The Scent Keeper(83)

Fisher looked from Frank to the woman and back, and then got out a rocks glass. He made a show of angling his body so no one could see what he was pouring; when he turned back, the glass was full of a clear liquid. He handed it to the woman with a gallant flourish.

“For you,” he said.

“Ah,” Frank said, addressing the crowd. “The straight stuff. I’m gonna have a good night, boys.”

The woman took a sip and looked at Fisher, puzzled. She leaned forward. “But this is just…” I heard her whisper to him.

“Did you get what you wanted?” he asked, loud enough for the crowd to hear, and I watched the comprehension wash over her face.

“You’re a genius,” she said.

“Free refills for the pretty lady, all night long,” Fisher called out, to a round of cheers.

“Thanks, Fisher,” Frank said, grinning. He took the woman’s elbow and pulled her through the crowd to a table.

“He’ll be pissed when he figures it out,” I said to Fisher in a low voice.

“He’d never let anybody know he couldn’t bag a sober woman,” Fisher said with a shrug.

Across the room, the front door opened, letting in a spill of cool air. Fisher looked up, then caught my eye and jerked his chin toward the newcomer.

“Narcissist’s Martini,” he said.

I had to boost myself up on my stool to see who he was talking about. A woman, in a slim white suit, standing like a lily in a field of beans.

Victoria.





THE DINNER


As usual, the crowd parted before my mother. She made her way to my side, and the man on the stool next to me stood up and offered her his seat. As she sat down, I smelled the honey-and-amber perfume she’d been wearing the first day we met. A wave of guilt washed over me. She’d taken me in, asked so few questions. Opened her home to me.

“So this is where you’ve been coming,” she said now. She looked around the bar, leaned closer. “I have to admit, I’m curious why.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should’ve told you.” I nodded toward Fisher, who was watching us with obvious interest. “Fisher’s a friend, from the cove.”

Victoria looked from me to Fisher and back again. It reminded me of when she tested a new fragrance, going from one version to another.

“Have you two known each other a long time?” she asked.

“Since I started school,” I said. “I wouldn’t have made it through without him.” Suddenly, now that she was here, I wanted her to like him, to understand how important he was to me. “He’s the reason I came to the city in the first place…”

I felt Victoria go still beside me.

“Really?” she said. There was a crack, deep down below the question mark. A small sound, barely audible, but I heard it.

“I mean, I came to find you, too,” I said. I was fumbling now, making a mess of it. A small pool of quiet rippled out into the crowd around us. Victoria’s expression went smooth, polished.

“Well,” she said. “I’m just glad he got you here.” She leaned across the bar, extending a hand. “I’m Victoria Wingate. Emmeline’s mother.”

Fisher looked at me once, quickly. I could feel Victoria watching us.

“Nice to meet you,” Fisher said to her, swiping his wet hand across the apron around his waist, then shaking hers. “Sorry,” he said, “busy night.”

“Not a problem.” She took a napkin from the stack next to me and gently wiped the moisture from her long, beautiful fingers. It felt as if the whole bar was watching her, entranced.

“What’s her drink?” one of the regulars called out. The group around him nodded, eager. Victoria tilted her head in question.

“He can guess what people really want,” I said in a low tone. “He’s amazing at reading people.” I was still selling; I could hear it.

“Really?” Victoria said. This time it was only half a question. Her back straightened, the slightest shift of movement.

“It’s just a party trick,” Fisher said, offhand, but he was watching her more closely now.

“Do it!” the crowd started chanting. “Do it!”

“All right,” Victoria said, sending out a gracious smile around her. “Let’s see what you can do, Fisher.”

The crowd cheered, and Fisher gave a shallow bow. He hesitated for one more moment, looking from Victoria to me. He always paused at this point, ramping up the effect, but this time it felt different, as if he really was making a decision.

“Well?” Victoria said. Teasing, almost.

Fisher straightened then, and moved into action. He put ice in a metal shaker, then poured Plymouth gin in a clear, continuous stream. He put on the lid and gave the cylinder ten quick shakes at shoulder height. With a small flourish, he produced a chilled cocktail glass, opened the lid of the shaker, and let the liquid tumble out through the strainer and down the angled sides of the glass. It was a poem—or maybe a declaration—of a drink.

“Here you go,” he said, offering it to Victoria.

She took a sip, considering the taste with her eyes closed, her face a striking combination of beauty and concentration. The voices around us hushed in expectation.