Every third Wednesday of the month, a tall shadow strode through the crowd along Notting Street. The shopkeepers knew what time to expect him and how long he would stay. He started the morning with the same black coffee at Melanie’s Cafe while he sat in a window seat scribbling into a notebook until his cup was dry. In the afternoon, Marigold could expect him in his usual armchair at the front of her store in perfect view from the counter. She ran the only bookstore in the area, so it wasn’t unusual for her to have repeat customers. He was hardly a customer at all; he’d sit in the chair for hours with whatever book he was reading that month until he put it back on the shelf and left for his next errand. According to Tiffany during their monthly shopkeeper’s meeting, he would routinely buy a bouquet of pink roses at her flower shop and disappear.
“I bet it’s for his partner,” she’d said during one meeting. “I hope she’s not as strange as he is. I mean, he wears the same outfit every day. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk!”
They couldn’t pinpoint the first Wednesday that he arrived. He’d just shown up out of the blue. They wouldn’t have taken notice if it weren’t for his strange demeanor. He never spoke, not even to order. There was always a black coffee waiting for him on the counter and a bouquet of pink roses kept aside just for him. Somehow, despite the buzzing afternoon traffic, there was always a seat empty when he was due to arrive. The trio asked the other meeting attendees, but everyone swore they’d never seen him.
Marigold knew that she’d have to close up shop after the holiday season. There wasn’t enough profit for her to keep the business afloat and manage her personal expenses. She was nearing retirement age, and she desperately wanted someone to purchase her shop and keep it going. She didn’t have any family to pass it down to, so she’d put an advertisement in The Baltimore Sun nearly a year ago. She’d lost hope after she caught news of a corporate bookstore café opening around the corner during the last meeting.
The news hit her hard. Marigold and her mother shared a love of reading; she promised that she ‘d open a bookstore for both of them to share their hobby with the community. They had contrasting views on most other things; Marigold was raised Catholic but left those beliefs in her hometown when she went to college. Her mom would call her every night and ask her if she wanted to say a prayer or talk about how ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ If she was lucky, Marigold was able to divert her attention to her book club’s selection of the month. Although her mother passed before she was able to open the store, she kept her promise and dedicated the business to her memory. Closing felt like she was losing her mother all over again.
The Book Nest was rather small, but it stocked an impressive number of books per genre. She made sure that she had a mix of local authors, bestsellers, and classics. It broke her heart to pack them into boxes to be shipped off to a warehouse for a fraction of what they were worth. She saved a few as gifts for her regulars; even Mr. Wednesday was going to get the book he was reading during his last visit, as well as a few of Marigold’s favorites. The smell of books was slowly replaced by the stale musk of cardboard boxes and disturbed dust.
Her calico shop cat Chip was the most upset about the store closing. His favorite spots were occupied with boxes, and the constant movement of packing made him anxious. These days he would stay in the loft above the shop or hide under chairs in the foyer. Before their lives were uprooted, Chip was a friend to all the customers that came through. He gained so much popularity that he became one of the main reasons people visited Marigold’s store. He took kindly to Mr. Wednesday from the beginning; typically, Chip would perch on the armrest of the chair while he read. Marigold occasionally caught Wednesday fondly stroking his fur.
The last Wednesday before The Book Nest closed for good, Marigold felt her anxiety grow with each tick of the clock. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the store or her peculiar visitor, and she almost hoped that today would be the day he broke his routine. As she continued to pack her belongings away, she thought fondly of his quirks. He wore a black fedora that cast a shadow over his eyes. He never looked anyone in the face or spoke while he was in her store. He donned a black trench coat, even in the Baltimore heat. His shirt, tie, and slacks were the same shade of black. His shoes, neatly kept and polished, made no sound as he walked. She was even more intrigued by his reading habits. He exclusively read history books, and he was halfway through all the titles that the store offered. He’d never bought anything since Marigold opened her doors, but each Wednesday he would drop a hefty envelope in the donation box before he left. Truth be told, she and Chip just enjoyed his company.
She would miss the monthly shopkeeper’s meetings and the gossip she shared with Melanie and Tiffany. She entertained the idea of working at one of their shops until she had enough money to retire, but she couldn’t bear the shame of her old customers seeing her after she failed to keep her own shop open. She thought about having to move from her apartment above the shop and losing the convenience of working close to home. She hoped there was a nice studio in her future where she and Chip could spend the rest of her working days, but deep down she knew she would be fortunate to find a job that could keep her afloat.
Marigold was startled by the chime of the front door. She quickly checked her watch; unless someone came to visit by coincidence, he was just on time. She was kneeling behind the counter and considered crawling her way out the back exit. This was a new feeling for her; any other day she would have greeted Mr. Wednesday with a smile. She heard his coat quietly rustle as he approached the counter. She was shocked that he didn’t head for his chair or simply turn around and walk out at the unsightly state of her store. Was it a coincidence after all?
She stood up holding the box she was packing and set it on the counter. Mr. Wednesday’s looming presence cast her in his shadow. His face was void of emotion, and his eyes were as dark as the clothes he wore. This was the first time that Marigold was in such close proximity to him. He smelled like Melanie’s House Special. In a bittersweet way, she was glad that they got to interact one time before the store closed. After several minutes of staring at each other, she gave up hope that he would start a conversation and reached for the stack of books she’d set aside for him.
“I guess you haven’t heard the news. I’m closing up shop. Not enough business these days. Everyone’s listening to their books now,” she chuckled, hoping to lighten the mood.
Silence.
She cleared her throat and pushed the books toward him before she could talk herself out of it.
“These are for you. I put the last one you were reading in there. A couple of my favorites, too. I hope you like historical fiction.”
He turned his attention to the modest stack of books she offered him but made no move to take them. Marigold began to regret the whole idea.
“They’re on the house. The rest are being sold to a warehouse to sit in boxes. I figured these could go to a good home, at least.”
He met her gaze again with a thoughtful expression on his face. Up close, he looked like a normal fellow: his furrowed salt-and-pepper eyebrows matched his trimmed beard, his dark brown eyes were adorned with deep laugh lines, and his thin lips had a rather defined cupid’s bow. She could have stared at him for the rest of the afternoon but to her shock, he removed his hat, made the sign of the cross, and started to pray. It was a silent ordeal; his eyes were squeezed tightly, and his hands were clasped together over his chest. Her head was buzzing with the excitement of telling the girls about it, but it was quickly shot down with the realization that she wouldn’t be welcomed at the next meeting. Before she could ruminate on it any further, the phone rang. Marigold thought about ignoring it, but Mr. Wednesday made no move to leave. She excused herself and picked up the receiver.
“Hello?” she asked while keeping an eye on Mr. Wednesday.
“Hello. My name is Matthew Kappel with Baltimore Property LLC. I saw your advertisement in the paper. Are you still selling your store?” a deep voice asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
“That’s right. It’s closing for good on Friday. Are you interested in the building?”
“I’m interested in the business. Local places are more attractive when there’s competition around. People wanna look good so they shop small when a new place moves in. If I buy you out, are you willing to keep managing the store?”
Marigold’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t believe that someone wanted her to keep her business going. She’d never heard of this company before and wondered if someone was playing a cruel joke but agreed to a meeting later in the week. She watched in disbelief as Mr. Wednesday picked up the stack of books from the counter. He placed something where the books were sitting and turned to leave. Before Marigold could think to say anything, he was out the door. She finished talking to the man on the phone and wrote down his information. Marigold let herself hope that she wouldn’t have to close her doors after all. She moved to the counter and picked up what Wednesday left for her: an old silver coin with a tarnished image of a man’s head.
Later that evening, Marigold sat at her computer determined to find information on who wanted to buy her store. According to her research, Baltimore Property LLC was a newer company with only a few local stores under their administration. No Matthew Kappel popped up under the associates page, which was odd, but she’d ask about that during their meeting. Unsatisfied, she let her mind wander to Mr. Wednesday; she was dying to know what he was praying about. She wondered if he visited any other cities or places in the area and excitedly searched man in black visiting local areas on Wednesdays, but nothing she found was conclusive. No picture matched his stiff posture and blank face. After many unfruitful hours, she began to wonder if he was real at all. She absentmindedly fidgeted with the coin in her hands. Time hadn’t been kind to it; there were layers of caked green gunk on it, preventing her from being able to read the letters inscribed on the back. She made a mental note to clean it so she could show it to the girls at the next meeting, giggled excitedly that there would be a still be a seat for her, then shut her laptop and went to bed exhausted by the excitement of the day.
“You can’t be serious. How could Wednesday have anything to do with your store being bought out? You put placed that advertisement out ages ago. Give yourself some credit. I mean he’s weird, but he’s not magical,” Tiffany chided Marigold at the next shopkeeper’s meeting.
“You didn’t see itweren’t there, Tiff. One minute he’s staring into my soul and the next I’m getting a phone call from the richest man in the city offering to buy my store and keep it running. He Mr. Wednesday prayed just before the phone rang! How can that be a coincidence?” Marigold retorted, a plate of hors d’œuvres in her hand.
“Since when are you so religious? Do you really think he called in a favor from God or something?” Melanie asked, rolling her eyes and sipping her coffee.
Determined to prove herself, Marigold came up with a plan to expose Mr. Wednesday’s secrets. She flipped over her copy of the meeting’s agenda and began writing out the steps for her exposé:
- Greet Wednesday
- Try and engage in conversation
- If no answer, wait until he leaves and follow him
- See where he goes
Melanie snatched the paper with her wrinkled, manicured hand.
“You’re serious? Who’s gonna watch your store while you stalk a strange man? Who’s gonna run the store if he turns out to be a creep and kidnaps you? Or worse – murders you!” Melanie screeched, an incredulous chuckle stuck in her throat.
Suddenly Marigold remembered the gift Wednesday left behind. and hoped Maybe they would believe her conspiracy theory if they saw the impossibly old coin for themselves. She reached into the front pocket of her jeans, but the only thing she pulled out was a ball of lint. She patted her back pocket, her cardigan pocket, and rummaged through her purse for several minutes. She was sure she’d brought it with her; she was so excited to show it off that she’d set reminders on her cell phone, circled it on the calendar, and even wrote it in her planner. She turned back to them and began to defend herself, but Melanie and Tiffany had already started a side conversation. Marigold huffed in annoyance but knew that Melanie had a good point: Mr. Wednesday seemed nice enough, but you could never be too sure these days. She reclaimed her paper and wrote a new list:
- Buy pepper spray
- Greet Wednesday
- Try and engage in conversation
- If no answer, wait until he leaves and follow him
- Close shop for the evening
- See where he goes
- ???
Marigold prepared for Mr. Wednesday’s return every day after the shopkeeper meeting. She recounted her plan while she restocked books on the shelves, continuously searched for him online to no avail, and set a calendar reminder for the Wednesday he was due to visit. One way or another, she would get her answers.
She Marigold was so lost in thought that the bells on the front door startled her when they chimed. She nearly fell off the ladder she was using to put overstock on top of the shelves in the back of the store. She got herself down safely and checked her watch; he was right on time. She smoothed her yellow paisley dress with her hands and took a deep breath.
This Wednesday will be different, she thought. Maybe I’ll even learn his name.
Marigold quickly made her way to the front of the store to find him sitting in his chair already. She was surprised to see that he brought and was reading the same book from last month: Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind. It was a lengthy tome, but he’d turn pages so quickly that Marigold wondered if he retained any of the information.
“I see you brought back the book I gave you. Is it any good?” she asked, leaning over the counter.
Silence.
“I won’t make you return itNo need to return it,” she joked. “I was just wondering if I should get a copy.”
He never looked up from the page.
She sighed defeatedly, spun around, and went back to the storage room. She busied herself unsuccessfully while she waited for Mr. Wednesday to leave. She took boxes off the shelves, put them back, and picked them up again. Did he stay this long every time? Just when she was about to lose her mind, she heard the doorbell chime.
Marigold thrust the box she was holding back onto the shelf and raced to the counter. She watched Mr. Wednesday walk past the window and waited until he was far away enough for her not to be noticed. She scribbled Be Back Later on a note card, taped it to the window, threw open the door, spotted Mr. Wednesday way down the street, and quickly locked the store. She weaved through the afternoon crowd, mumbling sorry for stepping on toes and brushing into shoulders. Marigold followed him all the way to Tiffany’s flower shop. She crept further and hid in the alley between Lorenz Shoes and Fresh Cuts.
Before she could catch her breath, Mr. Wednesday was already walking out the door with an uncut bouquet of pink roses in his hand. He was walking faster now, almost passing through pedestrians as he made his way down the street. She continued pushing past people, hoping that he would stop somewhere else soon. She was running out of adrenaline and her chest ached. Luckily, his attention was caught by a street performer gesticulating to what Marigold assumed to be slam poetry. Mr. Wednesday was entranced by the sign language interpreter who was dutifully translating next to the poet. Marigold never put any thought to his silence, and she kicked herself for not realizing sooner that he could might be deaf. After the performance ended, he left a single rose and a wad of cash produced from his coat pocket.
Continuing his walk, he suddenly turned a corner as Marigold realized that they’d traveled several blocks from her book shop to the park on Main Street. She followed afterfollowed him but stopped in her tracks when she passed the corner. Mr. Wednesday was nowhere to be seen. She jogged ahead, hoping that he was sat on a bench or behind some trees, but he was gone. Just when she turned to go back to the storeand rest from her adventure, she stopped in front of a statue that looked familiar. Before her was an uncanny bronze bust of Mr. Wednesday; his hat was gone, but she knew those laugh lines and kind eyes couldn’t belong to anyone else. A bouquet of pink roses was perched on its base. She walked closer and read the plaque bolted to the concrete base:
St. Francis de Sales. Patron saint of authors, the deaf, journalists, and writers.
Marigold gasped and put her hand over her thumping chest. Could it be? She recalled what her mom would tell her when she lost hope on something: “There’s probably a saint you could pray to for that.” Marigold prayed to anyone who would listen once she knew she was going to lose the shop, but never thought there was a possibility of someone listening. She grazed the statue with her hand and whispered thank you, just in case.