a note that finally settled into the right key. She tasted honey and sunlight. He smelled of cedar and the scent she had made for him. When they finally drew apart, both of them were smiling, breathless, with the afternoon wind in their hair.

"That's the last note," said Margaux softly.

"No," said Idris. "I think it's the first."