A grand piano on a slightly-raised, circular stage separated the hotel’s dining room from the bar and lounge area. The jazz pianist had been on shift since I checked in at a quarter to six. His energetic, high-tempo numbers had relaxed by the time I came back down for dinner. Was he resting his hands? I wondered. Was this the appetizer music the management paid him to play? Or did dampening the piano make eavesdropping easier for his accomplices with hidden microphones? I took a seat in a leather chair near a corner with a view of the bar as well as the musician’s face. My contact was supposed to be a guest, but it never hurts to keep an eye out for other players in the game.

I passed the time with a glass of cognac and a copy of The Wild Flowers of Britain and Northern Europe. The choice of book worried me. It was a very specific selection: an old print with an easily-recognizable cloth hardcover. These were good qualities for a signal; it was very unlikely to be mistook or coincide with another guest’s reading list. Nor was I concerned that a study of botany might seem out of place for a man in a charcoal suit sitting in a hotel lounge on a Friday night. At times there is no better disguise than that of a man who is trying to appear interesting, and so will be universally ignored.

No, what worried me was the one piece of information I knew about the person I was meeting: her alias, Wild Rose.

Just after eight o’clock the pianist ended a tune with a flourish and stepped away for a smoke break. There was a smattering of gentle applause from the closest dining guests, followed by the awkward readjustment of conversation volume. Over the top of Wild Flowers I scanned their faces, looking for anyone who might be looking back at me. Impossibly, by the time my gaze returned to the bar, a woman had appeared who had not been sitting there just moments before.

Her dress was dark. It appeared to fade from a deep burgundy around the skirt to almost black against her tan skin. Her hair had an auburn tint to match which I could have believed was natural. She had one leg draped over the leather stool, the hem of her dress fluttering on the edge of modesty. On the stool beside her rested a long black coat, and I wondered her sudden appearance could be explained so simply. I shut the book I was holding, brushed my finger over the hidden seam on the back cover, and made my approach.

“Is this seat taken?”

There was a free stool on her right side, but I made a show of pointing out her coat to see how she would react. Though the lounge was quiet, she acted as though she had not heard me. I shrugged to myself and moved over to the open seat. I placed the book in the space between us, the title prominently visible.

The bartender arrived with a sweet-looking, red cocktail. “A Jack Rose, for the lady,” he said.

I indicated to the man that he should charge the drink to my room, then asked for another cognac. Once he was gone, the woman let out an amused sigh. I watched, perhaps too intently, as she touched her lips to the glass and took a delicate, yet full sip of the rosey liquor. She drank, then her tongue cleaned her lips, quickly and carefully preserving their gloss. Without looking, she put the cocktail glass down on top of Wild Flowers. Condensation immediately spread into a ring on the book’s cover, the moisture slightly bleeding into the title line. Finally, she spoke:

“So, have you gotten to Rosa gallica yet?” she asked. As she did so, she turned her eyes upon me. They were surprisingly gentle, as though she were truly curious.

“No. Well, perhaps. To be honest, I didn’t study the text much. I was mostly looking at the figures.”

“Hah.” She let out a single polite chuckle, but she kept her eyes fixed on me.

“I must say, I didn’t expect Wild Rose to be quite so… on-theme, as it were.” I gestured to the book and the drink. “Do you not think it is a bit much?”

“Funny, because you are exactly what I expected.”

“Charming?”
“Conspicuous.”

“Odd accusation coming from a walking, talking bouquet.”

“Oh, but it seems it is you who has the thorns.”

She pointed a tattle-tale finger at me as she said this, and I realized she had already bested me somehow. Behind us, the piano had started up again, and I had raised my voice for that last comment. Her voice, however, remained soft, subdued, and knowing as she continued.

“Just, conspicuously inconspicuous is all I meant. The grey suit, with a little grey hair to match…”

“I would say it’s more of a charcoal. For both, actually.”

“I didn’t say I minded.” Her drink was empty, but she toyed with the glass, spreading more condensation across the old book. “I just meant, it’s a little business-like for dinner on a Friday night. Look at the couples dining together — they’re not trying to look inconspicuous, are they?”

I didn’t look. I kept my eyes on her, but I nodded.

For a moment she was far away. Then her gaze came back to me, suddenly focused.

“We are here for a bit of business, though, aren’t we?” She idly tapped on her glass.

“Yes,” I cleared my throat. “It’s all there. The seam blends in well, but should come apart easily enough. You should be able to get the chip without removing the whole cover.”

“And what if I want to take it all off?”

“Hah, well…” It was my turn to laugh. “It’s your book, Rose.”

The bartender came and cleared our glasses. In the shuffle, she deftly slipped the book off the counter and into the folds of bundled coat. He offered us another round, but she said it was time for us move on to dinner.

“I thought I was dressed for business,” I teased, genuinely uncertain of her plan. “You wouldn’t be seen with someone like this at dinner, would you?”

“Hmm,” she put a finger to her cheek, mocking contemplation. Her nail polish matched her lipstick, of course. “I was thinking: room service?”

And that was that.

 

We didn’t touch until the elevator had risen three floors. Then it was a kiss and an embrace — sudden, fast, and deliberate. If her hands did a search for weapons, they were too skillful for me to detect them. I was forward with mine, clumsy even, but I could not find any hidden thorns.

The elevator came to a stop and she backed through the doors, guiding me with one beckoning finger. As she lead the way, I pointed out that it was a little suspicious she knew the way to my room. She stated there was nothing odd about it.

“Please, Mr. Grey. Anywhere you’re going, I could get there backwards — and in high heels!” To make the point, she tapped her foot against the correct door. Then she winked, “Besides, you told your room number to the bartender.”

I let us into the room. As I opened the door I noticed, with a little disappointment, the tape I had placed between the door and the frame was still intact. Perhaps Wild Rose really didn’t have any surprises in store for me.

She set her coat, still bundled around the book, on the one hotel-room chair. Then sat delicately on the foot of the bed, making a show of staring out the window instead of at me. I took my time, slowly hanging my charcoal jacket in the hall closet.

“Shall we order room service now?” I asked, standing aloof by the bedside table.

“I would hate to be interrupted,” she called back, still looking away.

“Well, I’m sure I could ask them to give a listen at the door and return later if it’s a bad time.”

At this she finally craned her neck to raise one eyebrow at me.

“I hope you’re not planning to have a bad-”

The phone rang, interrupting her retort. We both looked at the phone in bewilderment for a moment. I composed myself and tried to answered it coolly.

“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry about that, but what is it? When? But he’s fine? Sleeping, good. Everything is fine? No, don’t worry about that. Yes I’ll tell her, then call you right back.”

I set the phone down and considered what the best way to deliver the information was. All I ended up with was this:
“Eli ate a peanut.”

Rose was on me before I could continue.

“What! How?” she screamed.

“Please, don’t freak out. He is fine. Marjorie got the epipen immediately. She knew what to do. He was recovering within minutes- no, seconds of feeling uncomfortable.”

“You said he’s asleep. He can’t go to sleep right after that! What if it’s the allergy making him pass out? We need to get him to the hospital.”

She was already putting on her coat. This was the part I really didn’t know how to explain.

“It was hours ago. She watched him for a while, but he’s really fine. He even ate dinner, and went to bed like normal.”

“Hours ago?” She rounded on me with venomous combination of anger and disbelief. “The sitter waited hours to tell us about our son nearly dying! Why didn’t she call us sooner?”

“She did, Rose. Of course she did. She said she called my cell phone right after it happened.”

“And you didn’t hear it?”
There it was: the reason I had to try and keep us calm. Because the answer was-

“I turned it off. Before I checked into the hotel, I turned it off. We’ve been interrupted before, and I… We just put so much thought into this and I didn’t want some silly thing to-”

“Something silly, like our son dying?”

The bitterness was familiar, yet no less painful because of it. That tongue had licked the rim of a glass of overpriced Applejack barely an hour before. There was nothing sweet left on it when she spoke those words.

And why should there be? I asked myself as I shrugged at her, speechless and defeated.

She grabbed her coat off the chair as she stormed out, letting The Wild Flowers of Britain and Northern Europe fall to the floor.

The door slammed.

The seam split.

I picked up the book, wondering if she had even noticed that I actually snuck something into the cover.

Like a real spy, I thought.

She really would have liked it.