I couldn’t ignore the yearning to find out.
My phone was in my hand before I consciously registered grabbing it. I added Kobe’s number to my contacts and stared at the message box with a deeply furrowed brow. Before I could hesitate or overthink my decision, I typed.
Tonight didn’t pan out. Are you free tomorrow?I hit send, cringed, and added,It’s Dominique, by the way.
Within minutes, my phone pinged with a reply. I’d been staring at it, thinking of Angelique, swimming in guilt andsorrow and the barest hint of hope at something I couldn’t quite articulate.
Hey! It’s good to hear from you. No worries about tonight. My email was late. Tomorrow works for me. Eight at the Apothecary?
Sounds good.
Do you need directions? It’s kind of hard to find.
I’ll figure it out.I dropped the phone on the desk and took up my drink, draining the glass as my heart pounded out of control.
I’d set the ball in motion.
6
Dominique
The Apothecary was acocktail lounge located in Ottawa’s ByWard Market District. A quick online search told me it was in the cellar of some building called York on William. It was a good thing I looked it up. When I arrived, the sign above the main door told me I was in the right spot, but upon entering, I immediately wandered in the wrong direction.
A different restaurant occupied the main level, a third—closed for the season—boasted rooftop dining. I wandered in the only direction that made sense but didn’t see access to the cellar. I ended up in Starling, the main level restaurant. A friendly host aimed me toward the stairs—I’d passed them at the front entrance—informing me I wasn’t the first person who struggled to find the mysterious underground lounge.
“Ottawa’s best kept secret,” she said with a giggle. “You must be from out of town.”
“New resident.”
“Ah, that explains it. Welcome.”
I returned the way I’d come and stared into the gaping maw of a dark stairwell. No wonder I’d walked past it. “This can’t be right.” But an inconspicuous sign with an arrow pointing down claimed it was indeed where I needed to be.
Descending into the abyss, I contemplated the owner’s decision to make the lounge so hidden away. Wouldn’t that deter customers? Wouldn’t you want people to find your establishment? Also, how many people wanted to venture into the equivalent of a catacomb to have a cocktail?
Twice, I almost turned around. At the bottom of the stairs, in an unlit hallway, I arrived at a door. The illumination from the antique sconces at the front entrance barely reached where I stood, their light stretched thin this far underground. A decorative sign informed me I was in the right place.
I peered at the stairs, then at the door. “Nothing weird about this.”
I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but the warm, elegant ambience and 1920s speakeasy feel was not it. The backlit shelving behind the main bar radiated with a soft glow. The rest of the lounge was seductively dark. Candles flickered on privately spaced tables, separated by exposed brick dividers. Wooden accents, velvet-lined seating, and the soft resonance of sultry jazz playing over a speaker system gave the room an intimacy that shivered over my skin and whispered in my ear. It felt forbidden and secretive. Alluring. For a long while, I simply stood by the door, soaking it in.
I’d been in low-lit bars that emitted similar vibes, but this was otherworldly. Shadows engulfed the patrons. I couldn’t make out faces at tables, only silhouettes, suggestions of occupation. This was not a place for conversations about work or business meetings. This was a place for clandestine love affairs.
Any question that might have remained about Kobe’s intention vanished. This was a date, plain and simple. He mighthave dressed it up as a conference between colleagues, but it was a rendezvous of a different sort.
“Okaaay. Noted.” I inhaled a stabilizing breath and scanned the room, trying to pick out a table with a lone occupant, someone similar in build to Kobe. No one stood out.
If he had arrived first and was waiting somewhere specific, I wouldn’t find him. Wandering and staring felt inappropriate. He could come to me. The bar was better lit, so I went in that direction, securing a spot on a cushioned, velvet-backed stool.
The man pouring drinks wore a collared shirt and an unsightly mustache. His ears stuck out, and he had used too much product in his hair, but it didn’t take long to see he was quick and efficient at his job.
He caught sight of me and approached. “Good evening. Shall I cure your hunger or mix a potion to soothe whatever ails you?”
“I’m sorry?”
He grinned. “First time here?”
“Yes.”
