I muscle the stroller through the crowd, muttering apologies and earning a few dirty looks from people who clearly think I should have left the baby at home for this particular spectacle.
Inside, the shop is exactly as gorgeous as always. The walls are painted a soft sage green, and there are rustic wooden shelves lining every available surface, stocked with Macy’s handmade soaps in every color and scent imaginable.
Mason jars filled with bath salts catch the light from the oversized windows, and there are woven baskets overflowing with loofahs and bath bombs that look like pieces of art. A silk wisteria tree in the corner is strung with fairy lights, and normally the whole place smells like heaven—lavender and vanilla and fresh linen and all things good.
But today it smells like a crime scene.
Ella’s face scrunches up, and within seconds, she’s holding her nose with both chubby hands and starting to cry.
Well, at least that’s one mystery solved. She certainly does have a sense of smell.
“Oh honey, I know,” I say, trying to soothe her while simultaneously trying not to gag.
Mom appears from behind a display of loofahs, her red feathered hair somehow defying both humidity and lethal odors, her shoulder-padded blazer screaming 1985 in the best possible way. She scoops Ella out of the stroller and cuddles her close, making those soft cooing sounds that only grandmothers can pull off without sounding ridiculous.
“There, there, baby girl. Grammy’s got you.”
Georgie shuffles up beside her, looking oddly resplendent in a kaftan covered in neon coconut trees wearing sunglasses. Her gray hair is piled on top of her head like a storm cloud, and she’s fanning herself with what looks like a vintage paper fan.
“What in the name of all that is holy is that smell?” Mom asks, wrinkling her nose.
“It’sunholyis what it is,” Georgie adds. “Smells like someone burned a pan of mac and cheese and then left it in the sun too long.”
I pull out my phone and hold up the screen. “It’s all over social media. Apparently, Macy is selling a candle that’s been dubbed the Stink Bomb, and the internet has opinions.”
“It’s called the Seaside Surprise,” a voice corrects from behind a tower of boxed candles.
Sure enough, Macy emerges looking like she’s been through twelve rounds with a prize fighter and lost every single one. Her blonde bob is sticking up at odd angles, there’s a price tag on her cheek, and her eyes have that wild, slightly manic gleam that screams she’s been mainlining espresso and maybe even a touch of regret.
“The candle is called Seaside Surprise,” she says again, and her voice has that tight quality of someone who’s about thirty seconds from either laughing or crying and hasn’t decided which. “It’s part of my Snacks After Midnight line.”
She gestures to a display table near the register where a collection of candles sits arranged like tiny edible disasters so I boot-scoot that way to check the olfactory offenses out.
Each one has a label with retro diner-style graphics and names that sound more like drunk foodorders than home fragrances.
There’s Nacho Average Night—supposedly a blend of sharp cheese and jalapeño.
Leftover Lo Mein—ginger, soy, and sesame oil.
Pepperoni Dreams—tomato, basil, and melted mozzarella.
Cold Pizza Morning—which I’m guessing is all of the above plus regret.
And there, right in the center like the star of its own horror show, sits Seaside Surprise—the infamous mac and cheese and caramel combination that the internet has decided to turn into a meme.
I would like to go on record as saying that all of these smell terrible,Fish announces.Especially that one.She flicks her tail toward the Seaside Surprise.
I nod in agreement. First and foremost, it doesn’t even smell like mac and cheese. And seeing that I’m an ardent fan of that sacred meal, I’d be willing to defend it to the death. That is, if it smelled even halfway like it. The candle reminds me of when we were kids and Huxley would kick off his sneakers in the living room after a sweaty game of driveway basketball with his friends.
The wordpungentcomes to mind.
I don’t know,Sherlock says thoughtfully.The pizza one is speaking to me.
It would.
You’re a dog. Everything speaks to us if it’s remotely edible,Biscuit Gravy points out.But these aren’t edible. These are crimes against nature.
And that, my friend, is gospel.
