The Dollhouse (22 page)

He liked to be with men. He liked to kiss other men. She didn't want to imagine the things her father had done; she should never have pushed her mother so far. The shame of his behavior flooded over her.

Victory gleamed in her mother's eyes. Darby looked down at the floor.

What about Esme's kiss in the recording booth? Did that mean Darby was a degenerate as well?

The kiss with Esme had been soft and full of shared desires, but not in any way sordid. If her father had kissed men like that, was that so bad? He was still her father, the man who built an unsailable boat so he and his daughter could have an excuse to escape the emotional frigidity of the house.

He had loved her, and she had loved him. And life was full of strange and unexpected complications.

With that, all doubt faded away. He would have wanted her to stay in New York, free from the small-mindedness of Defiance.

“I'm not going back.”

“You're going to stay here with your little friend? You'll be cast out, like your father, I can tell you that.”

“I know you spent a great deal of money on me and I promise I'll pay you back, every cent.”

“You'll spread your legs, is that what you're thinking?”

The shock of the phrase coming out of Mother's lips stunned her for a moment. “No. I told you, I have a job as a waitress. I have other options. It's not the nineteenth century anymore.”

The muscles in Mother's jaw tightened. “You were always a strange one. Even when you were a little girl. You rarely cooed or giggled in your crib. Instead, you'd stare at me, like you hated me. I'm your mother, so I had to take care of you. But look what's become of you. You're like your father in so many ways.

“If you stay here, you won't get any more support from me.” She
pointed a red-nailed finger in Darby's direction. “I don't want to hear from you, and I don't want to see you. When you have been misused and mistreated, do not show up on our doorstep to ask for help. I have struggled since your father died to make a new name for myself, and I will not have you shred that again.”

“You needn't worry. I won't return.”

Mother picked up her purse and turned on her heel. She stared at Darby once, a cold, bitter look that seared her like a branding iron. Then she was gone.

Stiff and sore, as if she'd been beaten, Darby leaned over and picked up the satin dress that Esme had given her, hanging it back in the closet.

She had to find Esme. More than anything, she needed to hear Esme laugh and tell her everything would be all right. That she could survive in New York without the protection of her family and the Barbizon Hotel for Women.

In this new version of her life, Darby would work hard—whether it was writing, waiting tables, or even singing. And late in the evenings, when she and Esme were done for the day, they'd double-date with their beaux, and Sam would smell like spices and fresh bread.

She'd prove Mother wrong.

New York City, 2016

A
t least he isn't suffering.” Rose had called Maddy from the hospital, but declined her offer to stop by. She liked being alone with her father, had just needed to hear a friendly voice to break up the stillness of the room.

“He'll fade into a deep sleep, like my father did,” Maddy assured her.

“After all of his dedication to his work, his students, to me, it's so weird that this is the end.” Rose sighed. “Out with not even a whimper.”

“Do you think he'd rather rage against the dying of the light?”

In spite of herself, she laughed at the thought. “Probably not. He'd never raged once, even when my mother left. And better this than the ongoing chaos of his dementia.”

“You sure I can't come down? I'll bring in a flask of the hard stuff for you.”

Rose assured her she was fine, then hung up and stared out the window at the gray skies. He'd last a few weeks at most, and she needed to make the necessary arrangements. All his life he'd talked about being cremated and for his ashes to be scattered around the lilac bushes on the corner of Sheep Meadow in Central Park. Apparently, that was where he proposed to her mother, before life became difficult.

Rose kept vigil until the nurses sent her home to sleep. Around
midnight, nervous and wired, she scanned Darby's bookshelves for something to read. A worn binding on the top shelf turned out to be an ancient copy of
Romeo and Juliet
, the cloth cover hanging on, literally, by a thread. She perched on the couch, the book balanced on her lap, and turned to the title page. It was printed in 1887, the pages mottled with time, although the gilt edging was still bright. One of Juliet's soliloquies had been marked up in pencil, the page filled with questions, comments, and stage directions. At the very back of the book, a flash of white caught her eye. She picked up the envelope and gave a startled yelp at the return address. Sam Buckley had sent it from California. The postal stamp read 1953.

Dear Esme,

I assure you I won't give up your secret, however devastating it has been to me. As you wish, I won't try to contact you again.

Sam

But Esme was dead in 1953.

Or was she? Rose's mind raced. Was the woman she'd assumed to be Darby really Esme impersonating her friend? She picked up her phone and tried to reach Jason. No luck. She left a voice mail for him to call her back right away and scanned the letter one more time.

If the slashing had been that brutal, Esme might have been disfigured enough to get away with the switch. And if Darby had been the one who fell to her death, the same reasoning applied. A grisly thought. Maybe Esme had become a new person, disconnecting herself from the drug scandal and forging a new life. But where had Darby's family been in all this? Wouldn't they have known?

According to this short letter, Esme had revealed the switch to Sam, who had been crushed by the news of Darby's death. But something was
off. The whole thing felt like a bad soap opera, a scene from one of Maddy's scripts. Yet the letter existed for a reason.

Rose googled the address, but there was no Sam Buckley living there anymore. Not surprising, as more than sixty years had passed. But there was someone else she could ask. Stella had known Darby both before and after the accident. She called Stella's cell phone and left a voice mail, asking if they could meet again.

The next morning, at ten a.m. sharp, she waited for Stanley Jr. outside the button shop. As he unlocked the gate covering the entrance, she got right to the point.

“I have an odd question for you. Did you ever hear Ms. McLaughlin speak Spanish?”

He laughed. “No, I can't say that I did.”

Rose nodded. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.” She turned to go.

“But her young friend did.”

Rose spun back around. “She spoke Spanish to Darby?”

“She called her
Tía
. I remember that from high school Spanish. Practically the only thing I remember.”

Tía.
Aunt.

Not Christina or Tina. Stella had heard the girl say “
tía
.”

Darby was hanging out with a young girl who spoke Spanish and called her aunt. Further bolstering the theory that Esme had switched identities.

Rose checked her phone on her way to work. Still nothing from Jason. A twinge of regret tugged at her. She'd thoroughly enjoyed their encounter at his apartment, but she'd been a needy, twisted mess that night. Bad timing all around.

Her phone rang. Stella.

“Well, hello, Rose. How is it going with Bird?”

“Just fine, Stella. More importantly, how are you?”

“I'm almost back in fighting form. I heard from Darby yesterday.”

Relief poured over her. Darby or Esme, whoever she was, was safe. “Oh, yes? How is she? Where is she?”

“She couldn't talk long, and the line was crackly. Said she'd be back next Monday.”

Rose swallowed hard. Less than a week.

Stella continued on. “And I have to say she was a little miffed that I left Bird in your care. She said she'd refused to speak to you.”

She'd been caught. Better to play dumb. “She was reluctant, sure, but I had no doubt in time she'd warm up to the idea.”

“Hmm. Anyway, she said she'll come to your apartment and collect Bird as soon as she arrives.”

She could imagine the look on Griff's or Connie's face when the old lady showed up at their door, demanding her dog back. They'd send her off to Bellevue. “Maybe you should just give her my cell number instead, and I'll bring Bird to her.”

“If she calls me back, I will. Apparently, she's out of the country.”

“I see. Listen, I was wondering if I could come back out to New Jersey. We're on a tight deadline with the story, and I'd love to get your input on something that just came up.”

“That's fine—and in fact, I think it is better we speak before Darby returns.”

“Can I come now?”

“Yes, you may.”

Stella waved away Rose's polite inquiries about her health.

“I want to know what you're doing with Darby's story. She doesn't know you at all, claims she's never exchanged a word with you.”

Rose squirmed under her scrutiny. “Well, that's true enough. I apologize for not being clearer, but as you know, it was an emergency. I was happy to help out.”

Stella pursed her lips, still not convinced.

“Did you know Darby well before her accident?” Rose asked.

“We spent some time together. Not much. We had something of a
falling-out soon after she arrived. Why are you so relentless on this subject, Rose? Is it really all that newsworthy? Something that happened more than fifty years ago?”

“It's part of the story of the hotel, in my mind. The guests, the staff, whatever dividing lines existed. Seems strange she'd want to stay on, after such a tragedy.”

“She had nowhere else to go, no other choices. Before the accident, she'd started coming out of her shell. It was easy to see who she might become given the opportunity. Afterward, though, it was as if she decided she'd been punished for trying to live outside her comfort zone. She withdrew again, and that was pretty much that.”

“I see. Did she seem very different after she got back from the hospital?”

“What exactly are you getting at?”

Rose leaned forward. “The girl she's been hanging with, I think she called her
Tía,
not Tina. Which means ‘aunt' in Spanish. I'm wondering if it's at all possible that Darby was the girl who fell, and the maid, Esme Castillo, was the one who was scarred.”

Stella went white. “What on earth are you suggesting?”

“Is there any chance the two women may have switched identities? That the woman we think of as Darby is in fact Esme?”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.” Stella's hands gripped the armrests, her fingers like talons. “Absolutely not. The poor woman has been through enough—and I won't let you repaint her life as though it was some two-bit melodrama. Why can't you just leave her alone?”

“I'm sorry.” Rose had overstepped. Coming here was a bad idea. “I guess I worry about her.”

“You don't even know her.” Stella's voice boomed.

“I understand what it's like to be alone in the city and not have anyone to depend on.”

“How dare you assume to understand Darby? To understand me? You think just because we don't have a man or children, we're fragile, bitter old ladies? Scared of being mugged or dying in our apartments and not being found for days? Is that what you think our lives are like?”

“No, of course not.” Her reply wasn't all that convincing.

“Well, let me put you straight.” She planted her legs wide and leaned forward on her elbows. “We aren't weak. We don't need anyone's help. We help ourselves, and we help out each other. My life is rich and full and I get to do whatever the hell I want, when I want. If I want to eat macaroni and cheese for breakfast, I do it without thinking twice. The city is teeming outside my window with life and people to watch, but I don't want to be them. I don't need to be them. I love my life and I don't need your pity.”

Rose sat back, stunned.

“Don't you dare project your own fears onto me.” Her nostrils flared. “I reject them. If you're lonely and scared, you better deal with it now, because life only gets lonelier and scarier, no matter how many people fill your home or your heart.

“It's up to you, sweetheart. Ultimately, you're on your own.”

Jason was in the office kitchen when Rose finally made it to work. As he reached up to get a mug from the cabinet, his T-shirt rose slightly, showing off his flat stomach, pale and smooth.

He gave her a catlike grin. “Hey. I saw you left messages; it's been crazy here. Some big announcement coming down the pike.”

“A new infusion of capital?”

“Don't know. Tyler's been in his office talking with men in suits all morning.”

Rose filled him in on the strange turn of events, including the letter from Sam and her conversation with Stanley Jr.

Jason gave a low whistle. “Darby is really Esme? Could she pull off that kind of stunt for so many years?”

“I wondered the same thing. When I mentioned the theory to Stella, she vehemently denied it. Maybe too much so.” Rose didn't go into
further details, as she was still recovering from the woman's verbal onslaught. Which was well deserved, she had to admit.

“Wait a minute.” Jason held up a finger. “Our conversation with Malcolm. Do you remember what he said when you asked about Esme?”

“Not exactly. That he knew she'd died, something along those lines.”

“Follow me.” He hurried to one of the editing suites and pulled up Malcolm's interview. He hit a button and Malcolm's face appeared on the screen.

“Who, Darby?”

“No, Esme.”

“Right. They say she fell off a building and died. But I don't know much else.”

He sat back and crossed his arms. “Malcolm mixes them up. And why use the qualifier words
they say
?”

“He also looks away from me when he answers.” Rose took a deep breath. “Do you think he knows the truth?”

“He might, if he and Sam have been in touch.”

Rose picked up her phone and tried Malcolm. Once again, it went straight to voice mail.

She left another message and hung up. “Darby's coming back into town soon, so maybe we'll get our answer.”

Jason nodded. “We'll have to save it for the camera, though. Imagine the reaction shot. This could make this piece really sing.”

“But if we can't see her eyes, how will we know?”

“She'll stiffen, pause, something. We'll be able to tell. As long as you get her to sit down and talk.” Jason moved closer and placed a hand lightly on Rose's arm. “How's your dad doing?”