Black and white tiles covered the floor of the spacious foyer, and from the vaulted ceiling hung a lantern-like chandelier. A grandfather clock and floor jardinière filled with eucalyptus stood against one wall, and against the other were a hall table and grouping of framed Black and White Scotch Whiskey prints featuring the famous pair of Scottish dogs.
Beyond the checkered tiles, Samantha glimpsed a grand staircase and the beginning of floral carpeting: vines of black, green and pink flowers tangled on a yellow background that crept and climbed and wound its way up the stairs like a magical garden path. She felt as though the outdoors had trailed them inside.
As Samantha stared ahead at the yellow carpeting, imagining the exquisite rooms to which its vines led, a shadow flickered in her peripheral vision and drew her attention back to the tiles on which they stood. On a large white square, a few diagonal squares ahead of her, appeared a sitting Scottish terrier. Black as night and as still as a piece on a chessboard, it stared intently, the whites of its eyes showing like half-moons beneath black bangs. Though the animal seemed neither threatening nor welcoming, its indifference intimidated Samantha. “Did this dog just jump out of those whiskey ads, or has he been sitting here all along?”
“Meet Blue,” Gwen said. “The beard throws everyone off, but he’s a she—and yes, she’s been here assessing you all along. We’ve never quite figured it out, but when strangers first come she tends to make herself invisible on a black tile. Once she decides the situation is amicable and wishes to be announced, she moves to a white one.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you have a Scottie! I grew up with them.” Liz beamed. “You are so cute, Blue!” She crouched down. “Can you say ahroo? Come on. Let me hear that Scottie voice I miss so much.”
“Ahroo!” Blue’s tail wagged as she bucked Liz’s hand and rolled it back so that it came to rest on the dog’s head.
“Hmm…she camouflages herself,” Samantha commented. “That’s tactical deception…a fairly advanced thought process.” She crouched alongside Liz and extended her hand. “Hi, Blue. You certainly are a clever little—”
But Blue had no time for small talk and no time for Samantha. Like a person who rudely refuses to shake an outstretched hand, Blue turned her back on Samantha, kissed Liz’s hand, and then trotted down the hall toward the sounds of someone cooking—pots clanging, pans sizzling, something steaming.
“I suspect she’s off to beg Rosa for chicken. Don’t take her aloofness personally,” Gwen said. “She’s a true Scot—unpretentious and slow to warm up. But once she decides she likes you, you’ll have a friend for life.”
Samantha knew Gwen was just trying to make her feel better. It had taken the Scottie all of thirty seconds to warm up to Liz. And Samantha suspected it didn’t take much longer for women to warm up to her either. Liz was gregarious, casually affectionate, and a talker who loved also to listen. All in all, the easiness about her made people—and the dog—feel instantly comfortable.
As they moved on, Samantha’s redheaded bohemian out-law oohed and aahed at everything in sight, while she herself absorbed Dr. Laraway’s treasures in silent wonder. To their right, double doors revealed a portion of a huge living room. Classical guitar music played softly, sunshine and a sweet breeze streaming in from sparkling floor-to-ceiling windows that gave the house a cheerful and most romantic aspect. The ambience, Samantha suspected, was a mere extension of its owner’s personality; Gwen was as light and breezy and cheerful as her surroundings.
Just then a clash in the kitchen interrupted the ambience, and a frantic Scottie passed them, running for cover. She bolted right through Gwen’s legs as a woman yelled in a foreign language. Spanish, she guessed.
“Rosa?” Dr. Laraway called out in alarm. She rushed toward the kitchen, Samantha and Liz following her. A short, dark, buxom woman appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, wiping one hand on an apron and holding a sponge in the other. Her silver hair was pulled back in a bun, and her dark, expressive eyes animated her whole face when she spoke. “Oh, where my poor baby go? I drop a spoon on her head and she run. Blue? Aquí!” she called, turning back to wipe a white sauce from the floor.
Something punched Samantha’s calf just then, and she looked down to see that Blue had returned. With her big nose she punched again, then pushed herself between Samantha’s legs and peeked into the kitchen to search the floor for whatever had assaulted her. The coast clear, she trotted over and sat by the stove, obviously pretending the whole disturbance had never occurred, except that she had a glob of white sauce on her head.
“Is everything okay in here?” Gwen asked.
“Sí, señora.” Rosa dampened a paper towel, wiped the dog’s head, handed her a piece of chicken, and then washed her own hands.
“Do you need help?”
“No, señora.”
“Well then, if you’re sure…I’d like you to meet our guests. This is Samantha Weller…”
“Hola, Señora Weller,” Rosa said, drying her hands on her apron. She smiled, then turned to Gwen and said something in Spanish.
“No, no relation to that Weller…why are you speaking Spanish?”
Rosa just shrugged.
Gwendolyn rolled her eyes and turned to Samantha. “Rosa asked if you were related to the Weller of Weller pottery. Remind me to show you some examples of your namesake after lunch. And this young lady,” she introduced Liz, “is Ms. Weller’s sister-in-law…Liz Bowes.”
“Hola, Señorita Lesbos.”
“That’s Liz.” Gwen corrected her. “Liz Bowes. Bowes is her last name.”
Rosa had it right the first time, Samantha thought, and pursed her lips to keep from laughing out loud, avoiding eye contact with Liz for fear she would lose composure.
Rosa put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, lo siento.”
“No need to apologize. Hola.” Liz greeted her without missing a beat.
Rosa’s face brightened. “Hola! Habla español?”
“Un poquito.”
“Ah! Like me with inglés—un poquito,” Rosa said.
Liz commented that whatever was cooking smelled wonderful and then in Spanish must have asked Rosa something, because suddenly the housekeeper took her by the hand and pulled her into the kitchen. “Come, señorita…I show you,” she said.
Gwen gestured to Samantha. “Perhaps you’d like a tour instead.” With that she locked her arm through Samantha’s and led her back across the hall.
“Are you bilingual?” Samantha asked Gwen.
“Not really. I can manage a very simple conversation. My niece and my brother, William, are both fluent. His first wife, who would be Isabel’s mother, died when Isabel was a child, but William encouraged her to speak both languages. Background conversations served me well. I learned subliminally, I suppose, although I can understand much better than I can speak. And pay no mind to Rosa. She understands English perfectly well. She only pretends she doesn’t when it’s convenient or when she becomes self-conscious about her grammar.”
“She’s been with you a long time?”
“She’s been with our family, part of our family, since my niece and her son were quite small. Her son, Carlos, is graduating from veterinary school at Purdue next year, and we’re hoping he’ll want to come back and join a practice in the area. It’ll be nice to have a veterinarian in the family, and of course Rosa would love to have him nearby.”
Laughter sounded from the kitchen. Samantha heard hushed chattering—broken English from Rosa, broken Spanish from Liz—and then the two women began laughing their heads off.
“Oh dear,” Gwen said. “Rosa must have Liz’s ear.”
“I think it’s the other way around. I had no idea Liz even spoke Spanish until now.”
“How is that?”
“Her sister married my brother less than a year ago, and since neither of us sees our siblings much, we had limited contact…until I took the bookend to her for an appraisal.”
“So the rook was the intermediary?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s a good thing you found that bookend. The two of you seem close.”
“I was thinking the same thing on the way here,” Samantha said, positively enjoying the way Dr. Laraway was hugging her arm as they strolled through the double doors to the living room.
“What were you thinking, Sam?”
“How sometimes life seems like one big game of connect the dots.”
“Hmm…it does, doesn’t it? And I’m glad our dots have connected.”
Gwen’s touch, her rich and textured voice, even her heady fragrance seemed oddly familiar to Samantha. Like a déjà vu, it set her mind in a whirl of irretrievable memories. And when Gwen’s perfume caught her nose again, she inhaled deeply and shut her eyes. “Jasmine…neroli…tuberose,” she murmured.
Dr. Laraway stopped and looked at her. “Flowers?”
“Your perfume.” Samantha smiled at her. “You’re wearing Chanel, aren’t you?”
“Why, yes…I am.” Gwen seemed amazed. “You can distinguish all those floral notes?”
“I can.”
“I’m drawing a blank on neroli,” Gwen said.
“It’s from the bitter-orange tree. The blossoms are very sweet, honey-like. I’m smelling gardenia, too,” Samantha said, lifting her nose to the air, “but it’s not coming from you.”
“I’ve never known anyone with such a sharp olfactory sense. You have an extraordinary nose, Sam.”
“Maybe I’m just a woman who knows her flowers.”
“Is that knows or nose?”
“Both.” Samantha grinned. “I have a good nose, and I knows my flowers.”
Gwen chuckled, her eyes playing curiously on Samantha’s face. “You know, a perfumer is often referred to as le nez—French for the nose—because of his or her acute sense of smell and ability to translate moods and emotions into fragrance compositions.”
“Huh. I didn’t know that.” She glanced at Gwen. “Well, if ever I lose the ability to translate moods and emotions into language, and people stop buying my books, perhaps I can apply for work as le nez.”
Gwen played along. “Feel free to use me as a reference.”
Samantha smiled as they continued, unable to shake the uncanny sensation that she hadn’t just met Gwen but had simply returned to her after too long an absence.