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 around 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.”