Season of the Dragonflies (14 page)

“Oh no, Mom!” Lucia screamed. “No, no, no.” She reached for the phone.

“Not a heart attack,” Willow said, and waved her hand in the air. “A scream like that hurts the chest, that's all.” But Lucia still came to her side, kneeled down, and placed her hands on Willow's shoulders. This was a comfort Willow had long since given up hoping for from Lucia.

“What in the hell just happened?”

Willow handed Lucia the note from Zoe.

Lucia crossed her legs on the ground next to Willow's chair and read it. When she finished, she offered it back to Willow and shook her head.

“She sent me out there and had already promised them something I hadn't agreed to. They all knew but me, and they were pandering to a wrinkled old out-of-touch has-been. Mya thinks I can't do my job anymore and she can do it better. Who will trust her when she pulls things like this? Zoe Bennett can rot as far as I'm concerned.” Willow pushed the office chair into the back wall and knocked the paperweight off the desk.

Lucia retreated to the couch and braced herself on the armrest as Willow's voice grew even louder. “Let Zoe contact every fucking client we have and expose us. Tell everyone in the world about our flower and what it can do. Let the stupid FDA finally get in here for a sample and let Mya see what happens then. She'll have no business to take over whether she pushes me into retirement or not. I don't give a damn anymore. She's controlling things behind my back, and she can have the business and run it into the ground as far as I'm concerned.”

A loud snap, and then a smack against the office roof: another branch downed. Lucia jumped up from the couch and said, “Get some control,” and her voice outmatched Willow's.

Willow finally looked up at Lucia, who was standing across the desk from her, and was about to apologize to her when the office phone rang. Willow placed her hands on her abdomen, a move she'd instinctively developed while she was pregnant, a protective gesture, but the impulse never went away. Willow said, “That's probably Mya.”

In a very calm voice and with her delicate hand already on the phone, Lucia said, “Let me handle this at least.”

Willow nodded.

“Lenore Incorporated, this is Lucia,” she said in a confident voice that Willow remembered her using on the stage or in her bedroom when she practiced lines from plays. Lucia switched the phone from one ear to the other, and Willow saw herself as a younger woman standing in that very same spot using the very same phone. “Hold on one second,” Lucia said, her smile fading. She put the phone on hold and held it out for Willow. “It's Robert from the plant. He said he needs to see you right away.”

Robert called for emergencies only. Willow could have collapsed like a house of cards, that's how little resolve she had to act like the president after that letter and reading what her daughter thought of her. She also had no choice but to go. She said, “Tell him we're on the way.”

Lucia pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows like she wasn't sure what Willow meant by “we.”

Lucia tapped a button on the phone and said, “Hello, Robert? Yes, we're on our way now.”

W
ILLOW SHOULD NEVER
drive when she's angry.
Lucia held on to the handle above the passenger-side window in the pickup and eyed the branches reaching across the road above them. The truck bed bounced on the smallest of bumps and often verged on fishtailing around the winding bends of Hickory Lane. When Willow was angry, she sped, and when she sped, the chances of the truck running off the road tripled. It had happened many times before, and Robert had always been the one to go rescue her.

Willow gripped the wheel as if her own strength kept it attached to the steering column. Her white hair whipped her face like tentacles, and instead of rolling up her window, she kept pushing the strands back, refusing to remedy the issue the easiest way she could. Lucia had witnessed her mother act calm under pressure, like the time Mya jumped from the crape myrtle tree because she assumed she could fly and fell on a boulder, breaking both arms. Her mother didn't shout or panic. She quickly made two splints from some broken barn planks and wrapped them with red handkerchiefs left by workers. But anger caused her mother to behave differently. Lucia would insist on driving home from the factory.

Hickory Lane snaked through the thick Blue Ridge forest with white Queen Anne's lace lining the roadway and bushy maples and oaks making a shaded canopy over them. Light barely penetrated the roof of leaves. Lucia knew she was close to the factory when the shade darkened the road. The sun beamed at the end of the tree tunnel, and a herd of young deer grazed in front of the gates.

Willow came to a sudden stop and waited for each one to pass, but one fawn remained stubbornly centered in front of their bumper. Willow leaned out the window and said, “Go on, now,” and it still didn't budge. Lucia opened her door, stepped out, and clapped behind the deer, but it wouldn't go. She popped it on its behind and the fawn finally pranced away.

Lucia returned to the truck. Willow looked over at her for a long time, and then her blue eyes softened, her jaw relaxed, and she said, “Thanks,” in a way that made Lucia feel like her mother was thanking her for much more than the deer.

“You're welcome,” Lucia said.

Willow punched in the code to open the gates, which were covered in morning glory vines. They separated slowly, as if daring one to enter. “Get the tag out,” Willow said, and Lucia assumed she still kept it in the glove box. She hung the white parking tag from the rearview mirror, and her mother drove down the gravel road lined by crape myrtle trees and headed toward the administrative building. Robert's main office was located there, and he also had a separate manager's office in the factory itself, which towered behind the small brick building where Willow parked.

The square factory with its flat, gravel-lined roof stood four stories tall, and on the top floor Lucia could see the heavy gold drapes that lined the windows of the loft where she had spent many afternoons as a young girl. It was a home away from home and the only part of the factory Lucia liked as a child. Sometimes her mother arranged a slumber party for the three of them in the loft if she needed to pull an all-night expense check or if a batch wasn't turning out just right. Mya and Lucia cuddled together in a king-size bed, drank cold Cokes, ate stale cookies from the vending machines, and watched animated movies on the broken VCR, rewinding the black tape manually and replaying it until they fell asleep. Those were the best nights—the comfort of knowing their mother was hard at work but never too far away to check on them. She'd slip into the bed between them, and they'd both curl up against her and toss arms and legs on her as they slept. Once Lucia and Mya started dating, most of their little rituals disappeared. Her mother probably hadn't stayed the night in many years.

Willow left the keys in the ignition with the windows rolled down and said, “Come on.” She smoothed her dress and walked directly to the glass door in front of them. Lucia hurried behind her, just like she was nine years old again. Inside, the building was filled with a hyper mix of scents, high floral notes of jasmine and rose with the sweetness of vanilla and the earthiness of sandalwood. So many different products were manufactured in their factory, for which Lenore Incorporated acted as a middleman, moving organic soaps, body washes, shampoos, conditioners, and bubble baths from idea to store shelves. This brought in very little revenue compared to the perfume. As far as anyone working here knew, Lenore Incorporated also created small batches of high-end perfume that sold to obscenely wealthy clients in Europe. If a bottle ever broke, the entire factory evacuated immediately for cleanup by Robert only.

Lucia had overheard her mother's business affairs enough to know that this setup was the only way to manufacture the perfume for a few weeks each year while also keeping the factory running year-round like a legitimate business. The FDA had found out about their product a couple decades ago as a result of rumors, just before Lucia was born. The agency had attempted to obtain a sample to determine whether the perfume changed the chemical composition of a woman's body. If it did, then the perfume would fall under the FDA's cosmetic jurisdiction and require regulation. Willow had very good female friends in important political positions and, as a result, the FDA backed off and had yet to study it. The Lenore clients used the perfume at their own risk; that much was made very clear in the contract. No one had ever threatened to report them to the FDA.

The walls of the reception area were bare compared to her mother's office at home. They couldn't plaster the faces of famous clients on the wall, just in case the wrong people walked inside for a look around. The green walls did showcase the many different soaps and cleaning agents the factory produced for companies whose commercials graced the airways during prime time. Much had changed in fifteen years, and Lucia didn't recognize a single staff member's face, especially not that of Robert's male assistant, who looked closer to fourteen than adulthood with his pliant, rosy skin and happy demeanor. Genuine naïveté. He brought Willow a bottle of sparkling water. “Would your guest like anything?” he asked Willow, and she said, “This is my daughter. You can ask her.”

Red-faced, he turned to Lucia and said, “I'm so sorry. Could I bring you a coffee or tea or soda?”

“No thanks,” Lucia said, and she felt bad for him. Willow could be so blunt.

“Robert's waiting for you,” the assistant said. He walked away with his head bowed like a child. Willow moved past his desk and knocked on Robert's office door twice before opening it. Lucia followed behind her, unsure if she should barge in with her mother. Willow looked over her shoulder as if to make sure Lucia was directly behind her.

Robert hurriedly ended his phone call and stood up from his desk. Lucia first noticed the soft roundness in his waist and then his balding head. Robert came around his desk with arms wide open. Before Lucia could move, he'd wrapped her up in a two-hundred-pound bear hug and said, “I can't believe it. Look at you. You haven't changed a bit,” and she loved him for that, because she knew it wasn't true. “I had no idea you were home,” he said. “You'll have to tell me all about the Big Apple when we're done here.” He brought a chair over from the far wall. Papers and wind-up toys cluttered his desk, as usual, and his office smelled faintly of macaroni and cheese. Of all the people in Quartz Hollow, Lucia had missed Robert the most.

Willow rubbed her cheek with one hand and waited for Robert to take his seat before she said, “You know I'm always worried when you call me directly.”

“I wouldn't if I didn't need to,” Robert said, “but this is serious.”

“Well, come on already, Robert,” Willow said, “what is it?”

He folded his large hands together and his shoulders settled. “I sampled the essence today and it's just not right.”

“Not right?” Willow echoed.

“Yes,” Robert said, and handed her the sample in a small vial. Willow uncorked it and waved it beneath her nose.

He continued, “The first two acres we harvested looked healthy in the field, but maybe they didn't handle the transport like they always have; that's all I can guess.”

Willow nodded and Lucia's heart was pounding. Robert and Brenda were the only staff members who knew the truth about their perfume, and Robert appeared worried.

Willow said, “Have any procedures or equipment changed? Did a worker miss a step?”

“No, ma'am, I oversee it like a hawk,” he said, “and if I wanted to change anything you know I'd run that by you first.” Lucia loved this about Robert. He and her mother were the same age, yet he still deferred to her in this polite way.

Willow rested her back in the chair and tucked her ankles beneath it. She gripped the armrest like she was prepared for a bullet.

“What does that mean?” Lucia finally said.

Robert shifted in his seat. “Something's wrong with the flower. It's like it lost its scent once we got it here. And the whole harvest is probably contaminated. We've still got four hundred and five acres to bring in, and if it's anything like the first two we tested, then there won't
be
a yield this year.”

Willow brought her hands to her lips and stared at Robert. “I went to the fields. They didn't look like they'd finished blooming maybe, like it's late this year. And I know it's not been late like this, but couldn't that be it? Just postpone the harvest for two weeks? I meant to call you and suggest it but I got distracted and forgot.”

Robert shook his head. He said, “We wait two weeks and they'll die, I promise. I've known these flowers my entire life, you know I have, and two more weeks will promise us no yield this year. Maybe the flowers looked a little smaller, but they've finished blooming as much as they're going to; that's what I believe. But it's your company, so if you want me to postpone I will.”

“Where's our botanist? What's his name?” Willow said. Lucia rubbed her lips with her fingertips and pressed in deeply with her nails, a nervous fidget she'd tried to conquer during the long wait of casting calls. Willow had forgotten to call about the flowers, she had forgotten to review the contract, and she had forgotten Jonah's name; it seemed like her mother's memory was failing. Had she seen a neurologist already and chosen not to tell Mya and Lucia?

“Dr. Phillips took off six months. Paid, remember? Went to collect plant samples in rural China or somewhere.”

“Yes, I remember,” Willow said defensively.

Robert gave a small cough, like he didn't believe her. Neither did Lucia. Robert said, “We could fly someone else in to test the plants, if that's what you're thinking.”