Signature Scent
Christy Hartman
About the Author
Christy Hartman pens short fiction from the ocean and mountains of Vancouver Island Canada. She writes about love and loss and the morsels of magic in life’s quiet moments. Christy has been shortlisted for Bath and Bridport Flash Fiction prizes and is a two-time New York City Midnight winner. She has been published by Sky Island Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others
Signature Scent
My husband’s been preparing dinner for his girlfriend all afternoon. From the garden, I admire Julian through the kitchen window—pearl onions, bay leaves, and a bottle of red. My mom believes everyone needs a signature scent, and Julian’s is definitely boeuf bourguignon.
Mom’s is Chanel No. 5—heady with bergamot. She’d given me a bottle of YSL Black Opium on my fifteenth birthday—boldly vanilla. “Laurel, you’ll never be the prettiest, or smartest in the room, but men can’t resist fresh cookies.”
She wasn’t a great mother but had been married three times. I was still dousing myself with it when I met Julian. He finally confessed to preferring florals after proposing in a lavender field—to ‘the most beautiful and most intelligent woman he’d met’.
Five years later my soul is tied to this pungent eucalyptus patch—haunting the garden we’d planted together, and Julian hasn’t set foot back here in years.
His very-much-alive girlfriend’s flushed face appears in the kitchen. The first night she slept over I wafted the medicinal scent through the open bedroom window, a bitter mix with her sweet honeysuckle perfume. Julian, shirtless, stared into the garden for a moment before sliding the glass closed, blocking the eucalyptus, and me.
Tonight feels different. Honeysuckle and anticipation swirl around. Tiny tremors from bare feet shuffling through the grass.
“What are you doing?” Julian’s sharp tone is startling. I’d been so focused on her I hadn’t noticed when the door opened.
The footsteps halt. “If I’m going to move in, I want to see the garden.” Her voice has an edge of defiance. “It’s lovely. Let’s use it.”
“Eucalyptus stinks.” Julian remains at the kitchen door.
“Why’d you plant it?”
“Bees hate it. Keeps them away.”
“That’s silly. Bees won’t bug you if you don’t bug them. What about lavender? It’d look perfect along the fence.”
“No!” Julian strides across the lawn and grabs her hand. “Come back inside.”
She pulls away. “I love you, but this is weird.”
Julian drops to his knees. She doesn’t hesitate to follow him, sitting in the dirt.
“Talk to me,” she whispers.
“Laurel was allergic to bees—we didn’t know. I found her too late.” The scent of garlic and mushrooms seeps into the soil along with his tears. “After Laurel died, I ripped the lavender out. It was my stupid idea to plant it.”
I stretch the branches, but the roots are anchored tight. He must know it wasn’t his fault. That it’s okay to let me go.
He tells her how I smelled like fresh cookies, always sang Jolene at karaoke, and pretended to enjoy his boeuf bourguignon. How my mom still blames him.
She asks the right questions and leaves the others unspoken. They decide to dig up the eucalyptus and plant a laurel tree—for me.
The roots loosen, the acrid smell fades. The stew’s aromatics waft from the kitchen.
“Dinner smells heavenly.” She smiles at Julian.
I shake free of the dirt, and bloom into vanilla, bergamot, lavender, and honeysuckle.