Chapter 12
Club Annex, Location Unknown
The door shuts with a familiar, barely audible snick, leaving me alone in the room with my guest. Leaving me in the now unsurprising stillness after so many visits with him.
“Hello again,” I say as I lean over to fix the hem of my dress. “Sorry, I’m not used to wearing heels.”
It takes me a few tries to free the fabric from where it got caught on the heel of my stiletto, then I sit back against the sofa, ready for another one-sided chat with my visitor.
As usual, there’s absolute silence in the room, but it doesn’t bother me like it did before. Neither the silence nor the awareness of my silent guest scares me as they did my first night at the Annex.
This is my sixth Saturday at the exclusive gentlemen’s club, and so far, everything has gone just as Maggie promised.
I’ve been safe. There were no unexpected requests.
No additional expectations, period. I’m still only required to talk, nothing more.
And after every visit, I receive an envelope with five thousand dollars for my efforts.
But in addition to that, at the end of the night, as I get into the car to head home, I find a small gift waiting for me on the seat cushion.
Nothing extravagant.
Nothing that makes me feel bad.
After the expensive coat, which I returned, the things my silent visitor left me simply made me smile. Their value was probably insignificant for someone like him. To me, though, it was the opposite.
Each offering was somehow connected to something I had said.
To one of my long and trivial ramblings.
The week after I received the book, I found another white box waiting for me in the car.
As soon as I lifted the lid, the most delicate fragrance invaded my senses.
For a moment, I believed he had gifted me perfume, something I was prepared to give back right away.
But it wasn’t. Instead, a single white bloom rested in a tiny glass vase.
A moonflower.
I’ve worked in the flower shop for years, and I’ve never seen one. Most people consider them weeds. The choice of the flower floored me. Why would he decide to present me with it? The note—another page torn from the planner—didn’t shed any light on this latest mystery. It simply said:
It blooms for a single night.
He was right.
Once I got home, I set the vase on my nightstand, and in the morning, the trumpet-shaped flower was done. Its iridescent white petals curled up.
I was so sad to see it perish, since it was the first flower I ever received, but on the other hand, it seemed like an accurate analogy for our meetings. One night of magic that disappears with the coming dawn.
Then came the teacup.
At one point, I mentioned being upset about accidentally breaking a cup from my mom’s favorite tea set.
An old, cheap set, with only sentimental value, because my dad gave it to her.
My mom dreamed of traveling, but we never had any spare money to spend on something like that.
So this tea set was Dad’s way of giving her the world, with each cup depicting an iconic site from a faraway place.
And clumsy me broke the one with the Eiffel Tower.
I regaled my guest with my unsuccessful efforts to find a replacement in the local thrift stores. Riding all over the city on my one day off. Eventually, I had to give up and beg my mom’s forgiveness. There wasn’t a similar cup to be found in Boston.
But, somehow, he found it. Exactly the cup I was looking for. The Eiffel Tower teacup.
The included note offered little explanation.
Couldn’t find the saucer to go along with it.
The concert tickets appeared next. Not to a global superstar or to a boy band reunion.
Nope. They were to a neighborhood artist playing in a coffee shop.
A show I really wanted to see. Yup, I was going to splurge, spend a whole twenty bucks and make a night of it, but the tickets sold out before Evelyn and I remembered to get them.
I was left disappointed, until, once again, my silent guest delivered a little miracle.
Other gifts were of a similar nature. Inexpensive things, priceless intent.
It let me know he was actually listening to my rambling.
Paying attention. This total stranger, the mysterious faceless man without a voice, was learning intimate details about me during our visits.
I’m not quite sure how I feel about that.
Yet he kept his relayed promise. In more than a month and a half, he didn’t request anything more, didn’t do anything we didn’t agree on. I talked. He listened.
Like an infatuated schoolgirl, I save the notes he leaves with his presents.
They’re hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
Safe in an old cookie tin, beneath the starry sky pictured on the lid.
Neatly arranged and sorted by the date printed on the page.
It makes me smile that he keeps using the torn-out pages of a daily journal.
It’s such an odd choice when I think about those notes ending up in such elegant gift boxes.
The note he left for me last week, however, was different.
It waited for me in the now familiar white box.
Next to a small package of black cumin worth no more than eight bucks.
To me, the package of spice was precious, long absent from the stores because of a supply shortage.
I must have mentioned that I love adding it to the breads I bake.
The note contained a question:
Can’t you simply use regular cumin instead?
For the first time since we “met,” he asked for something in return.
He started a conversation.
“Thank you for the spice,” I launch into tonight’s talk.
“And to answer your question… No, regular cumin and black cumin are entirely different spices, despite their similar names. And they have vastly different flavor profiles. Regular cumin is used in a lot of chilis or grilled meats, for example. It’s warm and earthy, with a slightly bitter taste.
Black cumin, on the other hand, is sweeter, a little nutty, and has a smoky edge.
It’s also very pungent and goes great in all kinds of dishes.
Savory stews, as well as aromatic desserts.
But the main reason I’ve been so eager to get my hands on black cumin is because of its anti-inflammatory properties.
It’s also really great for respiratory and immune health.
And—” I stop mid-sentence, then laugh. “I’m sorry, this is probably way more than you ever wanted to know about my culinary preferences.
It must be incredibly boring to you, right? ”
As always, there’s no reply.
“Um… Would you like me to bring a couple of things for you to try next time? You can gauge the difference for yourself.”
My nerves pull tight as I listen to the answering silence, hoping it might get broken this time.
Is he upset that I presumed there would be a “next time”?
Is he getting sick of me always talking about myself?
I mean, that is all I do. Spend hour upon hour yakking about the minutiae of my life, whatever happens to come to mind.
And my silent guest merely listens. All while his calming scent envelops me.
A subtle ocean breeze. Clean. Refreshing.
Like a walk along the beach on a warm, sunny day.
After all these weeks, the only thing I know about this man is the way he smells. The fragrance conveys openness and welcome. So why then does he remain mute? Why does he hide behind the silence? I wish I knew. I wish I were bold enough to ask him that. Instead, I wait.
He doesn’t answer.
I only work at the Annex on Saturday nights, and only if my silent guest makes a booking.
Exclusivity. A privilege he’s been paying an extra fee for, I guess.
So far, he hasn’t missed any of our weekly “dates.” That’s how I’ve come to think of our encounters.
Mostly because it’s the closest thing I have to an actual dating life.
That’s probably why I’ve also started to imagine what my untalkative visitor looks like.
I’ve been wanting an image in my head of the man’s face to go along with his appealing scent.
I start doing it now. Picturing the man sitting across from me.
He’s tall, dark, and handsome, of course.
Maybe a little older. A few grays make him look distinguished.
That seems like a thing that would apply to a gentleman who frequents this place.
The more I indulge in the fantasy, the sharper his features appear in my mind.
An angular face. Maybe glasses, to soften the hard lines.
And piercing, ice-blue eyes that lock on to me from behind those lenses. Yeah, he would—
I freeze, back straightening, absolutely horrified by the realization that the man in my head is familiar. I’m picturing Adriano Ruffo sitting across from me in one of his fancy three-piece suits. Listening to my silly stories.
Jesus. I’ve gone completely insane.
I give my head a shake, attempting to forcefully banish thoughts of Adriano Ruffo, but my stubborn brain won’t let go of that image, no matter how hard I try to conjure up somebody else. Anyone except him. But it’s still him in there!
“People…uh…seem to like them. The black cumin pastries, I mean,” I start to babble, saying the first thing that comes to mind so I can purge the idea of Adriano Ruffo sitting with me in this room.
“I…um…made these savory Turkish cookies for a...tea party at my other job a while ago. Actually, it wasn’t a real party, or any tea involved.
My employer’s wife and I had a good laugh about that.
My boss—her husband—he is a… He has a very important role in his, um, company.
And because of that, she is kind of obligated to socialize with the wives of… other executives.