The Dollhouse (18 page)

“Did you ever head downtown to the jazz clubs?”

“Downtown? Not so much. We tended to stick to the ones on
Fifty-Second Street. Those downtown ones, as well as the ones way up in Harlem, were off-limits for the Ford girls. They were considered seedy and full of dangerous elements.”

Too bad. She would have loved Stella's take on the Flatted Fifth. “I assume you were pursued by a number of suitors.”

“Got that right. But I made a huge mistake. Decided to have a ball, enjoy myself, play around. By the time I was twenty-three, I was no longer a good girl and no longer young. Can you believe that? Twenty-three. That's a baby these days. Still, I don't regret a thing.”

“What about the Gibbs girls? Weren't they there to find good jobs?”

“Secretaries fell into two categories: the dowdy type who wouldn't threaten the wife, and the bombshell who looked good behind a desk or, even better, on top of it.”

Rose stifled a laugh so as not to screw up the audio. “What category would Miss McLaughlin fall into?”

“Dowdy, for sure. At least at first. But she began to blossom. Who knows how far she might have gone.” Her voice trailed off.

The opening was exactly what Rose had been hoping for. “If she hadn't had the accident?”

Stella nodded.

“Do you remember when it happened?”

“Halloween 1952. Some things you never forget.” She shifted in her chair and changed the subject, and Rose didn't press. She bided her time, asking questions about the characters Stella had met over the years.

“I had a friend, Charlotte Foster, who was strangely beautiful, though not about to get on the cover of
Vogue
. Charlotte did well for herself. She didn't mess about with any marriage nonsense, and I have to say I think she was right. Focus on your job, do what you love, and get on with your life.”

The words resonated. Rose had done so early on, getting a coveted internship out of college and plowing through the office politics. But somewhere along the way, she'd reverted to a 1950s paradigm: Griff had become the center of her world.

She snapped back to the interview. “What happened to Charlotte Foster?”

“Ended up working at
The New Yorker
. She never married, from what I heard, never wanted to. Died in her sixties, while hang gliding in the Alps. What a way to go.”

Stella's sharp memory and deadpan delivery made the time fly by. Exactly an hour after they started, the sound of a car pulling up in the driveway signaled the end of the interview.

As they began packing up, Rose broached the subject of Darby again. “Did Miss McLaughlin ever have a young friend who visited? A girl?”

Stella eyed her uneasily. “Yup. I saw them meet up a few times outside the building. Darby never bothered to introduce me, but that was her way. Most of the other women think she's a bitch, but I like it. She doesn't waste my time, and I don't waste hers.”

“So you don't know the girl's name?”

“No.” She cocked her head. “But once I heard the girl call Darby something odd. Christina, Tina, something like that. I said to Darby later, ‘What, you got a new name?' Darby told me it was a private joke.”

On the way back to the city, Jason chuckled.

“What's that for?” asked Rose.

“I can't help but wish I'd been born back in the day. Stella was one hell of a firecracker. She must've driven the boys wild.”

An unpleasant twinge ran through Rose. Jealousy. Of an eightysomething-year-old lady? No way.

She shook it off. “The more we dig into Darby's story, the stranger it becomes. What's with the girl calling her Christina?”

“Maybe that's her alter ego, a crazy, martini-swilling lady of the night.”

“I wouldn't rule it out at this point. I wish we could get Stella to dish out more details on the day Esme fell. She knows more than she's saying.”

“You saw how she closed down. She's not going to go there.”

“Ditto with Malcolm on Sam. I've tried to reach him a couple of times since our interview. Radio silence.”

Jason sighed. “So far, all we know is Darby was planning an escape with Sam, Esme fell, and Darby ended up living at the hotel for decades.”

“Maybe Esme was in love with Sam and they battled it out on the roof?”

“Does that make the mystery girl the love child of Darby and Sam?”

“More like the love grandchild.” Her head spun with possibilities. “Lots of questions.”

“And no one is willing to talk.”

“Not yet.” Rose stared out at the Hudson River as their taxi cruised over the bridge back to the city.

New York City, 1952

C
lose your eyes.”

Darby did as Esme instructed. She'd arrived at the club a bundle of nerves. They'd rehearsed in her room at the Barbizon the past week, whispering the harmonies so no one passing by could hear, and even adding some dance steps. For a time it had been a joke, a lark. But late tonight they were scheduled to sing backup for Annie Ross after she headlined at Birdland. Waking up early to get to class on time was bad enough, but Darby's lack of concentration had become more than evident at Gibbs. This morning she'd gotten another warning for her constant tardiness, and in the afternoon's post she received a harsh letter from Mother demanding accountability for her poor grades. The head of the school wrote in the comments that Darby seemed “befuddled and unmotivated,” and Darby's mother had underlined the three words in a heavy black pen, adding an exclamation point for further emphasis. She was not pleased.

“Now open them.”

Esme stood before her in the green room of the Flatted Fifth, holding up two silver dresses, one draped over each arm. The material was slightly shiny and cut on the bias.

“Who are those for?” Darby dreaded the answer.

“For us. For tonight. We'll make a splash wearing these under the lights. No one will even notice Annie Ross.”

Darby fingered the silky material. “Where did you get them?”

Esme blew through her lips. “Phooey. I thought you'd be squealing with joy. The lady my aunt cleans for gave them to her. You know those Park Avenue types. She said neither one fit and she was going to toss them out.”

“Why wouldn't she return them?”

“Who knows, who cares? Here, try it on.”

Darby slipped behind a screen set up in one corner and slid the dress over her head. It gently curved around her hips before narrowing around the knees. The neckline offered a hint of cleavage and emphasized the smooth line from neck to shoulder. After Esme changed, too, they stood together in front of the full-length mirror.

She laughed. “We look like twins.”

The door to the green room opened and Sam appeared.

“Wow.”

Darby blushed. “Esme found these.”

He stepped back and whistled. “The joint is going upscale tonight, I can see that much.”

“You know it.” Esme winked and turned her back to Darby. “Unzip me. I've got a few things to do before showtime and I don't want to get it dirty.”

“And grab an apron while you're at it,” said Sam to Darby. “My father's away tonight and I'm going to change up the menu. I could use some help.”

“Is that a good idea?” Esme shrugged the dress off and Darby stifled a gasp. To his credit, Sam turned to face the door, shielding his eyes with his hand.

“Yowza. Warn a guy before you disrobe. Of course it's a good idea. Like the dresses. We've got to elevate our clientele's taste, make the club stand out from all the others. And tonight's the night.” He turned his head in their direction, still keeping his eyes covered. “Please, Darby?”

“I should stick with Esme.” She shivered when Esme stepped behind her and unzipped her dress.

Esme's breath was hot on her neck. “Sure, she's free.”

Darby wished Esme would stay out of it. There was no need to embarrass herself further in front of Sam.

Before she could make up an excuse, Sam spoke. “Thank you. I'll see you in a few.”

After he'd left, Esme changed into slacks and a blouse and grabbed her purse. “Hang up the dresses so the musicians don't sit on them or use them to clean their instruments. I'll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out. No questions. Have fun cooking with Sam; you'll be domesticated in no time.”

“But, Esme, I have to tell you something.”

“What? That you're in love with a cook? Your mother won't be pleased.”

Darby wished Esme would calm down for one second, not be so flippant. “She's already not pleased. She sent me a letter saying I had to pull myself together at Gibbs or she'd be very unhappy.”

Esme eyed her warily. “What does she mean, you have to ‘pull yourself together'?”

“I can't come here anymore. I'm tired when I show up to class the next day. And I can't do shorthand nearly as fast as the other girls. I'm falling behind.”

Now she had Esme's attention. “Don't let me down now, Darby. We're just getting started here. If you quit, it won't be nearly as much fun. And Sam would pout, I'm pretty sure of it.”

“That's just it. I shouldn't even be thinking about Sam that way. That's not why I'm in New York.”

“He's obviously got a crush on you.”

“Do you think so?” She let her mind wander for a second, before biting her lip hard. “No. That's a dangerous path. I don't want to marry anyone.”

“Who said anything about marrying? You can enjoy a kiss or two, right?”

Darby remembered the disastrous night in the park. And her kiss with Esme in the booth. One had disgusted her. The other, she wasn't so sure about.

Esme shrugged. “Fine. Look, I have to go. Help him in the kitchen, or don't, but make sure you're ready by the time we have to go on.” She took her hand. “This one time. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

The kitchen staff's pace had reached a feverish pitch by the time Darby walked in. The busboy was rubbing some powder from a bowl on a pan full of chicken pieces, and Sam stood in front of the burners poaching juicy pink shrimp. Instead of the usual smell of fryer fat, fragrant odors circulated around the small space.

“What's that?” she asked, pointing to the small bowl beside him.

“Verbena, thyme, and sage.” He held it up to her nose. “Smell.”

The scent reminded her of climbing the hills behind their house in the spring. A moan of pleasure escaped from her lips.

“I'm going to add it to the shrimp, and serve that instead when someone orders boring old shrimp cocktail.”

“Won't the customers be angry?”

“We'll see. Hopefully, they'll be hungry enough to try it without sending it back.”

“What will your father do when he finds out?”

“No idea. Probably fire me.”

She couldn't tell if he was joking.

Acting on Sam's orders, she laid out shiny white plates as Sam supervised the modified menu. She prayed she wouldn't drop anything or say something stupid.

“Here's what's on the menu for tonight: Instead of fried chicken, we have a spiced roast chicken with satay sauce. Lamb burgers with cumin and garlic instead of the usual burger, and so on and so on.”

“I hope your experiment goes well,” teased Darby. “Because if not, Esme and I and the rest of the musicians will be facing an angry, hungry crowd tonight.”

“I'll do my best. Once I heard my father would be out of town, I went straight to Mr. Kalai's shop. We can always run for it and hide out there until things die down.”

She laughed at his teasing, but she could tell he was worried. Uptown, this type of cuisine might go over, but down in the East Village, late at night, the regulars could be surly, drunk, and quick to rebel.

About a half hour later, the first set of orders had been filled. During the lull, Sam cleaned every surface he could. Even though he was smiling and joking around, Darby could tell his nerves were on fire.

The door to the main floor opened and one of the waiters returned, carrying the burger on the plate. He laid it down carefully on the counter and stepped back.

The burger was practically untouched; only one bite had been taken.

“Table six said he didn't like this. Wants fries instead.”

Sam rubbed his face with his hand. “Dominic, fire up the fryer.” He picked up the plate and dumped the unwanted burger in the trash.

“Sorry, Sam.” Darby meant it. “These folks aren't the crowd you should be cooking for. You need to be uptown, in your own restaurant.”

“Right. As soon as I get rich, I'll take care of that.”

“Everyone in their right mind loves your food; don't let one customer get to you.”

He smiled. “I won't. When I was in the war, I started getting requests from the sick soldiers, the really sick ones, for something that reminded them of home. I'd start by asking lots of questions about where they were from, what the soup their mother made tasted like, that kind of thing, and then I'd create a spice blend just for them. Whether they lived in Rhode Island and their families were originally from Portugal, or maybe from Mexico but living in California, I'd work in the kitchen until I had something that clicked. And you should've seen the look on their faces. Even if they'd lost a leg, or were blind in one eye, for a split second it was like they were home. I loved doing that. I want to keep doing that.”

“And you will. Just maybe not tonight.”

The kitchen door swung open again. Another waiter, another couple of plates.

But they were empty.

Not a crumb was left on either.

“What did they order?” asked Sam, his voice breathless.

“One chicken and one shrimp. They want more. The chicken wants the shrimp this time and vice versa.”

Sam and Darby stared at each other, then he whooped with laughter and grabbed her, swinging her around. His build was strong and hard and she clung to his neck, their faces inches apart.

“They liked it.”

She let go and stepped backward, off balance. “You'd better get cracking.”

The next hour flew by, with orders pouring in as word spread that the food was different, tastier.

Before she knew it, Esme swooped in, telling her to change.

“We only have twenty minutes. Hurry!”

Annie Ross perched on the green-room couch, drawing on a cigarette and nodding as they dashed behind the screen. She was thin, with a close-cropped hairdo and elfin eyes. Not what Darby expected at all.

“I'm scared,” Darby whispered. Her legs shook as she pulled the dress over her head. She'd been diverted from her stage fright by helping out Sam, but now the fear crushed her. “I'm not sure if I can breathe, never mind sing.”

“Pretend. That's what they teach us in acting class. Pretend and you'll believe it soon enough.”

She didn't trip getting up onto the stage. Darby gave herself a mental pat on the back for that minor accomplishment. Ross looked at the drummer and then launched into the first number. Darby followed Esme's lead and moved her hips right, then left, then snapped her fingers. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus. Song one was done.

As she began to relax, she was able to look out over the audience, her
eyes adjusting to the lights. Sam stood in the back, his arms crossed, grinning widely. Starting tomorrow, she'd happily dedicate herself to spelling tests and punctuation drills. But tonight had been worth it, if only to watch Sam's culinary triumph.

She shook a hip and snapped her fingers and smiled.

Darby meant to head home as soon as their set was over, but by the time the bar cleared out, it was almost four in the morning. The busboy had placed the chairs upside down on all the tables except one, where she, Esme, and Sam sat with several of the musicians and toasted one another.

The air smelled of marijuana and sweat. Darby sat back, enjoying the banter of the musicians as they teased and flirted with Esme. Sam had taken the seat next to her, one foot crossed over a thigh, his hand barely touching the skin below her neck as it rested on the back of her chair. She resisted the urge to shiver every time he moved his thumb ever so slightly over her flesh.

He'd made burgers for the musicians and they devoured them with relish.

“Damn, this is good.” The bass player wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Reminds me of the South.”

“No, this is Chicago-style. I can't figure out what's in it, but it's like what they do there.”

Darby smiled over at Sam. The spices affected each taster differently, as if personalized to reflect his childhood, his mother's cooking, their favorite meals.

“He's got to open his own place,” said Darby. “Don't you think?”

The men nodded. “I'd come by every day I'm in town.”

“So?” The word was slurred, Esme's eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. “When are you going to break free from your father and do it?”

“It's not so easy,” said Sam. “But I'm working on it. I have plans.”

“You've got to put it into action, Sam. That's what I'm doing. I'm clawing my way to the top if I have to. Nothing and no one will stop me.”

“I am putting it into action. I have a benefactor.”

“Mr. Kalai?” asked Darby.

“Yes. He's going to help me out when I'm ready. He says not yet, though.”

“Mr. Kalai is a powerful man.” Esme raised her glass. “Good benefactor to have. Right, Sam?” She winked at him, then downed her drink. “And what about you, Miss McLaughlin? If I'm going to be a famous singer and actress and Sam is going to own his own restaurant, what's your big plan?” She stood up, swaying to an imaginary beat.