Cassandra, the very breath of beauty, was set to roll out in the California test market.
“Nicholas, I work the formulation under duress,” the Nose fussed. They sat on a park bench and watched the Azure geese. “Do you wish to be known for a synthetic copy of the real McCoy, a counterfeit fragrance derived from gases and computer printouts? Where is the crushed essence of the flower?”
Nick said nothing, just smiled and listened.
Royce sat straighter, made eye contact, and had time for but brief conversation. “Historic,” he repeated often. “I am overseer of an historic formulation!”
He sent one hundred blood red roses to Joy Spretnak at her desk and signed it, “Your other nose.” She told a close friend who told an assistant chemist who told Royce that when the flowers arrived, she had to request the afternoon off and make an appointment with her endocrinologist.
Nick learned that SFPD ballistics matched the slug dug from the Dixon ceiling to the weapon found in the Dixon shrubbery. Within ten days the police told him they had apprehended the gunman whose fingerprints were all over the .38 special.
“He’s a small-time hood wanted in a string of robberies in Nob Hill,” said Lt. Reynolds on the phone. “The shooter’s not talking. Won’t say why he fired a shot through your bedroom window. Maybe he had the wrong house; maybe he was high on something.”
Most important to Nick, Cassie took considerable comfort in the capture. And when he insisted she and Beth carry mace and that they install a home alarm system with twenty-four-hour monitoring, he met no objections.
Nor was that the end of the good news. “Block & Tackle for men made a promising debut,” he reported to Cassie. “It felt like a talented opening act for the main attraction. Is it me, or does the air we breathe smell a little sweeter these days?”
Cassie was right back in the thick of it. The rush of activity around the Cassandra launch allowed little thought for other matters.
At strategy sessions with senior management, she kept tabs on the latest developments.
“Presales?”
“Great to off the charts,” said Mark Butterfield, checking a clipboard. “The strategic-placement team is experiencing nothing but success. We’ve got sample sniffs out to the movers and shakers in all the major markets. The First Lady is interested; so is Buckingham Palace.”
“Status of the cruet?”
“We’re racing the clock, and the design is stunning. We’ve got the drawing of the celerides that Nick made from memory.”
“Concept?”
“A sweeping, pale-pink, almost gossamer glass reproduction of the seductive orchid stem. It culminates in a single crystal teardrop signifying the jewel of morning dew he recalls so clearly from the day he first laid eyes on it. We’ve got the Pochet luxury perfume glassworks in Paris working night and day to reproduce these works of art.”
“Per-unit cost?”
“High, but more than offset by the visual presentation. You can’t trap the essence of essences in anything less than a high-end vessel. It comes in just over budget for a premier scent, more than made up in the first price increase scheduled to take effect six months post-launch.”
“Security?”
“Per your directive, we’ve instituted three round-the-clock bottling shifts under maximum secrecy and top-clearance protocols.”
“Media?”
Mark Butterfield, hair tousled and tie askew, looked every inch like he’d recently enjoyed a satisfying roll in quality-grade clover. “You’ve been declared royalty,” he said. “The Nicholas and Cassandra of fashion cosmetics! Your last-minute reprieve from certain destruction made you the media darlings. Leno’s people are on the horn every couple of hours. Letterman says you owe him, and took to the streets of the Big Apple and reenacted Nick’s flight from the wild boars and menacing tribesmen who threatened him with death, et cetera, et cetera. You can’t buy that kind of exposure! Oprah’s doing a whole show around pheromones, for which we’re the sole sponsors, and plans another a year from now with a studio audience made up exclusively of moms and all their newborns who are named for you two. Apparently, there are a lot.”
Cassie beamed. Amazing what one orchid can do! Nor were she and Nick the only ones given the star treatment. Beth, who was transferred to a private school for added safety, called home the first day to ask, “Okay if I give interviews to five reporters who want to know what it’s like to be a child of destiny?” She had been asked to autograph everything from student backpacks to students’ backs.
Cassie did one interview that landed Gretchen on the cover of American Canine. She was even glad Andre hadn’t missed out. The media coverage brought in so much new business, he was forced to hire a receptionist, two additional stylists, and a fashion consultant. And he was starting to grow on her. She invited him home to dinner, but it was so riddled with interruptions by TV producers, Azure personnel, and well-wishers that Nick finally gave Beth fifty dollars and told her to find a nice anonymous dinner for two. “We’ll try again for dinner at home when the storm dies down.”
Nick and Cassie supervised the test launch, she from San Francisco, he from L.A. A hundred glassine tubes of Cassandra were given away at each of several major malls, with gorgeous models in flowing pale-pink gowns strolling the concourses, spritzing at random, and having their photos taken with shoppers, their kids, and the out-of-town relatives.
“This is Mark in midtown Manhattan,” said an upbeat voice on Cassie’s cell. “The animated billboards are flashing Cassandra to the masses. We’ve got a Broadway exclusive in the Lion King programs and are this close to a Cassandra night, when the performers cavorting on the African savannah will daub the wrists of female audience members with scent. I can see the headlines now: ‘Lions Beguile with Orchid’s Wiles.’ All this buzz is fantastic!”
“You’re telling me,” Cassie shouted above the mall chaos. “Azure stock is up another fourteen percent!”
Back in San Francisco, Mark fielded calls from Hollywood. The most sought-after director in film proposed one of the most lucrative product-placement deals ever devised: “Sole billing in my next two pictures, including a blockbuster with an ensemble cast of household names. Two of my A-list actresses offer to work for free in exchange for exclusive name association.”
Mark felt the power. “I’m sorry, but Cassandra parfum has but one name and one identity. We cannot confuse the message. I’m sure you understand.”
The results from the test markets were uncommonly positive. Mark heard “showstopping!” “unparalleled!” and “fragrance revolution!” If the profusion of exclamation points wasn’t proof enough, the Chronicle hailed its hometown darlings with a flattering profile headlined “The Scent of Success.”
The tabloids were the source of even greater hyperbole. Unable to get the exclusive it sought, the National Weekly improvised: “Cassandra Cures Impotence and Sciatica.”
Mark scorned Barb Silverman’s Midday. The woman nonetheless camped out at the Azure corporate office, despite repeated assurances that Cassie Dixon would make good on her promise to return and shower the audience with gifts of Cassandra once the test was an unqualified success. Silverman stewed on air, and publicity begat publicity.
Brace yourself,” Nick said to Cassie with a laugh. “My dear, your Azure stock just rose another twenty-three percent yesterday and is headed for eighteen today. Can you stand another historic high?” They strolled arm-in-arm across the sloped back lawn and watched the San Francisco Bay shimmer in the distance.
“Oh, Nick, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for those few investors — especially our employees — who hung with us and kept their stock through the war years. Tell me more good news!”
“Gladly. Word of mouth is gaining speed. They’re clamoring for Cassandra in some of the most remote regions on earth. Major metro preorders have gone through the roof, with Harrod’s in London requesting ten thousand units in a single order. We’ve gotten outlandish offers for advance bottles. So many people have stormed the front office demanding product that as of this morning we are now a lockdown facility with entry by voice- and fingerprint-recognition only. Joy has been a real trooper.”
He sat her on the lawn and kissed her.
“Nick, I’m so happy!”
“Me too, babe. Azure’s hitting on all cylinders, with very little need to expend marketing dollars. Now it’s your turn.”
“Mark tells me we’ve been able to settle the leech case out of court, and the zinc class action suit was tossed for lack of evidence. Remember a day not so long ago when we couldn’t get the trash collector to return our calls? Nowadays even our garbage smells sweet to somebody.”
Nick roared. “I love you. You really know how to romance a guy.”
Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem, et in unum Dominum, Jesum Christum (I believe in one God, the Father almighty, and in one Lord, Jesus Christ) . . .” Fr. Byron paused in the recitation of the Creed, fervently crossed himself, and picked up his cordless phone. After pressing in the number, he listened to the rings.
Cassie’s cell phone went to voice mail again, and he wondered what he could say that was any different from the last two messages.
How many politicians does it take to change a lightbulb? Two.One to change it, and another one to change it back again. Or is that priests? I forget. No, he didn’t feel in much of a joking mood.
He decided on a more direct approach, but not without some wit. “The dying request of a poor, old, and forgotten priest is to speak to you one last time. Fr. B’s the name and sermonizing is my game. Please call.” He felt no guilt over the content of the message. After all, everyone was dying, and technically every request was a dying request.
“Obfuscation,” he said. “The older you get, the more obfuscatory you become.” He didn’t care if it wasn’t a word and returned the phone to its stand.
Not that he anticipated the Dixons building an altar or sacrificing a bullock in gratitude for their remarkable turnaround.
Fr. Chris grunted. Fr. B glanced at the thermostat. With two of them in his tiny kitchen, the atmosphere suddenly felt as hot and itchy as a cleric’s collar.
“But where is their loyalty?” Noncommittal though his fellow priest usually was, Fr. B needed someone to hear what he was feeling. “How much fame can one family take? Is there not just as much opportunity to stumble when you are adored as when you are reviled?”
Fr. Chris turned on Wheel of Fortune, their nightly viewing ritual, but said nothing.
Fr. B turned off the burner on the stove and poured the pan of boiling water over two plastic bowls of instant cinnamon-apple oatmeal. A little low-fat milk, a light sprinkle of artificial sweetener, two whole wheat rolls lightly spread, and dinner was served. The other priest accepted the orange bowl and yelled, “Spin again, you ninny!”
Fr. B returned silent thanks. After the amen, he said, “Where are the Dixons getting their spiritual nourishment? The mother of triplets, Mr. Shave Cream, even Lydia the Jewish catechist continue to make weekly Eucharist, but who has seen the Dix-ons anywhere but in the papers or on TV? Have you?”
Fr. Chris shook his head. “Buy a vowel! Buy a vowel!”
In front of Fr. B on the little Formica table that was both breakfast nook and desk, a large newspaper photo of the handsome couple gave the impression they were smiling at him.
“Look at them radiating such joy. Accomplishment. Contentment. They look positively redeemed.” He frowned. “God, they can’t do this without you. At least when they were against the wall, they started to ask the right questions. What should I do?”
“Buy another vowel!” Fr. Chris said around a generous mouthful of oatmeal. “Look, Byron, even though I’m off duty, I’ll give you my two cents. Trust God; trust the process. You can’t force them to be rational at a time like this. You just be sure you’re there when they need you. And trust me, they will need you.”
Fr. Chris turned back to the oatmeal and the TV. “Solve the puzzle!” he shouted. “Solve the puzzle!”
Mags O’Connor stretched what she called her ancient limbs in preparation for beginning trapeze and kept one eye riveted to the TV monitor. An extreme animal show was reporting a bizarre incident of a palomino thoroughbred that had earlier that week practically chewed the face off its rider. Despite the warning that due to graphic content viewer discretion was advised, Mags watched the news footage of the emergency call to the ranch outside San Francisco in horrified fascination.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency, please?”
The actual recorded call continued with, “My wife’s been attacked by her horse.” The caller was breathless with panic. “She’s bleeding from the head and face something awful. Send help, please!” His agonized sobs made Mags’ stomach clench.
“Did the horse buck her off? Did she land headfirst?” asked the call center dispatcher with maddening calm.
“No! She — my wife — was riding in the paddock when the horse just started bucking and whinnying, all wild-eyed. It all of a sudden stopped, turned its head back . . . grabbed her arm in its teeth, yanked her to the ground. Oh hurry, please God, she’s dying!” The accompanying wail of anguish made Maggie wince.
“Sir, sir, I need you to remain calm, please. An ambulance is on the way. Is the horse sick or injured?”
A gasp of exasperation and the distraught man replied, “My wife’s injured, I told you! He got her on the ground and just started chewing on her face — ”
“Excuse me, sir, did you say the horse bit her face — ”
“Tore it, lady. Her scalp . . . hanging by a shred . . . had to shoot the beast to get it to stop. Oh, God, tell ’em get here quick!”
A loud crack from an adjoining room made Mags jump. Four more sharp cracks followed. The bullwhip workshop at the San Francisco School of Circus Arts was underway. Five more cracks and a shouted reproof from the instructor. Beginners class. Eventually they would learn that true control allowed them to crack their whips with hardly any sound. On the bench outside the room, Mags fingered a tear in her ratty dance slippers. Maybe Cass and I should give the whips a whirl.
“I know what you’re thinking, Magsie,” Cassie taunted. “I see that yearning in your eye.” She was late, but lithe in blue practice tights and snug sleeveless top tied at the waist. The attire accented a figure that graced a growing number of billboards and television spots in the run-up to the national rollout of Cassandra parfum. Positively luminous since Nick came home and changed the equation of their lives, his wife sparkled with health and renewed purpose.
“See that sign?” Cassie pointed to the large letters beside the entrance to what she flippantly called “the whippery.” They read, “Warning! Bullwhips can cut flesh, break bones, put out an eye, or slice off an ear. Treat them with respect!” She passed Mags and made straight for the warm-up tramp. “This is me treating them with respect,” she called back.
Mags left the bench and followed. “Right. So let’s haul our bottoms four stories into the air where it’s safe. Have you seen that bitty bar we’re supposed to swing on up there?”
It was crowded for a Thursday evening, and while they waited their turns on the trampoline, Cassie gave her friend a hug and teased, “Why the long face? Eventually you get to be caught by hunky young men in tights. Have you seen their muscles?”
All Mags saw was sixteen-year-olds in peach fuzz. “Sorry, dearie, but when you’ve been romanced by Mr. Lauren, everything else looks like a boy band.” She shuddered. “While I was waiting for you, a TV news report came on about a woman who was . . . mauled by her horse. Terrible bites and lacerations. She nearly died. It was so unnatural, I can’t shake it.”
“How odd,” Cassie said. “That’s not characteristic of horses at all. I’ve heard of the animals throwing riders, kicking and stomping them, but not tearing at them. Must have been diseased. Talk about weird, did you hear about the cat in El Cajon?”
Mags moved up a spot. “No, what cat?”
“Just an ordinary tabby that went from a gentle chase-the-toy-mouse-around-the-house feline one minute to a raging tiger the next. The owner said it hunted her down, yowling and spitting like a banshee. The poor woman hunched on the floor behind the sofa while the puss clawed her clothes, her back and legs, to ribbons. The neighbor found her babbling incoherently and had to beat the cat off her. They put it to sleep. It was in yesterday’s Chronicle.”
“Rabies,” Mags said. “How else do you explain it? I worry about Gretchen, her kennel so close to the woods like that. A rabid raccoon or opossum could infect her while she sleeps!”
Cassie shook her head. “It’s well fenced, but let’s change the subject, shall we? How’s that new project of yours coming?”
“Pretty well, for an old lady’s indulgence.” In truth she was staging a mini comeback of her own. While staying with the Dixons, babysitting Gretchen, and cooking some meals for the family, she had begun a quiet revolution in independent cosmetics. Choice Brand beautifiers were made of nutritious fresh fruit, vegetables, flowers, and herbs. Organic avocado butter, cocoa cream, ground almonds, lavender extract, and lemon oil were a few of the delicious ingredients that went into Choice bath bars, Choice lotions, and Choice facial balms. She rented a corner of a lab at Azure and shared a part-time Azure intern from San Francisco State. In a couple months Choice Brand products would sell in small beauty boutiques from Monterey to Beverly Hills. Internet preorders were promising.
“That’s wonderful,” said Cassie. “God knows there’s enough success to go around these days, and Nick and I want to see your boat rise right along with ours. You believed in us and stuck by us through fat times and lean.”
“And you’ve been there for me,” Mags said. “Always.”
“Faster friends do not exist!” Cassie and Mags gave each other a thumbs-up.
“And loving every minute of it,” Mags said, the pure joy of a new start lending her a youthful zeal. She had dropped a few pounds since joining the Dixon household and thought her appearance quite smart in the salmon-colored Donna Rico leotard and matching nail polish she wore to the gym.
A pair of female scarf-jugglers took up their station parallel to the trampoline line. Mags watched in delight as the yellow and green fabrics danced through the air, now floating like parachutes, now descending like brilliant jellyfish. The girls were skilled, alternately snatching and launching the scarves with practiced ease. In a gym awash in testosterone and estrogen, their silent, graceful theatrics were lovely to watch.
“What’s the best part? Of being in business, I mean,” Cassie said.
Mags didn’t hesitate. “Being back in the game. I was with Estée at the creation of Youth Dew. I remember the thrill of the GIs bringing home all those knockout scents from France. We knew we were sitting on a gold mine. We made lotion fashionable, and that fragrance became the most memorable of the fifties. It still outsells the competition for half what it cost fifty years ago. Sexiest scent ever — till Cassandra!”
Cassie smiled and smoothed her friend’s hair. “Why, Mags? Why do women go gaga over a creamy dab of this and a sensuous mist of that? It’s not like it holds the key to world peace.”
Mags’ eyes sparkled. “Don’t be too sure. Perfumes were thought to appease the Egyptian gods. The wealthy ancient Greeks were buried with a bottle of their favorite scent. The Romans sanctioned druidic ceremonial perfumes, and how do you think the sacred virgins got so sacred? One shudders to think how much more tyrannical kings and kingdoms would have been down through history had it not been for the gentling properties of scent. An early French perfume of the industrial age was called Parfum de la Guillotine. I rest my case.”
Cassie laughed. “Is there anything you don’t know when it comes to the trade?”
“Oh, honey, I’ve forgotten more than today’s bad boys and girls of industry were ever taught. But you’re no slouch in this department. You forget, but I was in the audience at the Fashion Institute of New York when you gave that lecture you called ‘The Aroma of Christ.’ From Paul the Apostle’s second letter to the Corinthians, I believe it was. Nothing short of brilliant how you demonstrated the link between Paul’s startling analogy and the Church’s priestly use of rose garlands and censers of incense in imitation of the supposed fragrance surrounding followers of Jesus. What did Paul say? To those perishing without faith in Christ, it is the smell of death; to those who trust in Christ, it is the fragrance of life.”
Maggie chuckled. “Oh yes, honey. Those heathens in Fashions 101 were more than a little curious about where you were headed with that one!”
Cassie remembered the occasion well. Fr. Byron had urged her to worship God by including him in the natural course of her work. Church on Sunday was where the worshipping and talking about God happened. The rest of the week was business, family, and a rare bit of leisure. But the strange notion of incorporating the Christian tradition into the day-to-day intrigued Cassie. Was it even possible in the high-powered world of beauty?
Fr. Byron gave her a push in that direction by delivering a sermon on 2 Corinthi ans 2:15. He defined inspiration as “to breathe in, to infuse with feeling.” The Christian life is the inspired life, he said, and people ought to be able to detect a Christian’s “aroma.” To those the Holy Spirit was working on, the fragrance was sweet, appealing, a whiff of heaven. To those resisting the Holy Spirit, the fragrance was about as appealing as the stench of the Sumatran corpse flower. The plant, a relative of the skunk cabbage, used its putridity to attract and devour dung beetles and carrion beetles.
The more Cassie researched the topic, the more excited she became. Rose oil in the early church acted as a mild sedative and antidepressant. Entire congregations emerged from worship ser vices with nervous tension soothed, heartbeat slowed, blood pressure lowered, and concentration increased.
The resins in incense contained alcohols called phystosterols, which, biochemically, were remarkably similar to human hormones, especially those found in the armpits, on the breath, and in the urine. It was suggested that when the wise men brought gifts of frankincense and myrrh to the Christ child, they were recognizing his humble start and willingness to stoop so low as to become human.
Who but a classroom full of tomorrow’s fashion designers wanted to know that much about what went into the understanding of fine fragrance? And curious they were. The question-and-answer period following her presentation went past the allotted time, and she still received the occasional email from a student or two who were present at the lecture.
“Earth to Cassie. Up you go!” Mags motioned that it was her turn on the trampoline. The stocky male spotters offered her a hand up the steps, but Cass motioned for Mags to go in her place. Maggie gave her a curious look, shrugged, and teased the spotters. “Watch the goods, boys; they’re fragile!”
Cassie stepped out of line, went to her locker, and took the cell phone from her bag. She wanted — needed — to talk with Fr. Byron, tell him how sorry she was to not have returned his calls, how sincere she was about getting back in church just as soon as the perfume was launched and things calmed down.
She saw that she had a message from Nick, and punched his number first. He picked up on the first ring.
“I do hope you’re sitting down,” he said. She sank onto a nearby bench, heart quickening. “I just got off the phone with Benjamin Lynch, the vice president of the North American Fragrance Guild. He says that the Cassandra sample we sent is sensational, and this from a man whose only comment after Armstrong stepped on the moon was, ‘Nice shot.’ Lynch called Cassandra the must-have fragrance of the modern era! We’ve got to get Marketing on that sound bite.
“And now, my darling, brace yourself. Lynch says the Guild decided in emergency closed session to present us with the Grand Crystal Decanter at this year’s gala! And what’s more, for the first time in the Guild’s sixty-year history, the Crystal Decanter Awards Gala will be moved from the Big Apple here to San Francisco! Can you believe it?”
The news was staggering. The NAFG catered to no one. It was the stuffiest, tightest, most elite club on the planet. It made and broke whomever it wanted, whenever it wanted. Never had it given Azure World so much as a nod of recognition. In fact, an insider in the industry reported that the Dixons had been sneered at by the Guild board, and the fashion column in the Times had referred to “reliable sources at the Guild” openly speculating that “the bloodline of fashion” wanted a good cleansing of its gene pool, weakened as it was by “poor performers” like Azure World. That had very nearly driven Cassie to quit the business and still stung to this day.
And now they had voted to present her and Nick with the top prize — the Grand Crystal Decanter for Outstanding Achievement in the Fragrance Arts. Moving the venue for the awards ceremony was beyond stupefying. New York and Paris were the holy cities of the fashion world. Every significant blessing in that realm was bestowed in one or the other.
“I can die now,” she said.
“Not before we buy you the finest ‘you really like me’ gown ever stitched.”
“I shall never again catch my breath in this century.”
They both laughed. Just when it couldn’t get any better, it got better.
“My dear Nicholas,” she said, looking about her at people vaulting, leaping, flying, balancing, juggling, flipping, and whipping. It was all so surreal. Was circus life, or life a circus? “I do believe I have never loved you more.”
“Sweetheart, you’d better get used to it. On October twentieth, first we go to the ball, then we move into the castle.”
They met at Trattoria Pallottino near Santa Croce in Tuscany. It was the eighties, Reagan was in the White House, and if the “me generation” had it, they flaunted it.
She was solo, irritated with her parents, backpacking Europe, and having a light lunch of cheese and salami. At the adjoining table, a lean and sunburned man tore into a platter of the local delicacy, stuffed rabbit. So singular was his enthusiasm that Cassie quite forgot the article she was reading and used the magazine as a vantage point from behind which to spy on the young American.
She found out later that he had early caught on to her none-too-subtle observations and for her benefit had embellished his dinner with little sighs of contentment and much licking of the fingers. Nearing the finish line, but without looking at her, he said in a loud and pleasant voice, “I can eat dessert standing on my head. Want to see?”
Her embarrassment was soothed at his table over a shared goblet of tiramisu resplendent with mascarpone cream.
“You’re traveling alone?” Every swipe of his spoon at the lingering traces of cream was a scold to her reckless daring. She liked the unruliness of his dark-brown hair.
“Why do you ask?” Her sudden caution was homage to her mother’s dire warnings about two-legged wolves prowling through Europe.
“Because I am prepared to be your companion and guide — strictly platonic, you understand. This is my third swing around Italy.”
“What’s the attraction?” She couldn’t believe the transparency of the question. She even rolled her tongue around her spoon with far more emphasis than required.
“Let me show you.”
They spent a glorious afternoon at the Piazza Santa Croce, drinking in Gothic architecture and historic works of art. “The basilica was begun in 1294 but not consecrated until 1443,” Nick said. “Imagine a church building program taking a hundred and forty-nine years in the US!”
There was music in the way he said it — said anything — and Cassie clung to every word.
They stepped reverently over the tombstones that formed the floor the entire length of the nave. They marveled at the trussed timber ceiling and the splendid marble pulpit. But for Cassie, the greatest sight of all was the way the light from the magnificent fourteenth-century stained glass windows turned Nick’s head and shoulders to gold.
Outside in the sunshine, they walked the piazza arm in arm. In the center of the great expanse, he stopped, turned, and took her hands. “I realize we only met a few hours ago when my chin was shiny with rabbit grease, but I would very much like to kiss you.”
He waited, eyes sparking sunlight, blinding her with the joy of a huge smile.
“You’re in luck, then, because I very much want to be kissed by you.”
It wasn’t hungry and excessive, like the kisses popularized by the movies, but sweetly earnest.
Pigeons cooed and strutted about their feet. Across the piazza a crowd of schoolchildren erupted in laughter. “Do you believe in traveling over the Atlantic to find love?”
She did but said, “Love?”
“Yup. Love. Amore. Life partners and all that.”
“That’s quite a long way from platonic.”
“Only about three hours in the company of the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.”
“You don’t get out much, then.”
“Guess how glad I am I got out this time?”
Cassie never knew the human heart was capable of that many beats per minute. Try as she might, she could not hear the howling of a single wolf.
He was the perfect friend and gentleman the remaining six days. He stayed at separate hostels, called for her each day at the agreed hour, and bought her a little silver sugar basin etched with two swans, necks entwined.
On the day they parted for home, she to San Francisco, he to Manhattan, he gave her a code word for their rapidly blossoming love. “Dolceforte says it all. It’s Italian for ‘sweet-strong.’ It has an earthy intensity that speaks of the many passions of the Tuscan life — sensual, traditional, robust, and powerful. Ours is a sweet-strong love without end.”
They wrote, they called, they waited for her to finish her master’s degree in business administration at San Francisco State University, and for him to complete the fashion marketing track at New York’s Fashion Institute of Technology. He surprised her on graduate hooding day at SFSU with a ring and a double portion of the huge smile he had first unleashed in Tuscany.
“Marry me,” he said after carrying her, gown and all, to a stone bench where they could have their privacy. “Birth my babies.”
“On one condition.” She loved the laughter in his eyes. “I want a dim sum reception in Chinatown.”
“On two conditions.” He blew on her neck, giving her the shivers she liked from him. “One, some of the dim sum has rabbit meat filling. Two, our wedding cake is tiramisu.”
“Done!”
Then they kissed, a hungry, excessive kiss, just like in the movies.
When Maggie walked up to her, Cassie was lying flat on the bench, daydreaming like a teenager in love.
“What gives?” Mags demanded, out of breath and shiny with perspiration from her time on the tramp. “I look around for my trapeze partner, and you’re back here staring at the ceiling, looking as if you’ve had a visitation from Elvis.”
Cassie sat up, straightened her legs, and stretched until fingers touched toes. “Magsie, girl, what did I ever do to deserve all this?”
“What? Hanging out with an old woman in a gym pungent with smelly socks and mentholated rub?”
“Oh, Mags, what would I do without you?”
Mags gave her an affectionate squeeze. “You, my dear, are the daughter I lost long ago.”
Cassie held her at arm’s length, puzzled. “You’ve never mentioned having a daughter. What — ”
“Shush.” Mags held a finger to her lips and looked regretful for having spoken. “Water under the bridge. Besides, young lady, either you have news I need to hear or you just swallowed a very plump canary. Take me for ice cream; I’m feeling faint.”
Cassie laughed. She wouldn’t be any good on the trapeze anyway, bursting as she was with the contents of Nick’s call. They could make up the session tomorrow. She threw a companionable arm around Mags and they made for the exit.
The foggy night air felt good after the heated gym. Cassie again thought of the cell phone. And Fr. Byron. And the Rocky Road ice cream sundae with double hot fudge that would celebrate the end of the best day ever!