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The ominous rose note in "Paloma Picasso" forces Carla Matteo to confront her repressed past ...
While UNDERLYING NOTES, a novel in the genre of Contemporary Women''s Fiction, is rated R, this excerpt is G-rated:
It was the tail end of July. That particular day started out as ordinarily as those numbered before it on the calendar I had crossed out. Just one more day to try and keep cool in the oppressive humidity… I retreated to the basement and loitered on the Misted Notes website for my reprieve. I got caught up in the brouhaha initiated by the thread, “Lashing out at Old Lady References.”
Freesia: My anger has reached its boiling point over the old lady terminology used to dismiss or to slight certain fragrances beloved by others. Perfume aficionados should exercise more tact when rendering an opinion about timeless classics. I, for one, would like to see that derogatory term banished from use here. It is also an added insult to our more mature members.
Angel Wings: S-o-r-r-y!! Some of the fragrances we’ve discussed, i.e., those with powdery sillage or predominantly rose florals, seem to be preferred by older women. There’s no getting away from it.
Vanilla Addict: I’m in my thirties and can’t get enough of fragrances with a powdery dry down. Perhaps the adjectives feminine, ladylike, elegant, or mature would be more appropriate choices.
Angel Wings: Mature???? Just another euphemism for old lady.
Outback Annie: Why don’t we adopt the creed of the Three Musketeers? One for all and all for one! If just one of our members is bothered by a practice, can’t we oblige with a suitable alternative? I, too, am offended and suspect many more might be who haven’t logged on yet or who don’t want to get involved in the fray. I hereby nominate woman of substance to replace old lady.
Rose Fiend: Second it!
Prince of Ties: All in favor say aye.
I clicked on another thread sparking interest, “Favorite Fragrances of Hollywood Royalty.”
Carefree Heiress: I came across a bit of trivia which inspired my thread. Joan Crawford’s favorite perfume in the 1930s was Jungle Gardenia. She said she snagged Alfred Steele, the Pepsi magnate, with Youth Dew. Please accept my invitation to add your own fragrance trivia about the stars of yesteryear.
Blonde Bomb: Most fans of Marilyn Monroe are aware one of her favorites was Chanel No. 5 and that it was the only thing she wore to bed. Poop poopie doo!
Merlot: L''Interdit was created for Audrey Hepburn.
Rita Hayworth Fan: My namesake was a fan of Arpege, Shalimar, and Replique.
Slim: Tabac Blond was one of Marlene Dietrich’s favorites. Then Angelique Encens (angelica, tuberose, amber, incense, and vanilla) was commissioned by Ms. Dietrich in 1933 and remained her favorite for the rest of her life. There’s one for the boys in the back room!!
Maine Attraction: I read that Marlene Dietrich also wore Bandit. Lana Turner loved the scents of tuberose, nail polish remover, and rose. Supposedly she wore Mary Chess Tuberose and sometimes L''Air du Temps.
African Temptress: Dorothy Dandridge, the tragic black actress who starred in Carmen Jones, wore Tabu.
About to add my own tidbit about Bette Davis, Sable rubbed against my legs and stared into my eyes. I knew she expected me to follow her up the stairs to let her out the front door. That’s when I heard Alice croaking my name. The hoarseness and weakness of her voice indicated she must have been calling for some time. Since most of the neighbors had either left for work or headed to the beach, Alice had been counting on me to answer her summons. Red Rover, Red Rover, Carla’s coming right over…I sprinted in my sandals toward the hemlocks separating our properties. I elbowed my way through scratchy branches that had formed an interlocking barricade, quite annoyed my bare toes became dusted with mulch.
“Up here, Carla!” Alice’s grating plea resonated from a bedroom window on the second floor. Her upper torso folded over the sill like some lifeless gunnysack of flour on a burro’s back. Her hair was matted down with perspiration and her facial features contorted into a twisted Greek tragedy mask.
A raspy “Call 911!” startled me out of my nonchalance. “I fell off a ladder and I can barely move my leg! I’m in agony! The front door is locked so you’ll have to get the spare key out of the pig on the step.” Having delivered her monologue, Alice disappeared from view.
I raced home to place the emergency call and rushed back next door to unlock the door so the rescuers could get in. Mulch deposits from inside the threads of my sandals littered the new tapestry carpet treads on Alice’s hardwood stairs. She really had a knack for…. My brisk pace grinded to a halt just left of the landing at her husband’s study.
The antique bookcase, visible from the hall, that I so admired on Alice’s guided tour, caught my attention. Something wasn’t right. Its beveled glass doors were wide open and the once overstuffed shelves were nearly emptied.
My eyes panned the room and surveyed the carnage inside the English professor’s study. A plethora of books was scattered throughout the room with little respect for their literary value. Some lay obscenely on their spines, spread eagle with open pages fanning the air. Others cowered under the weight of their butterflied covers. A reading chair cushioned the blow for some. Many more had crash landed to the floor. By mishap or accuracy, one must have toppled the Tiffany lamp dangling over the edge of the desk from its cord. Diplomas and etchings mounted inside expensive looking frames hung lopsided, no doubt, easy targets for wild pitches. Imperfect paper snowballs were scattered throughout the room along with leaves of jagged pages torn asunder from their binding. Barring a malevolent poltergeist unleashing hell’s fury on the Cape’s new homeowners, Alice was the only one in the house that week.
I willed my stiff legs to walk down the hall to Paige’s room on the right. Subconsciously, I had a premonition that I’d embark on that dreaded journey I had thus far only succeeded to postpone. The hemlocks were merely portals to the deep dark woods where demons from my past lurked in the shadows of my mind.
The room that had once enchanted me with its beguiling roses whispering nuances of "Paloma Picasso" now contributed to my uneasiness. An upright oscillating fan in the corner merely churned the stagnant air to bristle the fine hairs on my neck and back. Furniture had been pushed aside to clear a work space in the middle of the room. I looked up toward the ceiling at the circular montage of roses embodying Alice’s final challenge inside this paper garden. Sub rosa, Latin for “under the rose,” the ancient custom of hanging roses overhead, assured shared confidences would be kept secret. I stood transfixed on the very spot where Alice had fallen from grace.
I became unnerved by the six-foot ladder she took down with her and skirted around the prostrate obstacle. Perhaps the stifling air that engulfed the room made me feel queasy enough to distort my perceptions of the surroundings. The overthrown wooden ladder loomed foremost in my mind as an omnipresent cross. The roses overhead seemed to extend their vines to coil around my vulnerable body with the might of a boa constrictor. I felt their thorns snag and pierce my flesh with the zeal of a crucifixion, intent on drawing blood to exorcise those demons lurking within. This time the rose sillage I sensed in the room emanated from cloying funeral wreaths and sprays used to mask the underlying death smell of embalming fluid.
Alice was slumped on the floor against the wall beneath the window sill. It was quite apparent our plans to go to lunch at the Spain that week would be cancelled. One leg was grotesquely discolored, swollen, twisted, and bent below the knee. The circumstances overwhelmed me and I sank to the floor beside her. I put an arm around Alice and she rested her damp head against my sweat slicked cleavage. We were two neighbors who collided by chance or intelligent design in this vast universe and clung to each other to weather our extreme pain and discomfort. At that moment, spoken words would have been frivolous and intrusive to the symbiotic bond we had forged.
I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the siren to pierce the air and preempt the frightening journey into the past already begun in earnest. Fat chance! The rose vines held me captive in their sinewy clutches while the fallen ladder cowed me into confronting the past.
*May you be curious enough to indulge in reading chapters 1, 2 and part of 3 at Amazon''s Eva Pasco Page.
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Web Site:
Amazon's Eva Pasco Page
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Have no fear of posting a R-rated chapter. I've done that. You get fewer readers but I think that R-rated stuff sells much better than G rated these days.
Ron