by Fiona Davis
“No.”
“Good. You all looked like a bunch of idiots, sitting around yapping just like Bird here. Hope that doesn’t offend you.”
“Far from it. I think you summed up the job perfectly.”
Ms. Conover handed her a mug. “Although it was terrible the way they forced you out. Especially since you were right about Senator Madden all along, that sleazebag. Embezzling money from senior citizens. You’re the hero, in my book. You and Gloria Buckstone.”
Rose remained silent. She’d learned by now there was no point in setting the record straight. After all, she’d benefited from the assumption that she was an aggressive journalist with a righteous cause. It had landed her the job at WordMerge.
“Come into the other room. And I’m only doing this because you’re a fellow resident.”
“Of course, and I appreciate it.”
They ventured into the living room, where two south-facing windows filled with plants served as the focal point, along with an oversize couch.
“It’s not grand, but in New York, it’s a steal.”
“I’m sure.” Rose sat down on the couch, sinking in so far her knees rose above her hips, and tried not to spill her tea. “So kind of you to do this, Ms. Conover.” She placed the cup on the table beside her and took out a notebook and a pen from her bag.
“Oh, please, call me Stella.”
“Stella. When did you come to the Barbizon?”
“Back in 1952. I was scouted by the Eileen Ford agency. I worked as a model for ten years, and then became a muse of sorts for the designers, if you know what I mean.”
Rose blinked.
“I made the rounds. Let certain men take care of me for the pleasure of having me on their arm. Don’t be squeamish. Figured it would lead to other Cinderella-type things like in the movies, but no such luck. I did well, though. I made enough to take care of myself.”
“I see.” If all of the women were as forthright as Stella, the piece for WordMerge would be terrific. “What was it like when you first arrived? I understand men weren’t allowed above the first floor?”
“The rules were strict. I remember coming down in slacks one day and the matron on duty, this dour woman, told me to go right back upstairs and change. I couldn’t cross the lobby in pants, only a skirt. And this lasted through the sixties, mind you. Seems so silly today.”
“What about the girls who went to secretarial school?”
“Right. The Katharine Gibbs girls. We always felt so smug when we saw them dressed in their gloves and hats for class. They had their own floors and we didn’t interact much. The place was like a beehive with all these tiny rooms off long, dark hallways. Lively, though, everyone had a great time. J. D. Salinger used to show up at the café on the ground floor, hoping to pick up one of the models.”
“Did you date J. D. Salinger?”
“No, not my type.”
“This is exactly what I’m looking for; the history is fascinating.” She tapped the notepad with her pen. “You know, I’ve tried to reach some of the other women on the floor, but they don’t want to talk, it seems.”
“Old biddies, the lot of them.” She let out a husky laugh. Her profile was aristocratic, with a high forehead and strong nose. Rose could very well imagine her dressed to kill in the cinched, girdled fashions of a bygone era. “When it was still a hotel, they used to sit in the lobby all day commenting on the other guests like a Greek chorus. After it went condo, loitering was discouraged, so they withdrew to the fourth floor.”
“What about Darby McLaughlin; did you know her back then?”
Stella paused for a moment, then seemed to choose her words carefully. “She was an odd duck at first. We had an uneasy beginning, but we eventually reached a kind of detente. Darby went to Gibbs, then worked as a secretary for the same company for years and years until she retired.” The radiator began to clank. “Oh, dear God, I keep telling the super to come up and turn the damn thing off already, but he’s too busy kowtowing to the rich tenants. Don’t be offended.”
“No, not at all. What kind of company did Miss McLaughlin work for?”
“Some button shop on West Thirty-Eighth Street. Only retired five or six years ago, old goose.”
The clanking continued. “Do you want me to turn the heat off?”
“No, it involves taking all the plants off the windowsill and lifting up that shelf they sit on. It’s the least he can do, for the little I ask of him.”
“It must be strange to see the building change so drastically.”
“Everything changes. I couldn’t care less. I have my little slice of New York City and that’s enough for me.”
“You said you were good friends with Miss McLaughlin?”
“I didn’t say that. But we help each other out, now and again. I’m taking care of Bird while she’s away.”
The news surprised Rose. “Where did she go?”
“God knows. This morning she seemed upset, asked me to watch Bird while she’s gone for a while, and that was that. Said she had some business to take care of. Whatever that means. What kind of business can an eighty-one-year-old woman have? Said she’d be back in three weeks.”
Rose’s hopes fell. Tyler wouldn’t be happy. “Does she often go on trips?”
“Rarely. Can’t think of the last time she left town. Like I said, she was in a hurry. You said you talked to her?”
“Yes, we were going to set up a time to speak further. Were you here when she had the accident?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“One of the doormen. He was very respectful,” she added quickly.
“Patrick. Biggest gossip in the building.” Her voice became quiet, eerie. “I can’t help you out there. Darby’s private. She doesn’t talk much about it.”
“Do you remember the name of the maid who died?”
Stella let out a low whistle. “Can’t forget her. She was a wiseass. Esme. Esme Castillo was her full name. After it happened, it was all the girls could talk about for weeks. The hotel kept the scandal quiet, never even hit the papers.” She stared at Rose through narrowed eyelids. “Is that what you want to write about?”
“No, not if she’s uncomfortable. I would like to talk to her, though, about other things. Do you think you might explain what I’m doing the next time you see her?”
“You seem like a nice enough gal. I’ll see what I can do, but you shouldn’t hold your breath. Darby’s probably the last of the old-timers you’ll get to open up. After the accident, she closed herself off. Like a curtain coming down at the end of a play.”
Rose left her business card with Stella and took the stairs up one flight. On one hand, Miss McLaughlin’s sudden exodus put her story into a tailspin. On the other, Stella’s story would make an epic profile and might keep Tyler at bay until she returned.
Exhausted, she passed out on the couch until the ringing of her cell phone woke her up out of a heavy, black sleep. She hurried to it, hoping maybe it was Griff. Instead, Stella’s voice crackled across the line.
“I need your help.”
“Sure, Stella, what can I do for you?”
“Get my apartment key from Patrick and take Darby’s dog.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My doctor put me in the hospital for tests. Apparently it’s my heart, not my nerves. They think I’m having some kind of a heart attack or something.”
“I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“What I just asked. Take care of Bird while I’m away. Patrick will give you the key.”
“I’m happy to help, but Miss McLaughlin and I barely know each other.”
“Darby doesn’t have many friends, so that’s nothing new. You live in the building, and I can track you down if you steal anything, not that we have anything to steal.”
“I won’t st
eal a thing, I promise.”
“If he runs out of food, there’s more in Darby’s apartment. Her key is on my kitchen counter. He’s a good dog, won’t poop on your rugs or anything like that. Darby’s instructions are on the kitchen counter.”
Rose tried not to sound too excited. Once Miss McLaughlin found out she’d stepped in during a crisis, she’d have to talk. Assuming she wasn’t too pissed off. Either way, Rose was just being neighborly, and it was an opportunity to move the story forward and connect with the primary source. “Okay, get well soon and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“Enjoy being young. That’s what you can do for me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
New York City, 1952
So this was what a hangover felt like.
Darby wanted to curl back in bed and wait for the pounding in her right temple to subside, but that wasn’t what a Katie Gibbs girl did. No, a Katie Gibbs girl gets up and goes to work no matter how ill she might be, knowing that her boss depends on her punctuality. Or at least that’s what the typing teacher said as Darby slunk to her seat five minutes after the other girls had arrived.
“Punctuality and presence. If you’re not there to answer Mr. Blake’s phone, he may miss a very important call, one that the entire organization depends on. Would you want to be the girl who causes a business crisis?” Mrs. Allen peered at Darby through thick-framed glasses, like a scientist staring into a petri dish. “Darby McLaughlin. You are late.”
Darby’s stomach churned. She had never been late a day in high school. As a matter of fact, she’d always arrived early, terrified of standing out.
“I’m sorry. I got lost, but it won’t happen again.”
“You got lost?”
Thankfully, the girl who sat next to Darby raised her hand, and Mrs. Allen was momentarily distracted.
“Yes, Maureen.”
“Mrs. Allen, who is Mr. Blake?”
“Mr. Blake is the name of the first boss I ever had. I learned much from him, so I use him as my teaching tool.” She glared in their direction. “Any other questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
She turned away from Darby and began handing out sample letters. Darby slid hers into the stand at the right of the gray Remington typewriter and wished her eyes weren’t so blurry. She had taken a terrible risk, going out with Esme. No more taking reckless chances. She’d experienced two sides of New York City, the snooty and the subversive, and from now on, her studies would take precedence.
Mrs. Allen turned on the record player and they began typing in time to a slow march. By the end of a couple of months, according to Mrs. Allen, they’d progress to the Ringing Anvil March, typing forty-seven words per minute. Upon completion of the course, they’d be up to fifty-five. The music helped, flowing through Darby like water and making her fingers dance on the keys. At the end of the class, Darby was pleased to be one of the only students whose letter was deemed “mailable.” Her desk mate, the girl named Maureen, had also done well.
As they walked to the next class, Darby tapped her on the arm. She had thin blond hair that looked almost white, and pale blue eyes. A pretty girl, but Darby’s mother would probably have described her as big-boned. “Thank you for distracting Mrs. Allen. I thought she might expel me there and then.”
“Happy to do it. I heard that one girl in her class went to put in a new sheet of paper after she made a mistake, and Mrs. Allen tossed her out on the spot.”
“That’s the last thing I want.”
“It’s only until June, and then you get the advantages of lifetime placement. They’ll find jobs for us that’ll last all the way until we get married.”
“Or die.”
She hadn’t meant for the words to seem so harsh, but Maureen flinched.
Darby was quick to explain. “I don’t mean that we’ll die right away, just that some of us may not get married.”
“I know.” Maureen offered up a pout. “That’s so sad.”
Unfortunately, Mrs. Allen was seated behind the desk of their next class.
“How did she get here so fast?” whispered Maureen in astonishment.
“She probably flew on her broom.”
Maureen giggled, and Darby smiled, too.
Mrs. Allen peered up at the two of them over her glasses. Obviously, a Katie Gibbs girl was not permitted to share a joke with a friend. “Darby, your hair is touching your shoulders. You’ll get a demerit for that.”
Darby patted at her hair, trying to tuck back the one errant lock. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Allen.”
“Very well, be seated and we’ll begin.” She stood and pointed to the black phone that sat on her desk facing out, the cord curled up neatly. “This is your first class in phone etiquette. Since Katharine Gibbs founded the school in 1911, we have adapted to the changing times. As you can imagine, back in the early days, there were no phones. But they’ve become a vital instrument in the modern secretary’s tool kit. As such, we have found it necessary to train you to use them properly.”
The phone was identical to the one Darby had back home. Not that anyone ever called for her. She’d picked it up one day and heard Mother talking on the extension to a friend, listing all of Darby’s faults. Too studious, too inward-looking. A wallflower who’d never attract a man. Mother sighed several times and Darby could tell from the tightness in her voice that she was about to cry.
“Now that Arch is gone, I have to make something of that girl,” she’d said. “And I have to do it all myself, since she doesn’t lift a finger to better herself. Her books are all she cares about. I’m ashamed to have her walking around town, with that hair and that slump in her spine. Mort wants her out of the house as soon as school is over.”
Darby waited until Mother and her friend decided her fate, off to New York City and the hope of being a career girl, before hanging up the phone softly and going to her room.
She knew she was missing something that nearly every other girl possessed: She rarely felt light or silly or flirtatious. Only with Daddy had she ever shown that side of herself. He and Mother had been the best-looking couple of their set, and both were so stylish that Darby could hardly say which of them was more beautiful. But Mother was fiercely protective of her clothing and her coiffures, always pushing Darby away, fearful that embraces would leave her wrinkled and stained. Daddy was different. He often reached for Darby and all her smudges, pulling her onto his lap and tickling her until she felt like Jell-O. Later, when she grew older, he would wrap an arm around her shoulders whenever they were in adult company that made her nervous. He liked to whisper jokes into her ear and together they would make private fun of Mother’s snooty, brainless friends.
“Miss McLaughlin, please come up to the desk.”
Darby jumped. She’d been lost in thought. What had Mrs. Allen been talking about? She looked at Maureen, who gave her an encouraging smile.
Darby walked to the front of the room.
“Keep your head up as you walk; don’t look at the floor.”
Darby obeyed, pulling her shoulders back.
“Very well, sit at the desk. When I say ‘ring, ring,’ you pick up and answer.”
Darby did as she was told. “Hello?” Her voice came out faint, as if she were at the end of a long tunnel.
“No, no, no. Weren’t you listening?”
“I–I’m sorry.”
“Obviously not. Repeat after me: ‘Mr. Blake’s office. How may I assist you today?’”
Darby did, but it wasn’t enough.
“Louder.”
She repeated the words.
“Now make it friendly. Put a smile in your voice.”
Before she could attempt another round, she was cut off. “Don’t actually do it. I said put a smile in your voice, not on your face. No one wants to see you grinning like an idiot all day.”
<
br /> Tears sprang into Darby’s eyes. The Art of Conversation had said to overenunciate your consonants while speaking on the telephone. Or was it your vowels? The other girls stared at her uneasily, knowing they would get similar treatment but relieved not to be the first. She had to get this right. To prove to Mother that she could. She’d mastered biology and chemistry in school, earning straight As in every class. Surely, she could pick up a phone and answer it.
Esme’s face popped into her head. She imagined Esme onstage, bellowing out a song at the top of her lungs.
She took a deep breath. “Mr. Blake’s office. How may I assist you today?”
The words rang out confident and bright, friendly but businesslike. Perfect.
Mrs. Allen’s overly plucked eyebrows rose in surprise. “Well done. You see, it’s not really that difficult. You may sit down now.”
As she did so, she gave a quiet thanks to Esme.
The dining room was almost empty when Darby poked her head in that evening before entering, ready to retreat in case any of the Ford models still lingered. But the only other occupants were Maureen and two other Gibbs girls Darby remembered from class. Maureen marched over before Darby could pick up a tray.
“Darby, we’re getting together to drill each other for the business communication test. Wanna join in?” She introduced her friends, twins named Edna and Edith, who wore matching ponytails tied with purple ribbon.
Darby was about to decline when she caught the sound of high-pitched laughter from the end of the hall. Candy was coming. “Sure.”
The seventeenth floor, though identical to the one where Darby and the Ford girls were housed, exuded warmth and welcome. Every door was wide-open, and cheery hellos rang out as they passed by. Even the cubist wall sconces that lined the hallway seemed to shine brighter.
In Maureen’s room, Darby took a seat on the bed, which was covered with a pretty quilt instead of the garish Barbizon-issued coverlet, and opened up her folder. She could use the extra time studying, that much was sure, even if her stomach was growling.