Sense of Smell

"Doctor Martin. That was a superb presentation. As usual."

"Thank you. The theory of Computation of Protein Structure Function Relations isn't exactly a barnburner for most people," she replied pleasantly.

"Let's just say it's a whole lot more interesting when presented by someone so...pleasing to the eye."

Constance Martin, who preferred to be called Connie, earned her PhD in the narrow field of Theoretical and Computational Chemistry at the age of 26. Now 38, she was a tenured professor at UCLA and had published numerous scholarly, peer-reviewed papers in her chosen area of study.

She and her team had spent the last year carefully putting together the data for this most recent paper which she'd just presented at a prestigious seminar attended by other PhDs interested in that narrow branch of chemistry.

The man who was flattering her was one of the most well-know scientists in the profession, and he, like nearly every other man who'd ever met her, had been intrigued by her combination of intelligence and beauty.

Connie Martin was brilliant. Math and science had always come easily to her. In terms of looks, she was a natural blonde who wore her hair between chin and shoulder length, hair which framed a beautiful face with alabaster skin and clear, blue eyes, and perfectly straight, white teeth. She was a shade under 5'8" tall, and weighed somewhere around 120 pounds, give or take, on any given day.

The lab coat she religiously wore tended to hide some of her finer feminine attributes such as a pair of nearly symmetrical, C-cup breasts, a narrow waist, and most of her long, shapely legs and nicely-curved ass, a word she occasionally used to describe that part of her anatomy.

She wasn't a prude by any means, she just agreed with the old saw about profanity being the domain of the weak-minded. Then again, she was well aware that the occasional, well-placed expletive could say in one word what would otherwise require an entire paragraph of prose. On rare occasions, she would shock those who didn't know her as she flatly delivered one.

A two-word combination came to mind to express her disinterest in this older man's interest in her, but saying 'fuck off' to someone of his stature could be detrimental to her own career so she only smiled and chose something more polite.

"You're always the charmer, Edward."

"Charming enough to perhaps finally convince you to allow me to take you to dinner?" he asked, pressing his luck.

"Edward. You know I don't date," she told him, even though she knew he was aware that wasn't true.

She did, in fact, date. She was just very selective in her choice of men when it came to dating, and Edward had no chance of never make the cut.

She was even less a snob than a prude, but there were lines she wouldn't cross, and dating a man she found completely unattractive was one such line. Even a man who could help her career in many ways.

He smiled in spite of the sting of rejection then said, "You are still the epitome of Churchill's take on tact, Doctor Martin. I must admit that while you essentially just told me to go to hell, I rather enjoyed the trip."

His blunt acceptance of his fate made her laugh but only politely, and caused her to momentarily think about even the possibility of going to dinner with someone like him—assuming it was just dinner—which it clearly wasn't.

The truth was, work took up most of her life. That part was true. Edward was not only a good fifteen years older than her, time had not been kind to him, and it was doubtful he'd ever been even close to her in terms of looks when he was younger and in his prime. Looks weren't everything, of course, but they were most often the catalyst that allowed for things like attraction, love, and romance to bloom, and the simple truth was, there was no attraction there whatsoever.

"I would never say such a thing to someone as distinguished as you, Edward," she told him, flashing that amazing smile of hers that always served to lessen the blow.

"Once again, I find myself much less disappointed by your most recent rejection than I normally would."

"There's someone for everyone, Edward. You know that, right?" she said in a way he wouldn't take as either patronizing or condescending.

"Perhaps next year?" he said with the slightest modicum of hope.

"Ask me then, okay," she said politely before excusing herself.

She pulled out her phone and took a quick look. It wasn't surprising to see a large number of texts, but there were also a dozen phone call notifications, and almost no one called her anymore. She opened the app and realized all of them were from her mother.

A sense of dread washed over her as she hit 'redial' and waited. Two minutes later she hung up the phone, too overcome with shock and grief to even move.

The next morning, she was on a plane to Charlotte, North Carolina, the city where she'd grown up and gone to college as an undergraduate before earning her masters and PhD at Duke University in Durham, 140 miles to the northeast of her hometown.

As she winged her way east, Connie fought back tears as she fondly recalled her life at home with her mom and dad. Her mother could often be cold, but she was mostly...aloof.

In sharp contrast, her father had been warm, genuine, and always interested in his only child, no matter how busy he was. And his sense of smell was unparalleled, at least in his world where perfume had supported their family, and her specifically, all the way through graduate school.

She'd been a daddy's girl growing up, and now, without warning, he was gone. It had been her turn to call that Sunday, but she'd declined in favor or putting the final touches on the paper she'd just presented. As a result, she'd missed the last chance she would ever have to hear her father's rich, baritone voice and the laugh she so dearly loved.

*****

One Day Later. Mint, Hill, NC. Just East of Charlotte.

"Okay, Sweet Pea. Go see Nana."

"Good morning, Lexi! How's my favorite girl in the whole world?"

"Nana? Can I go play?" the two-year old, who was closer to three, asked without answering her grandmother's question.

"Of course you may. I need to talk to your father anyway."

Once the little girl was out of sight, Marilyn Lane could tell her son needed to say something.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"I don't know, Mom. I'm not sure if you've heard, but I just found out Mr. Martin passed away."

"Oh, my heavens! When?"

"Yesterday from what I was told. He was in his office at work, and evidently he had a heart attack."

He didn't need to add, "Just like Dad."

His mother had been with his father when he passed away from the same thing a little over a year ago. And as awful as that had been, her son, Adam, lost his wife, Kristi, during childbirth a little under three years ago himself. Women weren't supposed die giving birth in 2015, but as he later learned, it still happened more often than most people knew, and Kristi Lane had been one of them.

Adam Lane had spent four years in the US Marine Corps, mostly to get the GI Bill to put himself through college, although out of no small sense of patriotism and giving back.

He was a very good-looking young man who'd dated often in high school and just as often on active duty less the year he spent in Afghanistan. Marriage had never even entered his mind, but just before leaving the service, he'd met the most amazing woman; a woman who stole his heart from the moment he saw her. For both of them, it was truly a case of 'love at first sight'.

Just six months later they were married, and within another three months, she was pregnant.

Kristi Lane was just 23 and as beautiful as any woman he'd ever met, and she was also everything Adam ever hoped to find in a woman. Like him, marriage had been the last thing on her mind until she came to Southern California to visit her brother, a good friend of Adam's. When his buddy introduced her, both she and Adam knew it was 'game over', and Kristi fell just as hard for the handsome young Marine who just happened to also be everything she'd ever dreamed of in a husband.

She willingly went with him back to North Carolina where his family grew roses, most of which were purchased by a perfume maker in nearby Charlotte.

North Carolina has the kind of climate where various kinds of roses such as Noisettes, Teas, Chinas, and Tea Noisettes grew quite well. There was even a pretty decent chance of growing Camellias.

The company that bought nearly 90% of the family's flowers was called Dynex, and David Martin had been the company's owner and master perfumer until his untimely passing. The company's only other master perfumer had been lured away just over a year ago, leaving only the owner to do the work of two men and run the business.

"Oh, my. His poor wife and children," his mother said almost somberly.

"I agree. I'd say I can't imagine what they're going through, but we know that all too well."

"Yes. Sadly, we do," his mother said. "Listen. I think we should offer to help. I don't know whether they need or even want it, but we should make ourselves available regardless, don't don't you think?"

"I agree. Any ideas on what to even suggest? Food maybe?"

"That's always welcome, but they're a very well-off family, so it's unlikely a casserole would be of much value. I'm thinking more in terms of lending a sympathetic ear. I didn't really know him all that well, and I only met his wife once, but she seemed like a nice enough lady. A little...cold...perhaps, but in a time like this, everyone needs all the friends they can get."

"Dad said that several times about her. The coldness. He also mentioned the entire family was otherwise very well grounded and down to earth in spite of whatever fortune they've amassed."

"Not to talk out of school, or to contradict myself, but I've heard they've had a rough go of it the last year or two. I have no idea how true that is, but it could be they're not as well off as we've always assumed."

"Well, rich or poor, losing a loved one—especially when it's unexpected—is never easy. So just let me know how I can help."

"I will, and I also know what this potentially means to us. And now that you're running the business, to you and Lexi."

"We'll be fine, Mom. Whatever happens, we'll be okay. In the meantime, we'll keep growing the best roses possible, and keep our fingers crossed."

He turned to leave then stopped and sniffed.

"What are you baking that has nutmeg in it?" Adam asked.

His mom laughed then said, "That nose of yours is incredible. It's pumpkin pie. As if you couldn't tell."

Adam's keen sense of smell had been a longtime source of fascination, amusement, and entertainment in the Lane household. From a very early age, he'd been able to detect the faintest of odors around the house to a degree that was downright scary at times.

Most humans have about a thousand olfactory receptor genes and around five million olfactory receptors in their nose. By comparison, a dog has some 2,000 genes and around 220 million receptors. So while dogs can be trained to detect cancers, find bombs or sniff out drugs, and track scents, humans tend only to notice scents to the degree that something smells good or bad to them.

However, with practice, human beings can detect the subtle differences in thousands of scents. David Martin was one such person. Adam Lane was another, but no one, to include himself, knew just how sensitive his sense of smell was beyond what others jokingly called 'a freak of nature'.

"Dad often told me I should get into the perfume business," Adam reminded his mom.

"Right. He said that quite a few times. He told me if he had your nose, he'd been making perfume instead of growing the products that went into it."

"It's a little too late for me now, I suppose," her son said. "I'm kind of knee-deep in the growing part."

"Never say never, honey," his mom replied.

Adam laughed then assured her he was too busy growing roses to worry about turning them into perfume. He also let her know he was heading to work to tend the flowers, the ones he might no longer be able to sell. And while he'd never tell his mother, he was more than a little concerned about what might happen to their business should Dynex close its doors.

When Connie landed in Charlotte, she wasn't surprised her mother wasn't there to meet her. What was a surprise is not having the limo waiting for her. But life 'in the real world', as much as academia and research could be called 'real', had accustomed her to the way everyone else lived. She made a generous salary and bonuses but was nowhere as well off as her parents, so not traveling by limo was her norm since leaving home.

Then again, some of the things her father had told her over the last year made her wonder if the company's future might be in danger with the limousine and driver early casualties.

That aside, she knew her mother had no interest in taking over and running the company, and would almost certainly want to sell it as soon as possible. But Connie was now a 50% owner, and had as much right to decide the future of Dynex as her mom. She just had no idea what she wanted to do yet. For now, the business of saying goodbye to her beloved father was her primary concern.

When she walked inside her parents' 5,200 square foot home, she had to walk around to eventually find her mother.

"Oh, Constance. It's so good to see you," her mom said, the ever-present sort of half smile permanently in place.

"Hi, Mom," she said as she hugged her mother who eventually hugged her back.

"How are you holding up?"

"Just fine," her mother informed her. "After all you can't unring a bell."

Rather than lash out, Connie accepted her mother's cold indifference as something she was powerless to change. It didn't make it any easier to accept, but it was as fixed in place as was the 'smile' that never seemed to wax or wane.

"We'll be sitting down with Roger this evening and discussing the business," her mother informed her without so much as asking if her daughter had plans or how she was doing.

"Oh. All right. That makes sense," Connie said, hoping to sound agreeable.

Just as matter of factly, her mother announced, "As you know, your father wanted to be cremated, so we'll hold a memorial service this weekend rather than a funeral."

"Okay," was all her daughter could say as she pushed the thought of flames and ashes out of her mind even as the equally macabre image of 'being' in a closed box where worms eventually ate one's flesh, tried to creep in.

Connie shuddered at both options then tried to focus.

"So were there any warning signs with Daddy? Any prior complaints about chest pains or arm pain or..."

"No. Nothing at all. He seemed perfectly well that morning. He was up at 5am and headed to work by 6:30. And that afternoon...he was gone."

The slight hitch in her mother's voice was the closest thing Connie saw to real emotion that day or even at the memorial. She was truly an 'Iron Maiden' but not in the sense of the late Margaret Thatcher.

That evening, Roger painted a very bleak picture for the new co-owners.

"So as you can see, Dynex is in dire straights financially. This new order would have restored the company to fiscal health, but without your father, synthesizing this new scent for the largest order in many years seems like an impossibility."

"What new scent?" Connie asked.

"It isn't new, per se. Your father came up with it some 30 years ago, but that was before the age of computers. The formula was written down on paper, and the fire..."

"Right. I was what? Maybe...seven...back then?" Connie said as she recalled the fire that destroyed her father's office and a good portion of the old building.

They'd used the insurance money to rebuild and came back better and stronger and until two years ago, Dynex had been 'in the black'.

"But when our only remaining master perfumer left for a very lucrative offer in the south of France... Well, you can imagine the turmoil. I'm no doctor, but the stress that heaped on your father had to be...enormous."

Connie fought back tears even as her mother rolled along without a hitch.

"What's it worth? If we sell right now?"

"Well. That's a big 'if'. There are a lot of factors involved such as..."

"No. Stop. Just work up the various possibilities and present them to me as soon as possible," she said.

"To...us," Connie added, politely but firmly.

Her mother gave her a glance from the side then said, "I had no idea you were even interested."

"Mother, that's not fair. I love my job, but I love my family, too, and..."

"Ha!" she said quietly before saying more loudly, "You loved...half...of it, anyway."

Connie ignored the dig then politely reminded her mother she was the co-owner.

Roger wanted to say, "Yes, that's right," but he'd been on the receiving end of one too many tongue lashings from 'the Iron Maiden' over the years.

"Fine. Present the options to...us," she said coldly. "Unless you have something else, that'll be all, Roger."

Connie walked him to the door then asked for a quick summary.

"What's the bottom line, Roger? How bad is it?"

"If you could develop the new scent and get the perfume ready by the deadline, it would turn everything around and then some. Otherwise, I'm afraid you'd be lucky to get out without losing money. I mean, after paying off all of the outstanding debts, I don't see there be a whole lot left over for you and your mother."

"Okay. Thank you for the honesty, Roger. That gives me a feel for where we are."

"It doesn't look promising, Connie," he told her truthfully.

"No. And finding a new 'nose' is a monumental task even without a looming deadline," she said knowing he was well aware how difficult that would be.

Roger hadn't noticed the tiny vial around her neck, but when he saw it, he said, "May I ask what's in the vial?"

"Oh, it's a perfume Daddy gave me when I turned nine. I forgot all about it until I left home. I started wearing it and haven't taken it off since."

"Do you by any chance know the name of the perfume?" Roger asked.

"Of course," she said.

"It wouldn't be Sandalwood Fire, would it?" Roger asked, the hopeful expectation in voice clear and obvious.

"Yes. How did you know that?" Connie asked, completely bewildered by what she knew couldn't be a lucky guess.

"Oh, my Lord," Roger said, reeling from the revelation. "That is the perfume your father created."

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't. I don't have the nose to tell by scent. But that's the name of it. Your father had the tiniest amount, and that's what he used to sell the product. The buyers were, well...gaga...over the scent, and your father spent his days trying to recreate it exactly. I had no idea you had some yourself."

Connie touched the tiny vial and said, "I used to smell it every now and then, but I've never used it before. It's utterly unique, and if what you're saying is true...if we could recreate this..."

"Yes. Exactly. But without a 'nose' to tell you the ingredients...how can you possibly do that? Even your father was struggling to come up with two notes he couldn't pin down or recall from what he'd put on paper three decades earlier."

"I don't know, Roger, but I do know we need to put out a worldwide notice that we're willing to pay top dollar for someone who can do just that. Can you work with advertising and marketing to start that ASAP?"

"Yes. It'll be my top priority," he told her. "Just keep in mind that department is down to one person."

The look on his face told Connie something else was wrong so she asked.

"I suppose I'd caution you not to get too overly enthused about the possibility of finding someone on such short notice."