The Making of Mirabelle

Book Two of the Cardinal County Series
Current Work in Progress, Chapter One Excerpt

01 | Turbulence Lives Under the Skin

September, 1954 - As I stood at the threshold of the travelling carnival, I detected the enticing scent of a man’s cologne. I savoured its pleasing aroma by taking deep, slow breaths until all traces of it disappeared. My weekly trip to the library seemed dull compared to the blinking lights, loud music and raised voices of the joyful chaos scattered in front of me. Within seconds, I decided to buy a ticket for the carnival instead.

On the other side of the field, out past the carnival’s boundaries and beyond the tree tops in the distance, the early evening’s moonlight peeked through a thin film of clouds. I sensed the moisture suspended in the cool air. Leaves and spiders’ webs would capture dew drops throughout the night. Tomorrow morning, pools of shimmering liquid would last only as long as the evaporation process would allow.

“How many tickets, miss?” A young man’s voice drew my attention away from the cloud-covered moon.

“It’s just me,” I answered, smiling. “One ticket, please.” I slid my two quarters through the open slot of the booth’s window and across the counter.

He handed me a voucher. “Be sure to stop by Madame Constellatia’s tent. She’s a famous fortune teller.”

“Why is she famous? Are her predictions guaranteed?”

“Well…” he stuttered.

“What if she predicts something unfortunate?” A small bandage stuck to his skin, a few inches below his left ear. “Did you cut yourself shaving?” I imagined if we’d been standing in the morning’s light, two rosy-red patches would have appeared on either side of his face. I walked away, aware of my inappropriate smile, but unwilling to banish it for the sake of social propriety.

I slipped through the entrance leading to the carnival grounds and headed straight for the candy apple wagon. The man’s cologne found me for the second time. It coaxed me to forgo my sweet apple treat and wander through the labyrinth of food stalls, daring rides and kids waiting to take their chances with a bee-bee gun, ring-toss or ball throw.

I continued to follow the scent amidst a closely-packed crowd waiting to ride the roller coaster. Zigzagging between them, I tried not to touch anyone, but ended up tagging shoulders with a man dressed like a movie-set cowboy. “Excuse me, sir,” I said after pushing past him.

“No problem, little lady,” he said.

Standing five feet and nine inches tall, I didn’t consider myself little. As for the lady part, my parents would state the opposite to be true due to my lack of social graces and my preference to ignore the feminine clothes hanging in my closet.

“Get your fresh, buttered popcorn, folks.” A deep voice bellowed above the loud music of the merry-go-round. “Step on up.” I glanced in his direction. We made eye contact. “Come along then, miss. Don’t be shy.”

A chorus of screams went up into the air as the roller coaster riders turned upside down, going through one of the vertical loops.

“It’s really quite good.” A young man approached me from my right. He held out a paper bag marked by dots of melted butter.

The cologne I’d been tracking hovered in the space between us: concentrated and crisp. I noted his clothing, height and wavy hair. “Would you consider it too forward if I tried a sample of your popcorn?” I leaned closer to him. “Of course, it wouldn’t be fitting if we were strangers.” I held my hand out to him. “I’m Mirabelle. You must be an out-of-towner. I’d remember seeing someone like you.”

His hand gripped mine. “Clifton. I work for the carnival. Set up. Tear down. Odd jobs, mostly.”

Our hands separated. “Sounds exciting,” I said, reaching inside his bag of popcorn. “Anything is better than living here.”

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