The Dollhouse (19 page)

Esme already knew the answer and was trying to make Darby look ordinary, unambitious.

“Not everyone has to have a grand plan,” said Darby.

“That is so true. You could be more than a typist, though. Don't you agree, Sam?”

Sam put his hands in his lap. “People should do whatever they want to do.”

The lateness of the hour made Darby bold. “My hotel is full of girls who want to be someone famous. Movie stars, models. And most of them are really struggling, from what I can tell. Not everyone who dreams of fame gets there.”

Esme's lids fluttered open. “Sorry, I'm being awful. Come dance with me.”

She reached out and grabbed Darby's hand and pulled her up.

“I don't want to dance.” But Esme pulled her close and began swaying, and rather than fight it, Darby relaxed into her touch. She was exhausted and slightly tipsy and didn't want to argue.

Eventually, their group disbanded, the musicians heading to the green room to collect their instruments.

“I've got to go. I have a test tomorrow.” Darby grabbed her purse from the floor.

“We're all going out to Minton's,” said Esme. “You have to come. Might as well stay out all night, right?”

“No more, I can't take it. You go; you're enjoying yourself.”

“I'll put Darby in a cab,” offered Sam.

Esme trundled off, giggling and silly, while Sam signaled for Darby to stay put. “I have a surprise for you.”

He locked the front door behind the departing revelers, and Darby followed him back into the kitchen.

“I really have to get going. I was supposed to get up early and practice.”

“What's the test on?”

“Business methods.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Is boring.”

“Well, this isn't.”

He yanked open the icebox and pulled out a bin with the word
vanilla
on the outside.

She couldn't help herself. “Isn't vanilla ice cream the definition of boring?”

“It's not ordinary ice cream.” He twisted off the top of a small jar and sprinkled a finely ground powder onto a plate, then rolled a scoop of ice cream in it. “Taste.”

She opened her mouth and let him feed her a spoonful. The texture was slightly crunchy, with hints of tart lemon. A groan escaped from the lowest part of her belly.

Sam broke into a huge smile. “That was the reaction I was hoping I'd get.”

“You're amazing. What is it?”

“A blend of crystallized honey and some spices from the Middle East.”

She opened her mouth again and was rewarded with another spoonful.

Sam took his thumb and touched the corner of her mouth, then put it into his own. “Tastes even better that way.”

She opened her mouth again, the cold metal of the spoon against her tongue contrasting with the tang of the ice cream against her palate.
This time, Sam rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip, and reflexively she opened her mouth to draw it inside. His gray eyes reminded her of the color of the East River on a cloudy day.

He slid his finger along the bottom row of her teeth and she darted her tongue out to touch it, a whirlwind of flavors swirled on that one patch of skin. Her breathing was ragged and she held herself perfectly still, afraid to move an inch and break the spell.

His other hand went to her hip, lower than what was decent if they'd been dancing together. An unwelcome image of Sam and Esme popped into her head. Had Esme stood in this spot, had Sam touched her lips? Esme was far, far prettier and more outgoing than Darby. Any man would be drawn to her.

She stepped back, exhausted and confused.

Sam placed the spoon in the bowl. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. Fine.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He didn't wait for an answer, instead placed his hands on either side of her face and drew her to him. She lifted her head and he paused for a moment, gazing down at her. “You're beautiful.”

“Not really.”

“No, you are. I mean, onstage, all dressed up and with makeup, you look like a movie star. But I like you like this.”

“Plain?”

He shook his head. “Plain? Why would you say plain?”

“I'm not fancy pretty. Or even pretty.”

“To be honest, most men don't like fancy pretty. The hairdos are sticky, the makeup thick. I like you like this. When I touch your skin, I'm actually touching you.”

She'd never thought of it that way. In Defiance, all the women wore makeup and had their hair done once a week.

He ran his hands through her hair, and her scalp tingled. “A guy gets tired of all of the fakery and perfume. I want a girl who's real, like you. And one who tastes like you.”

“What do I taste like?”

“Let me see.”

His lips were on hers, but they weren't wet and messy like Walter's. He didn't dive into her mouth with his tongue but waited for her cue.

She parted her lips slightly and gasped when their tongues met. She still had the taste of the spiced ice cream in her mouth, and his lips retained the hint of the bourbon he'd been drinking.

The kisses grew deeper; she moaned ever so slightly and he echoed her sound. Dizzy with desire, she wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him to her. He inched the shoulders of her dress lower and lower until it slid down around her waist, then undid her bra with a flick of his fingers. She looked down, embarrassed.

“You're lovely.” He slid his hands down from her shoulders and cupped her breasts, which fit perfectly into his hands. He touched the nipples with his tongue and she shivered. “Do you like that?” he asked.

She had to close her eyes to process the mixture of pleasure and pain that coursed through her body as he pinched them slightly, followed by a gentle bite of his teeth. The hem of her skirt inched up, past her stockings, as his hands ran up along the side of her legs. When his fingers hit the patch of bare skin near the garter, she ached for them to move inward, parting her legs. She opened her eyes to find him crouched down, his lips following the glide of his fingertips closer and closer to where she ached most.

He stood suddenly, one hand cupped between her thighs while the other lightly grasped her neck and pulled her to him. She yielded to the pressure of his lips and while his tongue swirled around hers, his index finger circled the most sensitive part of her sex over the silky fabric.

A spasm shot through her, short and sharp. “We should stop,” she said.

“I want to please you.”

“I've never done anything like this before. I don't know what to do.”

“You don't have to do anything.”

He turned her around so she was pressed against the countertop, her
hands braced against the metal, fingers splayed. He was unrelenting with his touch, sliding his finger underneath the fabric and dipping it deep inside her, then returning back. His other hand pinched her nipple and the nerves collided against each other like a double lightning strike, meeting in her solar plexus until the sensation was unbearable. He had her trapped, and she loved the feeling that he was in control of her body completely. The electricity grew until she convulsed, her pelvis rocking back and forth with pleasure.

This was not at all what she'd expected from sex. She'd heard Mr. Saunders and Mother late at night, and Mother's stifled crying afterward. The enormity of what she'd done with Sam hit her like a gunshot. Sobered by the release, she pulled up her dress to cover her bare breasts and yanked down the hem.

“I should go.”

“Wait, Darby. Don't.”

“I've never done anything like this before. I don't know what to do, or how to do it.”

“You did just fine.” He smiled. “I liked touching you.”

She relaxed slightly, and he pulled her head to his chest. His heartbeat was going as fast as hers. “But I can't do this. It's not safe.”

“I understand. We don't have to do anything else.”

She looked up at him. “Why do you like me?”

“I saw you singing onstage and it was like you were shining up there. You weren't pretending to be a singer, or crying out for attention from the crowd.” He took both her hands in his and placed his forehead against hers. “There was the song, your voice, and your body. The combination was beautiful and that was when I decided I had to kiss you.”

She was quiet for a moment, stunned.

“And it helps that you like my cooking.”

Maybe she didn't have to be scared after all.

Darby took the back stairs of the Barbizon two at a time, as light as Fred Astaire. At the landing with the mural, she came upon Stella untangling herself from a boy with jet-black hair and crooked glasses.

“Darby, wait. Arthur here was just leaving. I'll walk up with you.”

Stella kissed the boy on the lips and then pushed him away from her. Bewildered, he lost his balance and tipped precariously on the top step, catching hold of the handrail just in time.

Stella put her hand to her mouth and giggled. “You're so silly, Arthur. Be careful now.” Her Southern lilt was more pronounced than usual.

As the two girls tromped up together, Stella threw one arm around Darby's shoulders. “And where are you sneaking back from?”

“The Flatted Fifth.”

She made a sour face. “That jazz club?”

“Yes. You should come sometime. It's quite a scene.”

“Right.”

Her lack of enthusiasm rankled. “I mean it. You get lost in the music and the rhythms; it's like being hypnotized.”

Stella paused at the next landing and slid off her red stilettos. Fuschia-colored toenails gleamed under her stockings. She picked up her shoes and continued climbing. “I take it you were with that maid tonight.”

“I was with Esme, yes.”

“You really ought to expand your horizons.”

A prickle of sweat ran down Darby's back. “Why? Because she's a maid? She happens to be a wonderful person—and she's a talented singer, too. I have no doubt she's destined to be a star.”

“She's roped you right in, I see.”

Darby's legs, so weightless at the start of her climb, now felt like lead. “Why do you dislike her so much? Is it because she works at the hotel? Or that she's from another country?”

“Neither. But I've heard rumors.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“That she's bad news.”

Candy immediately came to mind. “Right. Because she doesn't let the
guests walk all over her and treat her like a slave. I respect her for that. And I like her.”

Stella raised her eyebrows but didn't respond.

“Meanwhile, you're on the back stairs with a different guy every weekend.” Darby didn't care how snappish she sounded. “You shouldn't judge someone else's character.”

“I have a plan, and I'm perfectly up front about it. I'm not so sure about Esme's intentions, about why she's always skulking after you.”

“Because we're friends. Friends spend time together; it's not skulking.” Exasperated, she changed the subject. “What exactly is this plan of yours?”

Stella brightened. “I'm looking for a man who can afford my expensive tastes and drive me wild. Not easy. What I want takes work and the right connections. You see, Thomas—the boy from the park—goes to the same college as Paul, who you met last month in the stairwell. Now, Paul comes from money but is dumb as a box of hair. But he introduced me to Arthur, whose father runs a shipping company. I figured, why not take Arthur for a test run and see if there's fireworks?”

“And were there?”

“Not a one.”

Darby couldn't help but smile. “Well, I think you're wrong about Esme. You should come out with us one night and really get to know her.”

They'd reached their floor. “I'll take a pass on that. In the meantime, start dating some boys and doing your own thing, away from her.”

“Right.” She thought of Sam in the kitchen and smiled. “I'll do my best.”

“Thatta girl.”

Stella blew her a kiss good night and padded down the hallway to her room.

New York City, 2016

W
ho exactly are we meeting here? I hope you don't think we're going to be able to expense this.” Rose turned in exasperation to Jason. He'd called her a few hours ago and instructed her to meet him at an address downtown, which turned out to be a restaurant called Neo. She'd read about it in
The
New York Times
a few weeks earlier, where it had been well received by the dining critic for its refreshing, offbeat menu.

“A friend of mine works here,” Jason assured her. “It's part of our research.” He led Rose inside, where the hostess, a doe-eyed beauty with a huge Afro, ignored them.

From what Rose could tell, the entire waitstaff had been chosen from the cream of the genetic pool, young men and women with long limbs and shiny hair. “In what way is this part of our story? Do you think Darby's working here as a waitress?”

He gave a snort of a laugh. “Now, there's an image. No, I don't think that. Did you bring the spice book?”

She pulled it out of her bag. “Yup. But I—”

“Good. Now please give this a chance for five minutes?”

Jason whispered something to the hostess and her demeanor changed dramatically. She laid a manicured finger on his arm and gave him a
warm smile revealing even, white teeth. Then she turned and wobbled away on her four-inch heels.

Very impressive. “What did you say to her?”

“Just dropped a name.”

More people had squeezed into the narrow foyer and now they were pressed against one wall, shoulders touching. Chasing the latest trends in fine dining wasn't for her. Too much posing, for one thing—she hated all those hot spots where more attention was paid to the atmosphere than the food. She'd take a good juicy burger over a celebrity sighting any day of the week.

“Jason!”

The crowd waiting to be seated parted like the Red Sea as a large man in a chef's uniform strode forward. He shook Jason's hand with enthusiasm and nodded when Rose was introduced. “So glad you could come.”

“Chef, you look sharp in that toque. And busy,” said Jason.

“Always have time for you.”

“Rose, this is my buddy Steven Hinds. Steven, Rose.”

He shook her hand and led them back to the kitchen. Jason gave Rose a wink.

She refused to rise to the bait. “I get it, so you know the chef. Stop showing off.”

They swept through swinging doors into the enormous open kitchen. Every surface was pristine, and the copper pots glistened under the fluorescent lights. The line cooks and sous chefs barely looked up, concentrating on the task at hand, whether searing meat or cutting herbs into slivers.

The chef directed them to a quiet corner. “Let's see your book, then.”

Rose placed it on the counter, happy to see that he wiped his hands on his apron before handling it.

“This is from the fifties?”

“Nineteen fifty-two, to be exact,” she said. “A man named Sam Buckley compiled it, and we're trying to find out more about him.”

He spent several moments perusing the text. “Well, I can tell you this much: Sam Buckley was way ahead of his time. No one back then would dare experiment with these spices. Several were unheard of in America until thirty or so years ago. Where did this guy come from?”

“From New York City, originally. But he was abroad during World War Two. We think he wrote this after he got back.”

“These are amazing blends, surprising even today. Let's try one of them and see.”

He called out a list of herbs from page seventeen of the book to his sous chef, and in no time had a pestle and mortar as well as jars of fresh spices lined up in front of him.

“Nice to have someone do your bidding,” said Jason.

“Like when I used to make you do my science homework.”

Rose turned to Jason. “You were in school together?”

“High school. I did his homework and he fed me homemade pizza after school.”

“Sounds like a fair trade.”

The chef measured out the recommended amounts of each spice, mixing dried cilantro, dried kaffir lime leaves, and pepper.

“This is one of the simpler formulas.” Steven mixed it with lime juice and then chopped up papaya and mango and drizzled the dressing over the cubes. “Preferably, you'd want to dry or cure the spices yourself, to get the optimal flavor. Can you imagine the housewives of that time making something like this? We're talking about the era when TV dinners first came onto the scene.”

He speared a mango and offered it to Rose. The taste was frighteningly powerful at first, with a sour finish that left Rose wanting more.

“Delicious doesn't come close to describing this.”

“Agreed,” said Steven. “It's a complete crime this guy Buckley was never recognized for his genius.”

“Any idea how we might find out more about him?”

“I think I do, actually. Jason knows I'm a pretty major food history geek, and as far as I understand it, the spice trade in New York City was
handled by a single person back in the fifties—a man named Benny Kalai. He was originally from Jakarta, but had a storefront in Chinatown and a warehouse in Brooklyn, on the docks. All spices came through him.”

Jason looked at Rose and smiled. “Told you it wasn't a waste of time.”

She ignored his ribbing and smiled at Steven. “Thank you for letting us stop by.”

“Oh, I can do more than that. Table for two coming right up.” He waved at a passing waiter.

“No, we shouldn't.” The thought of sitting across from Jason for a fancy dinner unnerved her.

“Are you really refusing a chef who just received three stars in
The
New York Times
?” asked Jason.

Her stomach growled from hunger after the small bite of mango. “You've got a point.”

They were seated in a far corner of the restaurant, away from the hubbub of the bar and kitchen, and Jason ordered a bottle of white wine.

“Are you planning on expensing this? I have to warn you, Tyler will not be pleased.”

“Don't worry. Steven owes me. He would've never passed physics if it weren't for me. We won't be paying a cent for this meal.”

“Good to have friends in high places.” She sipped the wine, letting the citrus and tannins mingle in her mouth before swallowing. Jason was staring at her. “What?”

“Nothing.” He held up his glass. “Here's to Darby McLaughlin and Sam Buckley, wherever they may be.”

They clinked glasses and devoured the first course of squid with a hint of lime.

She racked her brain for something to talk about. “Tell me about growing up in New Paltz.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“I'm not. As a city girl born and bred, I picture upstate as Norman Rockwell territory.”

“Far from it. Couldn't wait to get out. That changed when my mother got ill and I went back to take care of her. Luckily, she wasn't in too much pain and, at the end, passed quickly. Not the type of lady to linger.”

“I'm sorry, that must've been very difficult.” She had no doubt her father would have expressed a similar sentiment about his own decline, if he were able to.

“What about your mother?” Jason asked.

“She disappeared when I was young. We heard she died years later from a drug overdose. My father didn't like to talk about it.” The vagueness of her mother's history unsettled her, as always. Normally, she told people that her mother died when she was young and left it at that, but for some reason, Jason's story brought out the truth. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “What do you think of this Benny Kalai idea? I figure I'll do some digging and find out what I can about him.”

“There's no way he's still alive.”

“True, but maybe we can get some color around what Sam was up to back in the day.”

Jason was looking at her closely; his eyes were very blue. She was struck by how masculine he was. More than Griff, who had the crisply polished appearance of Manhattan's one percent. Jason was rougher than that. And his speaking voice was rough as well. His quiet confidence appealed to her.

The dinner was more entertaining than Rose had expected. They both knew many of the same journalists, and Jason's travels around the world were astonishing in scope and detail. By the time they'd finished their dessert, they'd also finished off several glasses of wine and Rose swayed slightly as they fought their way through the crowds and out to the street.

“That was quite a surprise,” she said. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” He stood facing her, unmoving.

“I should head home.”

“Share a cab?”

Once again, the driver was the kind who liked to race to the next red light at great speed, then jam on the breaks. “Why is it we attract the daredevils?” Jason murmured.

The driver took a turn onto Park Avenue with no warning, sending Rose careening into Jason's side.

She laughed and righted herself. “Sorry about that.”

The driver swerved into a different lane and they banged shoulders once again, but this time she stayed where she was. She liked the sensation of his muscled arm against hers. He took her hand in his. “You have beautiful fingers.”

“Thanks.”

The kiss was simple, easy, tasting of wine and sweetness. He didn't do anything but touch his lips to hers, ever so softly, then pull back and wait to see her reaction.

“Jason,” she said. “We shouldn't.”

He lifted his head, smiling. “You're absolutely right. That was awful.”

The cab was nearing Sixty-Third Street. “This is fine. I'll get out here.”

“Are you sure? We can drop you off at the front door.”

She didn't want to explain why she couldn't go in that way, and the fire in her body was not to be trusted.

“Yes. Have a great night, and thanks again.”

Rose was still thinking about Jason when she tripped over Miranda in the stairwell of the Barbizon.

She'd collected Bird for his last walk of the night and was rounding the third-floor landing at a good clip when a pair of jean-clad legs stopped her in her tracks. The girl sat sideways on the top stair, one leg stretched out, the other foot resting on the stair below. Her back was pressed up against a blue-green mosaic embedded in the wall. The
painted tiles might have once depicted a churning sea or a lively reef teeming with fish, but time and bleach had worn the animation away. Miranda's hair curled out prettily against the faded glaze. She had her earphones in and stared down at the screen of her phone, which was cobwebbed with cracks. At Rose's gasp, she looked up.

“Jesus.” Miranda pulled out an earphone. “You almost knocked me over.”

“Sorry, I didn't see you.” Rose's voice was higher than normal, weak. She was trapped, and only a couple of seconds went by before recognition flickered over the girl's face.

“Rose.”

“Miranda.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I promised a neighbor I'd walk her dog while she's away.”

The tough teenager from the park had transformed back into a kid. The makeup had been scrubbed off, and an oversize blue hoodie overwhelmed her thin frame. The rims of her eyes were red, but it was hard to tell if that was from crying or a heavy hand with the makeup remover. Her left hand was dug deep in the pocket of her hoodie. Hiding something.

Miranda stared at the ball of fur in Rose's arms. “Can I pet the dog?”

“Sure.” Rose knelt down and put him on the floor of the landing, where he sniffed the air before placing a tentative paw on Miranda's thigh.

“He's cute.” She gave his paw a shake. “My mother won't like the fact that you're here.”

Rose resisted the temptation to say that she'd been here first. “This is the last walk,” she lied. “Then I'll be gone. What are you doing here?”

The girl pulled an e-cigarette out of her pocket. “You want a hit?”

“What's in it?”

“Vape. Tastes like cotton candy.”

“I don't get it. Why don't you just eat cotton candy instead?”

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus. You sound like Dad.”

“Yeah, I'll try it.” Had it come to this? Fake smoking in stairwells with Griff's kid. Anything to keep her talking and not snitching.

Miranda swung her legs around and held up the e-cigarette. Rose perched on the stair beside her and took a small hit, then made a face as the vapor rolled over her tongue. “Tastes like cotton candy that's been dipped into a vat of chemicals.”

Miranda laughed and lifted the e-cig from Rose's fingers. “You get used to it.”

“How are you, Miranda?”

“Fine.” She scratched at one of the tiles on the wall. It fell off easily, along with tiny flakes of plaster. “If you don't mind being mental.”

“You're not mental.”

“Oh, please. Like you have any idea. Don't sit here with me trying to be cool so that I won't tell them that I saw you. It's too pathetic.”