The Rose of Winslow Street (13 page)

What a strange sense of connection she felt for the uncle she had never met. Like Constantine, Mirela had been forced to wander from city to city, country to country, all in search of what? Surely God had a purpose for her, or He would not have sent Michael into her life time and again to rescue her. What did He intend for her to do with her life? After the tragedy that happened in the rose fields, Mirela still believed she could recover and be blessed with children someday. When the doctor told her otherwise, the dream she had been clinging to these past sixteen months was snuffed out and she was overwhelmed by crashing waves of despair.

Why did God keep slamming doors in her face? Blow, after blow, after blow. Each time she survived another storm and tried to build a new life, she was slammed back down. Surely there must be a reason. Surely there was something important she must do with her life or she would have died long ago. She sensed that whatever power had driven her uncle to America was now compelling her as well. She would not stop searching this house until she found it.

After two hours, Mirela's clothing was soaked with perspiration and she was trembling with exhaustion. She had yet to find anything belonging to Constantine Dobrescu, but could not bring herself to stop looking. On the few occasions they stumbled across something that warranted closer inspection, Mirela held it before the tinted light coming through the stained-glass windows to try to decipher it. There had to be
something
in this house from Constantine. She could sense it.

She leaned her head against the window, smiling at the irony of the profusion of roses that decorated the stained glass. She wished the window depicted anything besides roses, but at least the glass carried no fragrance. How ironic that they looked exactly like the type of roses grown on the Duke of Vlaska's estate.

She stiffened and a tingling sensation raced across her skin. They were
exactly
the same roses grown by the duke. The artist had captured the unusual vermilion shade of the blooms and extravagantly dense petals. “Turk, look at these windows,” she said with a trembling whisper. The first window showed a field of roses set against a clear blue sky of early morning. The middle window was far more disturbing. A simple crucifix was set into the space between two mountains, and it was surrounded by falling rocks, flames, and torrents of rushing waters, the sky filled with storm clouds and despair. The final window was once again serene. It depicted rugged green mountains set against the last moments of a fading sunset. Again, a small crucifix was set into the mountainside.

Turk stared intently at the windows. She could tell he recognized the Duke of Vlaska's roses. “What do they mean?” he asked.

“I have no idea.” The only window she truly understood was the first one, showing the rose fields that appeared to be the Duke of Vlaska's estate. She even recognized the distinctive chain of mountains on the horizon of the first window. The last window had an odd sort of serenity, but a sense of melancholy as the fading sunset struggled to cast light over the lush green mountainside.

“Maybe they depict Constantine's life,” Turk speculated. “His early years growing roses in Romania, then a time of war. Is the last window here in New England?”

It would make sense for him to have a setting sun if this window depicted the final years of his life. But the mountains did not look like those she had seen in Massachusetts. They looked more like the Carpathian Mountains of Romania.

“I don't know,” she said, but she was oddly attracted to the center window, with the strange rocks appearing to fall from the mountains toward the cross. “I remember hearing of a convent that was destroyed by an earthquake. Before he left Romania, Constantine was very concerned for the surviving nuns. Perhaps this is the artist's way of depicting an earthquake.”

Turk nodded. “We must ask Michael what he thinks.”

Mirela nodded. Michael had sacrificed more than any of them to bring her to America, and he had a right to know what she had learned.

M
ichael sat sprawled on the garden bench, his shirt unbuttoned so the sun could reach as much of his skin as possible. His body was still mending and basking in the sun's healing rays soothed his spirit. Ever since he was a child, Michael longed to be outside, where he could throw himself into working the land and enjoy the warmth of the sun on his skin. From this position in the garden, he could also listen to the voices of his children drift through the open kitchen window as they spoke with Libby Sawyer.

She had come several times this week, and he savored her visits. When Libby was around there was laughter and sunshine. Sometimes they sat in the garden and talked for hours about everything from plants to history to the correct way to score a game of croquet. Other days she played with the children, for which he was grateful. His boys still had not made friends in the neighborhood, and they thrived on her attention like plants starved for sunshine.

Libby and the boys were inside, but did she realize he was only a few feet away and could hear everything she said through the open window? Luke was prattling about the grumpy cat he was convinced was his new friend. “He takes my socks and hides them up in the tree. Only my socks, no one else's socks,” Luke said proudly. “It is a game he wants only to play with me.”

“I suppose it might be a game,” Libby said, although Michael could hear the skepticism in her voice. He wished Luke was not so lonely that he sought out friendship with a surly animal that menaced the entire neighborhood.

“So did you have any pets in Romania?” Libby probed. “A dog? A cat? If you lived on a farm, perhaps you had something bigger, like a pony?”

Here it comes
, Michael thought. He was surprised it had taken her this long to begin snooping into their life in Romania. He cocked his ear to hear better.

“We had cats,” Luke said. “They were good for catching the . . . the little animals. You know, the
little
animals.”

“Mice?” Libby asked.

“Are mice the little animals that eat your food in the middle of the night?”

Her laughter was like cool water falling over rocks in a stream. “Yes, that is what mice do. What other animals did you have on this farm of yours?”

“Chickens.” There was a long pause, as Luke either struggled with his English, or perhaps he was done speaking. They kept very few animals on the farm, so there was not much Luke could offer in reply to the question, but clearly Libby was searching for any scrap of information she could grasp in that wickedly sharp brain of hers.

“So your father sold chickens? Or was it eggs?”

“No. Papa sold roses.” Michael felt a smile curve his mouth. He could almost see the confusion on Libby's face as she tried to figure
that
one out.

“My goodness. I can't imagine what a rose farm must look like.”

“It was huge,” Andrei said. “Papa knows all about roses and flowers. He has the best nose in all of Europe. People came from all over the world to ask him to smell things.”

Once again, it sounded like Libby was speechless. There was a time when Michael would have swelled with pride to hear his boys boast about his skills. It was true about his nose. Even blindfolded, Michael could tell the difference between a white rose and a red rose. He could smell jasmine essence and determine by scent alone if the oil had been extracted through a distillation process or the more elegant enfleurage technique of melting the oil from the petals. So keenly attuned was his sense of smell that he could predict which combination of oils and resins would yield a scent with a pleasing bouquet.

Those days were over. For a single glorious year in Paris he had reveled in the world's greatest perfumeries. The celebrated perfume houses sought him out, eager to acquire his phenomenal talents, but Michael had not seriously considered any of their offers. If the wars had not intruded, he would be living amidst the thousands of acres of rose fields and cultivating the rare strain of night-blooming jasmine his father had developed. A single ounce of that precious jasmine oil was worth over a hundred American dollars, and he had sixty-four ounces. Of course, it wouldn't be nearly as valuable if he was unable to find the proper tree to harvest the resin necessary as a scent fixative. If he sold it in its raw state, it would be worth much less than one hundred dollars an ounce, since it was the resin that fixed the scent into a bouquet of exquisite beauty that could linger on the skin for hours.

His precious jasmine essence would not last much longer. Without the resin, his perfume would fade into the ether after only a few minutes on the skin. Michael estimated he had less than three months to either find the correct resin and save the jasmine essence or sell it to a perfumer who could salvage it.

Libby continued to pepper the children with questions. Did he grow anything besides roses? How was it possible for a farm to have nothing but flowers? And people paid him for this?

He cocked his head again. How interesting that she asked no questions that would help her in the court case. It would have been easy for her to ask the name of his father or even if they knew the Duke of Vlaska, but she asked none of this. Instead, she seemed completely engrossed in what sort of work Michael did with flowers. Given her fascination for the botanical world, perhaps it was only natural.

He froze. If there was anyone in this town who could help him find the trees he needed, she was sitting not ten feet away.

Would she help him again? Already this woman, who should be his enemy, had been so generous with her time and her kindness. He would rather endure a public flogging than impinge on her generosity again, but he had no choice. Libby Sawyer was one of the few people in this town who would even speak with him, let alone extend herself to help.

He stood. It was time to show off for his boys and start persuading Libby to get him what he needed. She always smelled delightful, and today was no exception.

She startled when he came in the back door. There was a momentary flush of guilt staining her cheeks, as if she was embarrassed to be caught pumping his children for information, but he flashed a smile to set her at ease. He clasped her fingers, drew them to his face, and kissed the back of her hand.

“Neroli oil, with a bit of white lily,” he said definitively. “The same scent you were wearing when you visited us last week.”

She looked at him with skepticism and withdrew her hand. “The picture on the label shows oranges,” she said.

“Did the label show the orange fruit or a white blossom?”

“The fruit.”

“Then the label is wrong. Neroli is the name for orange blossoms, a very strong floral scent, and it is what you are wearing. It is an entirely different scent from the oil extracted from the orange peel, which is a citrus scent. I once found a perfume that blended the oil from the orange peel with the essence from the orange blossom. It was a noble idea, but too powerful. I do not believe this perfume sold well.”

Libby's stare was as piercing as a panther evaluating its prey. “Are you making fun of me?” she asked cautiously. “Somehow you look like you would be more comfortable storming a fortress than discussing flower blossoms.”

He found his way to one of the kitchen stools and gently lowered himself onto it, never taking his eyes from her. “If my life had turned out the way I intended, I would have done nothing other than walk in my fields of blooms and discuss perfume,” he said truthfully. Instead of the glory of basking in his sun-drenched fields, he had to fight men he had no grievance with, surrounded by the sweat and stench and agony of wars he wanted no part of. “Truly, there are few things I enjoy more than discussing flowers and the scent they create.”

Understanding dawned in her face. “That is what you did in Romania? Grew roses for perfume?”

“Yes, but I grew other flowers as well. Jasmine, hyacinth. Sometimes we grew iris, but those were tricky.”

She nodded. “I found the same thing. When I dug one up and brought it home to paint, it wilted within the hour. I had to paint it in the wild. It took me three afternoons and I was nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

He grinned. “I would like to see your painting of the iris, if you still have it.”

“Of course I have it.” She was as eager as a child as she scampered to retrieve the painting, but there was nothing childlike about her womanly form as she darted up the staircase. Liberty Sawyer was as tempting as any woman he had ever seen. Was it because she loved the same things as he, or was it the tempting curve of her figure poured into that dress? Both were very appealing, but he would need to be careful to keep these feelings tightly under wraps. His quest was too important to be sidelined by these inconvenient feelings that plagued him every time Libby came within twenty yards of him.

On the other hand, this irrational attraction might serve a purpose. His eyes narrowed as he watched her descend the stairs, her arms filled with paintings and a heart-stopping smile on her face. It would be dangerous to begin waging a battle for the house outside of the courtroom, but a clever one. Perhaps the easiest path to this house was smiling at him with her arms full of paintings.

Libby loved talking about plants with Michael. Her paintings looked ridiculously fragile in his oversized hands as he sat beside her on the sofa, but he always had such fascinating questions for her. He pointed to a stem of a Cucurbita vine that was turning upward.

“The way this stem is curving, why have you painted it this way?”

“That shows that this is a plant that is hungry for sunlight,” she said. “You will often see those vines reaching out to find a patch of sunlight. It is in their nature to do so.”

The grin he gave her was boyish. “I understand this need for the sun. I always feel better when the sun is bright as well.” He set the painting down. “In your trips into the field to study plants, have you ever seen red juniper trees?”

“Red juniper? The tree with the little blue berries?”

“Those berries are actually seedpods, but yes, I think you understand what I am looking for. They usually grow in sandy soil, and many times farmers plant them along the edges of their crop to serve as a windbreak. At least they do in Europe. I need to find a supply of these trees so I can tap them for resin. It will not hurt the tree, but I need resin to formulate my perfume. I would be willing to pay the farmer to allow me to do this.”

She was stunned when he suddenly pushed off the sofa and knelt on one knee before her. “Libby, you have no cause to help me,” he said in an earnest voice. “I have been nothing but trouble to you and your family, but does that mean we are destined to be enemies in all things? Because I think you are a woman of great quality. I watch you march into town armed with nothing but the strength of your compassion for a family in need. You are smart and courageous, and I find this very attractive.”

The gentle roughness of his voice made Libby catch her breath. No man had ever spoken to her in such terms, but Michael knew nothing of her terrible illiteracy or the years of taunting she had endured as a child.
“Libby Libby, ain't that quick; Libby Libby, dumb as a stick!”
She felt like a fraud as he praised her. Libby was the girl who was ridiculed in the schoolyard and her air of confidence was only a mask, but was it wrong to savor his praise? Never could she imagine Michael Dobrescu on his knees before
anyone
, yet here he knelt, with admiration glowing in his eyes.

“If you could help me find the red juniper tree,” he said, “I will be able to blend a magnificent perfume. Some would consider it a foolish thing to want to produce such an extravagant luxury.” His gaze tracked to her painting of the amaryllis that still held a place of honor above the mantelpiece. “But I believe you have an appreciation for things that enrich our life with beauty. With your knowledge of the natural world and my skill with perfume, perhaps you and I can look beyond the enmity and build something of great value.”