“Are you eating or having a cocktail?”
“A cocktail for now.”
“Would you like a drink menu?”
“Nah, what do you recommend?”
The man considered me for a long time. “Sweet, smoky, bitter, or dealer’s choice?”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Smoky, I suppose.”
“Excellent. You, sir, are about to meet the Mortician.” With that ominous comment, the bartender spun on his heels and swished away.
I had no idea what he was talking about, but his flamboyant nature and assuredness washed away the last of my nerves. If Kobe didn’t show up, I would enjoy a night off and indulge in a few drinks on my own. No harm, no foul.
Before the Mortician arrived—I still wasn’t sure if it was a drink or a person—someone slinked out of the shadows and slipped onto the stool beside me. The man of the hour and the reason for my restless night and off-kilter day grinned boyishly.
Kobe wore stylishly tattered denims, a fitted black T-shirt under a North Face puffer jacket, and a pair of dimples that would be my undoing if I wasn’t careful.
“Hey, stranger. Is this seat taken?”
“All yours.” I rotated my stool to face him.
Kobe removed his jacket and draped it over the back of the seat. I hadn’t removed mine, uncertain if I was coming or going, more secure with its comforting weight pinning me down.
Kobe leaned a forearm on the bar top, angling his body toward me. “You found the place okay?”
“No, actually. I ended up lost on the main level before a kindly hostess steered me straight to the basement via a gloomy staircase. I was convinced it was a trap until I entered.”
Kobe’s smile grew. His eyes, impossibly dark in the low-lit room, sparkled with a hint of guile. “Isn’t it great? Ottawa’s best kept secret.”
“So I hear.”
He glanced around as though taking it in for the first time. “This place has been around forever. In the summer, it’s packed with tourists, but in the offseason… Love it. The building itself dates back to the late 1800s. People drank here during Prohibition. Deep underground, hidden from authority. It’s arranged the same today as it was back then, only now, it blends that vintage atmosphere with modern mixology. You can’t go wrong. They have incredible food, too. Did you order?”
“A drink.”
At that moment, the bartender returned with a round tray balanced on one hand. On the tray was a clear glass dome. Underneath, a thick cloud of smoke obscured a tumbler.
“Ah, the Mortician.” Kobe used a dauntingly undead voice as he rubbed his hands together. “Excellent choice. One of my favorites.” He nodded a greeting at the bartender, who set the tray on the bar top in front of me.
“For my new friend.” The server wiggled his brows.
Confused, I stared at the smoke trapped under the dome. “There’s a drink in there?”
“Indeed, there is.” The server grasped the knob at the top of the dome. “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
He removed the cover, and the cloud emerged, bringing with it an overwhelming scent of campfire. I was ten years old again, roasting hot dogs over the open flames with my father beside me, sipping beer. The glassy lake in the distance reflected moonlight. My mother sang.
The memory slipped through my fingers, dissipating with the smoke. A glass with rich amber liquid appeared. Attached to the glass with a pint-size wooden clothespin was an oddly shaped card with something typed on it.
The waiter’s mustache twitched with anticipation. “Every drink at the Apothecary is an experience.”
When the man turned to Kobe, seeking his order, Kobe requested the same thing.
As the server wandered away, I removed the clothespin and examined the cardstock. When I realized what I was looking at, I laughed—a completely involuntary reaction. “Is this…”
