much bergamot in this one, too tart; no depth in this one; bring forward the orange blossom in another
. She tilted her head, studying her notes.
Measuring out drops from several vials, she blended another variation, leaning heavily on her keen intuition. Inhaling, she let her mind wander, visualizing the aromatic impression.
An ethereal freshness with subtle spiciness, like the voluptuous scent of orange blossoms on a sunny spring morning.
The hair on her arms bristled with anticipation.
She inhaled again, going farther, detecting the bouquet of jasmine and rose, rich and silky, entwined with a spicy note of carnation, adding verve and vitality, robust brilliance.
It needs a splash of complexity here, a sprig of basil there, an accent of clove.
Images of lovers danced in her mind, a soaring sonata thrilled in her soul.
Another breath and her mind delved deeper into the essence, regaling her from the depths of her spirit.
The mystery of amber to balance the soul; the smoothness of sandalwood like the richest of silk; vanilla blended, sweetened, like a lover’s midnight embrace.
An ache grew within the core of her being. And in her mind’s eye, veiled visions of a moonlit night, a couple dancing barefoot on the beach, swirling silks of scarlet and gold, the touch of skin, the whisper of breath warm on the neck, so real to her that she trailed her fingers along the nape of her own neck. Seductive, sensual, the essence of
amour
.
And yet, something was missing.
The deepest satisfaction of the soul, the complete connection to the spirit, the psyche. Almost, but not quite.
Danielle opened her eyes.
Needs a little more work
, she told herself, and made a note in her journal.
She put her pencil down and stretched, she’d been sitting for four hours. Philippe opened the door and walked in. She smiled and held out a bottle. “Would you like to try what I have for Chimère so far?”
He closed his eyes and inhaled, then opened them. “Excellent progress, with a unique, clear motif. Entirely new, radically different from anything else on the market today. So, why do you call it Chimère?”
“It’s a lovely word, don’t you think?” A mischievous grin tugged at her mouth and she took the sample back. “It’s full of imagery; it’s my fanciful folly, that’s what Max thinks of my work. But this will be a grand perfume, once it’s complete. It is my future,” she added with sudden resolve. “Of that I am certain.”
Philippe crinkled his brow. “Doesn’t Max admire your work?”
“I thought so when we first met. Only now, he’d rather I tend to our children.” She bit her lip at the sudden thought of Nicky.
Why haven’t I heard anything from Max?
She shook her head.
“Still, you must not deny your art.” Philippe stroked his grey-stubbled chin. “Why can’t you do both? Marie always has.”
“I’ve decided that I will again someday.” Danielle put the vial away. “But Max is sensitive and prideful. He wants to be the one to provide for our family. I understand, and I respect that about him.” After mentioning his name, she grew quiet.
“You haven’t heard from him?”
Her throat tightened. “No.”
“I see.” Philippe shook his head. “You may have your differences, Danielle, but Max is an honorable man.” His voice sounded thick. “And brave. To go back into occupied Poland, well, you know how dangerous it is. Many men would not have done what he is doing.”
“I know, but I have a terrible feeling, Philippe. What if he can’t find our family?”
“He will do his best.”
Danielle grew cold inside; she quickly squashed the sudden fear that flared within her. “But what if he is discovered? What if he pushes too far, too hard?”
6
Despite the unrest in Europe, Parisians flocked to the venerable Hôtel Ritz on New Year’s Eve to celebrate the birth of a new year: 1940.
Upstairs, Marie tidied their airy suite and awaited the arrival of her son, Jean-Claude, and his wife,
. She tilted her head, studying her notes.
Measuring out drops from several vials, she blended another variation, leaning heavily on her keen intuition. Inhaling, she let her mind wander, visualizing the aromatic impression.
An ethereal freshness with subtle spiciness, like the voluptuous scent of orange blossoms on a sunny spring morning.
The hair on her arms bristled with anticipation.
She inhaled again, going farther, detecting the bouquet of jasmine and rose, rich and silky, entwined with a spicy note of carnation, adding verve and vitality, robust brilliance.
It needs a splash of complexity here, a sprig of basil there, an accent of clove.
Images of lovers danced in her mind, a soaring sonata thrilled in her soul.
Another breath and her mind delved deeper into the essence, regaling her from the depths of her spirit.
The mystery of amber to balance the soul; the smoothness of sandalwood like the richest of silk; vanilla blended, sweetened, like a lover’s midnight embrace.
An ache grew within the core of her being. And in her mind’s eye, veiled visions of a moonlit night, a couple dancing barefoot on the beach, swirling silks of scarlet and gold, the touch of skin, the whisper of breath warm on the neck, so real to her that she trailed her fingers along the nape of her own neck. Seductive, sensual, the essence of
amour
.
And yet, something was missing.
The deepest satisfaction of the soul, the complete connection to the spirit, the psyche. Almost, but not quite.
Danielle opened her eyes.
Needs a little more work
, she told herself, and made a note in her journal.
She put her pencil down and stretched, she’d been sitting for four hours. Philippe opened the door and walked in. She smiled and held out a bottle. “Would you like to try what I have for Chimère so far?”
He closed his eyes and inhaled, then opened them. “Excellent progress, with a unique, clear motif. Entirely new, radically different from anything else on the market today. So, why do you call it Chimère?”
“It’s a lovely word, don’t you think?” A mischievous grin tugged at her mouth and she took the sample back. “It’s full of imagery; it’s my fanciful folly, that’s what Max thinks of my work. But this will be a grand perfume, once it’s complete. It is my future,” she added with sudden resolve. “Of that I am certain.”
Philippe crinkled his brow. “Doesn’t Max admire your work?”
“I thought so when we first met. Only now, he’d rather I tend to our children.” She bit her lip at the sudden thought of Nicky.
Why haven’t I heard anything from Max?
She shook her head.
“Still, you must not deny your art.” Philippe stroked his grey-stubbled chin. “Why can’t you do both? Marie always has.”
“I’ve decided that I will again someday.” Danielle put the vial away. “But Max is sensitive and prideful. He wants to be the one to provide for our family. I understand, and I respect that about him.” After mentioning his name, she grew quiet.
“You haven’t heard from him?”
Her throat tightened. “No.”
“I see.” Philippe shook his head. “You may have your differences, Danielle, but Max is an honorable man.” His voice sounded thick. “And brave. To go back into occupied Poland, well, you know how dangerous it is. Many men would not have done what he is doing.”
“I know, but I have a terrible feeling, Philippe. What if he can’t find our family?”
“He will do his best.”
Danielle grew cold inside; she quickly squashed the sudden fear that flared within her. “But what if he is discovered? What if he pushes too far, too hard?”
6
Despite the unrest in Europe, Parisians flocked to the venerable Hôtel Ritz on New Year’s Eve to celebrate the birth of a new year: 1940.
Upstairs, Marie tidied their airy suite and awaited the arrival of her son, Jean-Claude, and his wife,
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