The Dollhouse (21 page)

“I don't know. Pop down to the diner with me and have an egg sandwich? Buy a new lipstick?”

Something that made her happy. Darby smiled.

“Thanks. But I think I know what will do the trick.”

Sam took Darby's hand as they entered Washington Square Park. She'd found him in the kitchen of the Flatted Fifth, grinding spices in a mortar, and hadn't had to say a word. He saw the look on her face, took off his apron, and together they walked west while she told him the story of her meeting with Mrs. Tibbett, stopping only to buy two coffees at a corner deli.

She took a sip to conceal her delight at the nonchalant way he'd taken her hand. As if they had been together for a while and did this kind of thing every day. Like she was his girl.

“How did you feel after you found out?” he asked. He'd taken the news easily, thoughtfully, without any of the awkward gestures of Maureen or the sweet pity of Stella.

“Panic. Then relief. I was happy not to live through another eight months of secretarial accounting and pretending to answer the phone.”

“Okay. So it's a good thing. What's next for you, then?” He stared over
at the fountain, where a man with a guitar sat playing, surrounded by girls wearing blue jeans and tight tops that would have sent Mrs. Eustis into a tailspin.

What if she'd read this all wrong? Sam might be relieved she was out of his hair, and hoping she'd be on her way to Ohio on the next train out.

“Mother will want me to come home so she can torture me for letting her down.”

“And what do you want?”

Darby cocked her head. She'd never been brave enough to seriously consider the question until now.

For seventeen years, she'd done what others wanted. Her mother had been so brittle with rage that Darby hadn't dared to speak her mind. Mr. Saunders's presence hadn't helped the situation, and she'd slowly tucked her real self inside, like a turtle being poked by a stick.

“I owe my mother a lot of money, to pay back the tuition, and I feel very guilty about that.”

He looked down at her. The guitar player strummed something in a minor key and sang about lost love. “That's not what I asked you, though.”

“Right, but that's a big part of it, what I should do versus what I would like to do. And Esme is very excited. I saw her in the elevator when I was on my way here. We couldn't talk for long because Mrs. Eustis got on at the next floor, but Esme said she was working on some scheme, that she had my back.”

“What's Esme's scheme involve?”

“She wants me to work at the club and sing with her, try to get some gigs.”

“Typical Esme.”

Darby laughed. “I know, but I like the way she doesn't let anything or anyone hold her back. I could use more of that myself, I've come to realize.”

“For now, leave that all be.” He touched her chin lightly with his index finger. “What do you want?”

Her love of books had stayed the same, no matter if she was a Barbizon
guest or a Gibbs girl. “I want to work with words, with writing. I met a girl at the Barbizon who works in publishing, and that sounded like fun.”

“If you want to work with words, I have no doubt you'll make it happen somehow.”

The simple conviction of his delivery brought tears to her eyes. “So you don't want me to go back to Ohio?”

“What?” He tossed his coffee cup into a nearby trash can in an easy arc. Darby did the same but missed by a foot.

“Oops.” She picked it up and dropped it in. “I thought you might be tired of me hanging around and wouldn't want me working at the same place you do.”

He took the scarf from his neck and looped it around Darby's, pulling her in closer to him and kissing her on the lips. “No. I don't want you to go back. But the whole point here is that you decide what
you
want. Do you want to stay?”

“Yes.”

And she did. Her first decision, made on her own, was that New York would be her home. The second was that she'd find Charlotte as soon as she got back from London and charm her way into a job. If she had to work waiting tables in the meantime, that would be fine. And one day she'd repay her mother.

“I think I know what I want,” she said.

Sam didn't ask her to elaborate, just kissed her again. “And I want to watch you get it.”

“Should be a crazy trip, I must warn you.”

“I like crazy. Do you mind if I come along for the ride?”

She swallowed hard. “I would love that.”

“Good. Because I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

New York City, 2016

R
ose's father had banged his head and broken a hip trying to walk unassisted, and was on sedatives and painkillers after spending several hours in surgery. The nurses and doctors warned her that the recovery would be difficult. Of that she had little doubt. Her father was a shrunken figure in the hospital bed. Jason had insisted on staying with her and taking her back to the Barbizon. He wanted to cook her dinner. She couldn't let him see where she was staying, so she conceded that he could make her a quick meal in his apartment. She'd have a bite and go home.

She expected his apartment to be in one of the modern, bland condos that were springing up like Jack's beanstalk around town, but instead he lived in a floor-through in a Gramercy Park brownstone, one of the poshest and most coveted addresses in the city.

He gave her a small glass of bourbon. “This will help.”

“Do you think he's in terrible pain?”

“The doctor promised to keep him medicated and the nurse said he'd sleep through the night.” Jason spoke as he stirred a pot of soup on the stove. “You can go back first thing in the morning, but for now you need to eat and get some sleep.”

“My poor dad.” She took a sip from her drink and exhaled as it seared her esophagus. “He used to stroll in the front door after a day at school and call out my name and insist I tell him everything that happened that day. I'd tell him all the silly details of a nine-year-old's life and he'd listen so carefully, like I was discussing state secrets.”

“Try this.” Jason handed over a bowl and a spoon. She tasted the soup, butternut squash with a hint of cinnamon. And something else.

“You've been experimenting with spices.” She took another spoonful. Delicious.

“I have. Sam's book inspired me.”

She gestured around the room, a mixture of modern furniture with a few antiques. “How did you end up here?”

“My grandmother lived here for years, and she left it to me. I moved in after my mother died.”

“I had a feeling the china cabinet wasn't your pick.”

He looked at it and laughed. “No.”

“My father's going to die, isn't he?”

Jason didn't answer.

“He hit his head, broke his hip. How can he recover from that? I have to face the facts. That's what the doctor hinted at, right?”

“That is what he said. I'm sorry, Rose.”

She was glad he was there. That she had someone near to confirm the underlying message the doctor had given her, the tone that seeped out from under the inventory of body parts and injuries.

Jason continued. “They're going to keep him on heavy sedatives, he won't feel any pain, and he won't be confused. He seemed very peaceful by the time we left, remember that.”

She nodded. And burst into tears.

He came around from the other side of the counter and stood close, wrapping his arms around her. Her head fit perfectly into his shoulder, and she wept. When she was done, he passed her a napkin to wipe her eyes.

“Sorry about that.” She balled the napkin up in her fist.

The heavy weight of his hands pressed on her shoulders. She wanted to be tight against him again, to feel the body of another person with its muscles and contours. Several years ago, she'd read a book by a woman with autism who had invented a “hugging machine” that pressed against her on all sides and offered a relief from anxiety. That's what she wanted from Jason. To be enveloped and enclosed, to shut out the awfulness of the day.

She put the napkin on the counter and placed her hands around his neck.

He gently removed them.

“Have you ever covered a war and fallen into something because you felt so bad, and it made you feel good? Have you ever done that?”

He shook his head. “I don't think you're in the right frame of mind for this.”

“You know what I'm talking about, though, don't you? Where it takes away some of the pain?”

“I do know.”

“Then let this be that.”

She pulled his head gently toward her and kissed him. He stayed very still but didn't pull away. She continued, enjoying his lips against hers, reaching her tongue out, rewarded when he parted his lips and gave a short intake of breath. Rose moved her hands to his waist and pulled him into her and he took her face in his, his tongue exploring her mouth and moving to her neck. She gasped as he teased the curves of her ears. He knew his way around a woman.

And that's what she wanted. He led her to his bed, asking if she would regret this tomorrow. She insisted she would not and knew she wouldn't. Jason was an unexpectedly graceful lover. He savored every inch of her, relished bringing her almost to the edge, then retreating and teasing her, his eyes sparkling with a delicious cruelty. His technique was unlike that of any other man she'd known, and for moments at a time she was transported. She returned the favor, enjoying the satisfied look on his face afterward.

“So there's that, then,” he said, rolling onto his side to trace one finger along her belly.

“Yes.” She thought of Bird. “I should be getting back.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am. Thank you.”

“I aim to please.”

She kissed him lightly. “I bet.”

She grabbed her phone and called the nurses' station at the hospital. “He's resting peacefully,” she reported to Jason.

Rose slipped on her panties, turning away slightly, then yanked on her jeans. “I've really got to go. Back to real life. And we should probably lay low until the Barbizon project is finished up.”

“Worried about the ethics of this?”

She sighed. “Always.” If he only knew how unethical she really was.

“What happened with Gloria Buckstone?” He sat up and put a pillow behind his back, as if he had all the time in the world.

The vision of Gloria's black leather boots, which hugged the shin and ended right below the knee, flew into her head. Rose closed her eyes, remembering the look on Gloria's face as she leaned against her desk, her mouth set into a firm line. It was what had made her the star she was, her way of incorporating the coyness of a twenties film queen with the granite determination of an undertaker.

Rose's sweater was lying on the bedside table. She pulled it over her head. “What rumors have you heard?”

“Rumor has it that Buckstone set you up for a fall.”

“Nothing that glamorous. The banking documents we got on Senator Madden seemed suspicious. I told Gloria we should wait to make any accusations, that they might be false.”

Jason nodded, encouraging her on.

“I cared more about the facts than being first. But she didn't want to wait.”

In fact, Gloria had laid into Rose when she'd expressed her concerns. Told her she was smart and capable and if she wanted to rise in the company, she'd have to be more sure of herself. Take risks. Her words had stuck in Rose's head, like an anti-mantra: “The only person who's scared
is you,” Gloria told her, “and it shows. If you want to report the news, you have to be the one in the driver's seat. Now, drive.”

Rose looked at Jason. “Gloria mentored me, helped me make my way up. I owed her. But I wanted corroboration, a second source.”

“Understandable.”

“We aired it anyway, and were vilified when the documents turned out to be fake. I was asked to resign and Gloria was suspended. She pushed the story despite my doubts and then she never said a single word in my defense when we were busted. My hunch was correct, but that was no consolation.”

Jason nodded. “Until a week later when the story turned out to be true. At which point you and Gloria were vindicated.”

“I guess so.”

Griff loved introducing her as “Senator Madden's nemesis.” It was good for his image, dating a journalist who went after corrupt politicians. Or at least it had been, for a while. An involuntary shiver ran up her spine. She didn't want to think about Griff right now.

“Well, I'm sorry she screwed you. And I'm glad you're at WordMerge now.”

“Thanks.”

Strange, how easy it was with this man. If anything, distance had made her see where she should have taken a stand.

It felt good to come clean.

New York City, 1952

M
y darling!”

Darby's mother stood in the middle of the lobby, arms outstretched. Less than two days had passed since Darby had been expelled, and the last person she expected to come calling for her was Mother. When the concierge rang her room to say she had a visitor, she'd hoped that it was Sam. Instead, when the elevator doors opened, she was greeted by Mother.

Mother obviously hadn't heard.

Darby stifled the impulse to run into her arms and bury her head in Mother's perfumed embrace as if she were a four-year-old child. The sound of girlish laughter drifted down from the mezzanine, and she didn't want to embarrass herself in front of any other guests.

She accepted a long hug instead.

“I missed you, Darby dear.” Mother held her at arm's length and studied her carefully. “The school sent a notice last week saying you were having difficulty and I jumped on a train and here I am.”

Darby added the cost of the train to her ongoing tally of repayments. “You didn't need to come.”

“I'm glad I did. You don't look very well. Have you been eating? Never mind; let's pop into the café right here and I'll get some food in you.”

They walked through the inside entrance to the café with linked arms. The gesture was strange and artificial, as if Mother was acting out some scene in a madcap movie. Darby slipped inside a booth near the back and fiddled with her silverware until Mother shot her one of her signature looks.

“Sorry.”

“Now tell me everything.”

Darby evaded the command. “How is Mr. Saunders? And the dogs?”

“All are well.”

Mother called the waiter over and ordered Jell-O salads for both of them. Daddy used to say his wife could have been a Hollywood star, with her arched, plucked eyebrows, high cheekbones, and tiny nose. She neatly placed the napkin on her lap and removed her gloves. Every gesture was careful and precise, as if she were a doctor in an operating room.

“Now, Darby. What's going on with you?”

“Well, I've been struggling, to tell you the truth. With the classes, the teachers.” Why mince words? Better to be quick, like pulling off a Band-Aid. “And now I've been expelled from Katharine Gibbs.”

Mother's eyes closed briefly. An unnerving stillness settled over her. “Why?”

“I never fit in there. And for a while I thought I was doing all right. But the classes were awful and boring and I don't want to do that with my life.”

“You've only been there two months. I spent all that money and you couldn't even be bothered to try?” The pitch of her voice rose, never a good sign. “Because you found it boring? The program takes less than a year, for God's sake. We'll go to the school right after lunch and I'll explain that you must stay on.”

“They made it clear I can't go back. The letter of expulsion was mailed to you two days ago.”

Mother slammed her hand down on the table, making the silverware jump. “You've wasted your father's insurance money. It's gone. There is
no refund. Do you remember, when we talked about you coming here, that there was no refund?”

The waiter came with their food, two plates of wobbly green Jell-O mold in which slices of olives, celery, and cheese floated, garnished with lettuce and tomato.

“I'm sorry about the money. I'll pay you back, I promise.”

“And how exactly will you do that?”

“I made a friend, a wonderful friend, named Esme. She works at a jazz club and we sang together and people really raved. Yesterday I went to the club and spoke with the owner, and he said I could start work there as a waitress tomorrow.”

She didn't mention how her legs had gone liquid from fear when she and Sam had stepped into Mr. Buckley's office at the club after their talk in Washington Square Park. To her relief, he hadn't asked her if she had any experience, just told her to show up for her first shift on Saturday at five and then demanded they both get the hell out and stop bothering him.

Mother stared at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. “A waitress? In a jazz club?”

“It's what I came here for, right? To broaden my horizons.”

“And this Esme, is she a student at the Gibbs school as well?” The syllables of Esme's name dripped off Mother's tongue as if they tasted foul.

“No.”

“And where did you meet her?”

“She works at the Barbizon. As a maid.”

Mother pushed her plate away and sat back, arms crossed. “Oh, Darby.”

“You'd like her, I'm sure, if you gave her a chance. She's a lovely girl, Mother. Smart and very talented. She's going to be a famous actress and singer someday.” The words sounded crazy to Darby's own ears as she spoke them aloud. She took a deep calming breath and began again. “And I have another friend, too, who's offered to help me. Charlotte is traveling right now, but she said she'd get me an interview with a publishing company when she returns. No matter what, I'll be okay. I can't tell you how
grateful I am that you sent me here to live. At first I was so nervous, but now I love it. I don't want to go back.”

“You cannot stay here unchaperoned. And I can no longer afford the Barbizon hotel, obviously.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin, careful not to smudge her lipstick.

“Esme and I are going to get an apartment together.”

“You do realize that you sound like a madwoman, don't you? Do you think you're that special? Do you realize how many girls come to New York hoping to make it big, then fall on hard times and are ruined?”

Darby flinched. “I assure you I won't be ruined. This isn't Defiance, and I'm not an innocent girl anymore.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Nothing, not that.” Well, not exactly that. “The idea of going to Katharine Gibbs was your dream, not mine. I'm not suited to it.”

“So you'll work as a waitress instead? Very nice. Your father would be thrilled.” Mother pressed one delicate hand to each temple and heaved a dramatic sigh.

“What about publishing?” Darby offered. “That's a respectable career for a girl like me.”

“Oh, please. You don't have what it takes.”

Maybe Mother was right. Darby had never held a real job. What did she know about supporting herself?

Mother's eyes grew watery and she searched in her purse for a handkerchief. “When your father died, I thought we might end up begging for help. He left me nothing but his insurance policy, with the instructions that it all go to you.” As she dabbed at her tears, her mascara smudged in the half-moons underneath her eyes. Darby took the handkerchief out of her hand and gently wiped the makeup away, knowing Mother would be horrified to be seen in public looking messy. “Thank you.”

“I'm sorry, Mother. I really am. I've disappointed you.”

“I suppose I'm partially responsible. I've kept you safe, maybe too much so. But you aren't equipped to go it on your own, not yet. That's why I did everything I could to make this work for you. Tuition, new
clothes, a train ticket, a room at the best women's residence in town. A girl like you needs protection from the real world.”

“I know you meant well, and I tried to do the right thing, I swear. But in the end, the life you wanted for me seemed more stifling than safe.”

“You have no idea what stifling feels like.” Mother's words were acid. “And now every penny gone. What a waste. I never imagined you'd associate with the staff. A maid, for God's sake.”

“I will pay you back.”

“All I wanted was for you to be independent. To be your own woman. But not like this. Mr. Saunders will be very unhappy, I assure you.”

“But don't you see, we want the same thing. I also want to be able to be independent, to take care of myself. Being a secretary isn't the only way to go about that. Upstairs, there are hundreds of girls, approaching the world in different ways. Your way isn't the only one.”

“I don't care what the other girls are doing. I won't have my daughter working as a cocktail waitress.”

Neither of them had touched the food. Mother called for the waiter and left several crisp bills on the table, her hands shaking. “Now we will go upstairs and you will pack, and we'll catch the next train home. You are done with New York City.”

“What on earth is this?”

Darby's mother pulled out the satin dress Esme had given Darby from the small closet in her room.

“Something I picked up in the store.” Darby stifled the impulse to grab it out of her hands, to protect it.

Mother pinched the fabric between her finger and thumb. “Cheap. And shiny. Did you ever wear this out?”

“Just once.”

“Well, we'll leave that one behind.” She tossed it on the floor. “Help me, please. Pick up the suitcase and open it up on the bed.”

Darby's heart pounded in her chest, but she did as she was told. Her life had been about following orders, whether they were from Mother or Mr. Saunders. She'd done well in school, obeyed the rules, never asked uncomfortable questions.

“Daddy would have listened to me.” She spoke the words quietly, almost under her breath.

Mother's back stiffened, but she didn't stop her methodical sorting. “Don't you dare bring up your father. Not now.”

Darby's voice grew stronger. “If he'd lived, he would've at least considered my side of the argument.”

“You have no idea what your father would have done under the circumstances. He was not the man you think he was.”

“All I know is he was sweet to me, he tried to be sweet to you, and you constantly put him down or yelled at him. Even on his deathbed you couldn't be bothered to comfort him. Nothing he could have done deserved that treatment.”

Her mother turned to her, her fingers twitching. Darby knew that movement. She'd seen it in Mr. Saunders before he'd pounded his fist on the table or slapped her mother across the face.

“You think you know what goes on in a marriage? You are a child, a little girl with a big mouth. If Mr. Saunders were here, he'd put you right in your place.”

The threat of violence was the final straw. She would no longer back down to the likes of Candy, Mr. Saunders, or even her own mother. “You've insinuated horrible things about Daddy since he died. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what happened.”

“You already know. He got fired. And that meant that when he died, the only thing we had was the insurance money. No pension, no savings. Nothing. Which I misguidedly spent on your education. Which you then wasted.”

Darby couldn't help herself. She was picking at a dangerous scab, one she'd always left alone before now. “Why did you have a private funeral?”

“It was what he wanted.”

“Or was it so that you and Mr. Saunders could get married right away, without too much talk?” Her body shook as if she were freezing cold. She had never spoken to Mother like this in her life.

Mother stood motionless. “How dare you?”

“You wanted to bury Daddy quickly and with the least amount of fuss so you could move on to Mr. Saunders. You seemed relieved. Happy. How could you?”

To her astonishment, Mother nodded. “I was relieved. I was happy. I never wanted to see your father suffer, but he brought it on himself. Mr. Saunders said it was God's will. If you must know, your father's funeral was private because there was not a soul who would have attended a public memorial for him.” She placed her hands on her hips. “He was a degenerate, and word spreads quickly in a small town.”

Darby's voice caught in her throat. “What are you talking about?”

“Even the doctor in town wanted nothing to do with him.” A tiny bit of spittle stayed on Mother's lip. “I married Mr. Saunders quickly in order to restore our family's good name. I sent you to New York in order to spare you the shame of having people whisper behind your back, saying terrible things. Mr. Saunders protected me, protected us.”

“But what were they saying?”

Mother ignored the question. “I thought you'd start a new life here at the Gibbs school, that you'd be able to move beyond the hideousness of your father's behavior. And what did you do? You've disgraced yourself, and me, even further. It's a good thing I came to fetch you. I see now that you were on the verge of ending up in the gutter. Just like him.”

“But you still haven't even said what he did. What did Daddy do that was so awful no one could ever forgive it?”

Mother took a deep breath, as if she were about to dive underwater. “He was found in a compromising position with another man in a hotel in Cleveland.”

Darby's mind raced. The man who held her hand and encouraged her to be herself. All those trips away. Daddy was a degenerate. A hateful
word. That explained Mr. Saunders's smugness, the way the girls in high school had been so distant. Everyone knew about Daddy but her.