by Fiona Davis
The flames flared up. “Here, smell this.” He held a small white dish to her nose, filled with yellowish powder. The color reminded her of the maple tree outside her window at home, after the peak of autumn had past, a burnished mustard. The smell was bright and savory, a mixture of toast and turmeric.
“You see, I rub the steak with it and let the meat rise to room temperature.” His eagerness was that of a young boy. She wished he’d had a father who would take him under his wing and tell him he was doing well, the way Daddy had done when she’d disappointed Mother yet again.
Once the steak had cooked to his liking, Sam let it sit for several minutes and turned his attention to what the rest of the kitchen was doing. He had an air of authority about him, speaking to a waiter in clipped tones to correct an order, before turning to a busboy to help him lift a tub of dishes into the sink.
He returned to her side and poked the steak with his finger. “Not quite yet. Esme said you go to secretarial school, is that right?”
She didn’t want to be reminded of her uptown life. “I do. It’s awful.”
“Why?”
“I’m a terrible secretary. Or I’ll make a terrible secretary. I wish I could do something creative, like this.”
“What would you do?”
Charlotte’s offer still tantalized, but there was no guarantee she’d remember making it, or even meeting Darby, when she returned. “I really don’t know. Is it ready yet?”
He cut into the steak, its juices running red onto the wooden cutting board. “Try this.”
The texture of the beef mingled with the spices and sent her mind racing, the same way the jazz music had done that first night. Flavor flooded her palate, first savory, then a strange flowery bitterness, before the spices amalgamated into a final burst of clove.
“Astonishing.” She wanted another bite and another.
He fed them to her, laughing at her voraciousness.
“Sam, I’ve never tasted anything like this. It reminds me of what it’s like in the fall back home. I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Do you want it explained?”
“I do.”
“Then follow me.” He took off his apron and grabbed her hand. She took it, eager to see where he was going to lead her but reluctant to leave the juicy steak behind.
Sam walked quickly, darting through the crowded streets and pulling Darby along after him. Below Houston, the streets ran in every direction, and she had no idea where she was. The rain had stopped, so she wasn’t wet, but she felt naked without a coat. Sam didn’t seem to care, just forged through the crowd.
She didn’t even have her purse, having left it with Esme. Sam turned around to check on her, puzzled at her distress.
“Where are we going?” She tugged at the Peter Pan collar of her dress.
“I can’t tell you; it’ll be a surprise. But if you liked the steak, you’ll love this.”
Maybe he was taking her to dinner at a restaurant that served curries and other exotic foods. She hoped she’d be able to eat what was served, that it wouldn’t be spiced innards or something too gooey.
He stopped at a nondescript building where laundry hung limply from the fire escapes. The sign on the door was written in unfamiliar characters, the number 12 the only symbol she could recognize. Even stranger, the window was blacked out.
They stepped inside and she was assaulted by the scent of a thousand spices. Almost every surface was covered with wares. Barrels were heaped with dried red chilies, their skins shiny and bright. Open boxes of colorful powders and strange seeds lined the floor, and the shelves on the walls held jars filled with dried plants and stems. Years of foot traffic had grooved the narrow aisles. Sam shouted a loud hello. From the back, a voice called out in response. She couldn’t identify the accent, but the sound was deep, with the reverberations of a double bass.
At first she wanted to run back out into the damp evening air and sneeze a dozen times, but eventually her nostrils adjusted to the olfactory mayhem.
“Where are we?”
“The Kalai Spice Emporium.”
“Wow. It’s a little overwhelming.”
“At first, sure. But with the right teacher, it all begins to make sense. This store is my own personal Katie Gibbs.”
A loud argument broke out in the back room, and Darby looked at Sam for reassurance. He smiled down at her. “It’s nothing. It’s the way Mr. Kalai communicates. You’ll see.”
A young man shot out the door of the back room and walked quickly out to the street.
“Good riddance.”
The voice came from nowhere, startling her. She turned to see a bespectacled man in a black dress shirt and pants standing in the inner doorway, staring intently at her. The angularity of his square forehead offset his round cheeks and bulbous nose, and his brown skin was shiny with sweat. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. “Who’s this?”
“Mr. Kalai, this is my friend Darby McLaughlin. From the club.”
Sam had remembered her surname. “Mr. Kalai, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered up her bare hand, embarrassed at her lack of gloves, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“You want more spice?” he asked Sam.
“No. I tried the Banda mix tonight. Worked well.”
“Good, good.”
“Mr. Kalai learned the art of spices through generations of his family. He’s descended from the sultan of Ternate.”
“The island with the tree?”
Mr. Kalai’s smile wasn’t warm. “The one with the tree.”
“I want to show her what a nutmeg looks like,” said Sam. “Do you mind?”
Mr. Kalai shook his head. Sam opened one of the jars and scooped out an egg-shaped piece of fruit. Mr. Kalai handed him a knife and he cut the fruit cleanly in half before giving it a twist. Inside was a brown seed covered with thin red veins. “The nut, when dried, makes nutmeg, and the red stuff becomes mace. It’s the only tropical fruit that makes two different spices.”
She touched the delicate webbing around the seed. “I had no idea.”
Mr. Kalai took the fruit out of Sam’s hand. “When the spices were first discovered by the other countries, ships bearing all kinds of gifts arrived at my island. The sultan had a crown made from hundreds of jewels, big as your fist, and four hundred women in his harem.”
Darby blushed, relieved when Sam spoke up.
“Then the Dutch took over and killed every man over the age of fifteen.”
“When did this happen?”
“Almost three hundred years ago.”
“But here you are carrying on the tradition.”
Mr. Kalai nodded. “Sam’s a good boy. Take a look around, but then I’m closing up. I have business outside.”
Sam reached up to one of the top shelves and brought down a thick book. “I’m working on a compilation of everything I’m learning here. Take a look.”
He rearranged some of the jars on the countertop to make room. The pages were crisp and she leaned down close. “It smells like the shop.”
“Everything in here smells like the shop, including us by now.”
She leafed through the pages while Sam explained. “I’m keeping track of each spice, where it came from and its history.” He pointed to a drawing. “Like here, the Egyptians used cassia for embalming the dead.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Yet it has such a pretty name.”
“It’s delicious, a type of cinnamon, and good if you have stomach problems as well.”
“I’m impressed. What are you going to do with your book?”
“I’d like to open a restaurant eventually. I’m meeting the right people through Mr. Kalai, working on a way to get myself out of the Flatted Fifth.”
He closed the book and placed it up on the shelf with care. When he turned arou
nd quickly, she stepped back, aware that she’d been standing too close.
“Thank you for coming down here with me,” he said.
“I’m impressed. And hungry.”
“I’ll make you something back at the club. In the meantime, taste this.” He scooped a dark powder out of one of the jars and poured a tiny amount into the palm of his hand. He dipped one finger in and held it up. “Open your mouth and stick out your tongue.”
“Should I close my eyes as well?”
He laughed. “Sure, if you want.”
The gentle touch of his finger on her tongue was enough to make her knees wobble, but then a robust bittersweet sensation overwhelmed her taste buds.
“Great, right? It’s Mayan cocoa.”
“Sure is.” She opened her eyes. On the wall behind him hung a small cracked mirror. Normally, she avoided mirrors, and she wasn’t expecting to see herself. In her reflection, her cheeks burned bright red against her cauliflower-colored skin, and her hair stuck up at all angles, except for one section that was plastered across her forehead like a toupee.
Mother was right; she was an ugly girl.
What was she doing? She stepped away from him. “We should go back to the club.”
“Of course. Hopefully, the kitchen isn’t on fire by now.”
They walked out into the night air, where a cool breeze had replaced the heavy, humid air with a touch of crispness. The few times he tried to start a conversation, she murmured one-word replies, hoping he wouldn’t look at her.
“Is something wrong?” he asked as they neared the club. He swallowed twice.
“No. Nothing. Just tired, I guess.”
“I hope I wasn’t too forward, taking you to the emporium. I thought you might like it, is all.”
He thought he’d done something wrong. When all along she was the one feeling stupid. She rushed to set him right. “I loved it. I really did. And meeting Mr. Kalai.” She lowered her voice. “It’s funny, when I lived in Ohio, I would read about extraordinary, eccentric characters in books and plays, but I couldn’t imagine them in real life. Then I came to New York.”
“Where everyone acts like they’re the main character of their own book.”
She laughed. “Between you and Esme, I’m seeing a whole side of the city I didn’t even know existed.”
“You seem like a nice girl.” He held the door open for her. “Funny to see you with Esme.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged and looked inside the club. She could tell he was itching to get back to his kitchen. “She’s a handful, that’s all.”
First Stella, now Sam. “I’m not sure what you mean. She helped me a lot when I first got here, tried to make me feel at home. You saw how she got me onstage. I’m not normally like that.”
“Oh, Esme pretty much always gets what she wants. She’s too in love with herself to take no for an answer. You, on the other hand, are sweet. Innocent. That’s all I’m saying.”
Darby pressed her lips together and nodded. Sam was trying to tell her something, in the nicest way possible. Esme was special and Darby was not. And while he might enjoy Darby’s friendship, it would never be more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
New York City, 2016
Rose almost didn’t pick up her cell phone when she saw Maddy’s name. She’d gotten to work early and spent the quiet hour, before anyone else arrived, finishing up a book on the history of the Katharine Gibbs School, written by a former teacher. To think that the venerable Mrs. Gibbs began educating women for positions in business, where they were less than welcome, before women even had the right to vote. Fierce.
“Where have you been hiding?” Maddy’s voice was mocking but held an undertone of worry. Rose had left her a message after the migraine broke to tell her that she’d be dog-sitting for a neighbor for a few days, but they’d played phone tag ever since.
“Sorry, I’ve been swamped at work.”
“You doing okay? And any news from Griff?”
“Nothing from Griff. I assume he’s too busy reconstructing his nuclear family.”
Maddy guffawed. “God, he’s such an asshole. I told you not to date guys with old-man names. ‘Griffin Van Doren.’ Jesus.”
In spite of herself, Rose laughed. “I remember. Who could have predicted that just this once you’d be right?”
“Ha-ha, very funny. So when are you coming by? And which neighbor are you dog-sitting for, anyway? I thought everyone in the building was unfriendly.”
That was true. After she and Griff moved in, she’d expected a couple of the neighbors to stop in and say hello. But none did, and even if she ran into one or two waiting for the elevator, they weren’t very enthusiastic. “It’s one of the older ladies who’s lived there forever, since it was a women’s hotel. I’m doing a piece on her and the other women for work.”
“Do you really want to stay in a stranger’s apartment? It’d be fine to bring the dog with you. The kids would love it.”
“I’m not sure how much the dog would love the children, to tell you the truth. He’s a feisty old guy.” As she spoke, the decision to stay in Darby’s apartment, at least for the short term, solidified. It provided privacy, access to the women, and peace and quiet. She’d be out before Darby came back and no one would be the wiser. “Don’t worry, his owner returns in two weeks, at which point I’ll be moaning with self-pity on your couch.”
“Something to look forward to. So how’s your dad?”
Rose pressed her knuckles into her forehead. A couple of the other reporters had arrived and she lowered her voice. “He was moved yesterday. I stopped by; he seems like he’s adapting.”
Indeed, her father hadn’t made a fuss. His eyes had been blank, his jaw working back and forth with nervous energy. The dementia ward had lavender-colored walls and locked doors. A large black carpet had been placed in front of the elevator. One of the nurses explained that most patients in the ward were reluctant to step on it, thinking it was a dark hole, and that kept them from trying to escape.
How awful, to have a pit placed between you and freedom, or the world as you remembered it. She was sure her father remembered snippets of their old life. Before she’d left, he’d asked if she’d done her homework and called her Rosie, as he used to when she was a teenager. Then he’d burst into tears, mucus running down his nose and chin. No matter what she’d said, he wouldn’t be calmed, until the nurse kindly suggested she leave.
Maddy let out a sympathetic sigh. “You’re really getting spanked, aren’t you? What can I do to help?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Do you think Griff would’ve gone back to his wife anyway, even if Miranda was okay?”
“Maybe.” Connie was a powerhouse of energy, well matched to Griff’s temperament. Together they could run a small country. “I don’t know what to think anymore. How’s the soap business?”
“Trashy. The other day, I had to do a postcoital scene with Robert Hanes-Sterling. He tried to play footsie under the sheet, until I scraped his shin with my toenails. I think I made him bleed.”
“That’s truly disgusting.”
“And that’s why they pay me the big bucks. Tell me more about the story you’re working on.”
“There’s a group of elderly ladies who live in rent-controlled apartments, who’ve been there for years and years. One goes back as far as 1952.”
Maddy whistled. “The Sylvia Plath era.”
Plath again. “Sylvia Plath was only there for a month. These other women are the heart and soul of the place. They’ve seen the Barbizon change drastically, and seen New York City change drastically, too. Their stories should matter to us.”
“I like the way this has you all worked up. Surprised it got approved, though.”
“Barely squeaked by, and only because Tyler wants to sensationalize it. On
e of the ladies has a pretty tragic history. That’s why I’m dog-sitting for her, to find out more.”
“Is that kosher? I mean, in terms of journalistic integrity and all that?”
She preferred not to answer the question. “Coming from someone who gouges the legs of her coworkers.”
“Right. I think he went to get a tetanus shot once we wrapped.”
“As well he should.”
“Are you sure this isn’t some weird kind of masochism, staying at the Barbizon when Griff and Connie are there together?” Typical Maddy, like a dog with a bone. “Why put yourself through that kind of torture?”
“It’s only temporary.”
“So you’re not using it as an excuse to stick around, hoping he’ll want you to come back to him?”
She hated to admit it to herself, and she sure wasn’t going to admit it to Maddy. “Of course not. This is a combo of helping out a neighbor and getting some work done.” Time to change the subject. “It’s all going to be fine, especially if I can find a way to deal with the video producer I’m working with.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a tough guy, shot documentaries in the Middle East, that kind of thing. Probably feels this job is beneath him.”
“Then tell him to go back to Afghanistan or wherever.”
“His mother fell ill and passed away, so I guess he’s biding his time for now. I understand that concept.”
“Is he cute?”
Rose rolled her eyes. “Please. He’s not my type. I feel like Snow White with her dwarf Smirky.”
Maddy laughed. “Well, hang in there. And we’re ready for you anytime. There’s a bottle of Pinot in the fridge with your name on it.”
The sound of throat clearing made her look up. Jason stood on the other side of her cubicle, one arm draped over the partition.
From the expression on his face, he had heard every word.