by Fiona Davis
Miranda had stared out at her every morning upon Rose’s waking, from the photo on top of their bedroom bureau. In it, taken several years ago, Miranda wore a salmon-colored silk dress with ruffles along the top. Rose had admired it for its retro feel, like the disco dresses from the seventies.
But today Miranda sported a T-shirt cut in horizontal strips, revealing a black bra underneath. Rose pulled her sun hat down low and moved along the balustrade until she could see the girl’s face. Her skin was pale and smooth and her hair cascaded down her back in thick curls, like a damsel in a romance novel. Even from this distance, Rose could tell her makeup was heavy, with thick black lines around her eyes and lips the color of blood. Griff must hate it. He’d never liked when Rose came home from work wearing pancake makeup from the broadcast. After a while, she’d been sure to take it off in her dressing room instead of waiting until she got home.
A couple holding hands wandered into the frame of her vision and it took a moment for her to realize it was Griff and Connie, coming from the direction of the Boathouse. She knelt down fast, under the pretense of petting Bird. He was panting and needed to be in the shade. She’d forgotten how close his tiny body was to the waves of heat emanating off the concrete sidewalk.
She crossed the street with the intention of heading south along Literary Walk, which was lined with shady elms. Anything to get away from the sight of Griff and Connie together. But as she passed the stairway that led to the tunnel underneath the Seventy-Second Street tranverse, she paused. Scooping up Bird, she took the stairs quickly, clutching the handrail. The tunnel had an arched ceiling, and was a coveted spot for street musicians who took advantage of its excellent acoustics, the sound reverberating around the tiled walls.
Today, the area was empty and dark, a perfect hiding spot. The column and the contrast in light kept Rose hidden from view.
Griff and Connie stopped in their tracks when they spotted Miranda. From Rose’s vantage point, the tension in their faces was palpable. They murmured to each other like spies working undercover, and then Connie called out to Miranda in a high, sharp voice. The girl turned her head in their direction and all animation fell from her face. Rage briefly crossed over her pretty features before disappearing. Griff’s low baritone carried across the plaza but not clearly enough for Rose to catch what he was saying. He let go of Connie’s hand and surreptitiously rubbed his palm on a pant leg.
Once Miranda stood before them, Connie put her hands on her hips and thrust her neck forward. She seemed to be berating Miranda, before Griff interrupted her with a dismissive motion of his hands.
Rose tried to tamp down the elation building up inside her. He’d only returned home out of guilt. And his attempt at reconciliation looked rather rocky.
They were coming undone, and Rose was embarrassed for all of them. For the daughter, who was probably confused by the coming and going of the adults in her life, and for Griff, who was a loving dad but unequipped to handle a daughter with a strong agenda of her own.
Without warning, Miranda threw her phone at Griff’s feet. It clattered to the ground, bouncing twice. She stared down at it for a second, stricken at what she’d done, then ran off. Connie’s face contorted with anguish, and Griff put a hand on her back, but the gesture was automatic, not driven by a need to comfort.
For the first time since Griff had given Rose the terrible news, hope glimmered, followed by a wash of shame. The family was hurtling toward disaster. But the sooner he figured out that being with Connie wouldn’t help their daughter any more than being apart, the better. If anything, they seemed to be botching the reconciliation completely.
For the past week, she’d imagined Connie had transformed the apartment into a warm, comfy respite. But a brilliant interior design would never make it a happy home for Griff’s family.
What if his misguided attempt at patching things up failed? She imagined him begging her to come back to him, promising the moon.
Could she ever again trust a man who had turned her life upside down?
Stella’s grandniece lived in an imposing brick house in Fort Lee just off the highway. Rose could hear the endless whoosh of cars on I-95 as she and Jason got out of the cab.
Stella guided them into the toy-strewn living room.
“It’s a pigsty, but I can’t say anything because I’m the grateful aunt, happy to be taken in.” She eased herself into a recliner and gestured for them to take a seat on the sofa. The only sign of her illness was a hollowness in her cheeks and a slight wheezing. “Mind you don’t sit on a Lego. You’ll get a bruise for days.”
“I take it you’re eager to get back to the Barbizon,” Rose ventured.
“You bet. They say another few weeks and I’ll be good as new.”
Rose briefly ran through the various interviews she and Jason had lined up, and Stella’s eyes widened with astonishment. “I’m surprised you reached so many of us. You must be very persuasive.”
“I think they agree with me that the history of the Barbizon makes a great story.”
“Right. Well, what do you want to know? We only have an hour until Susan and her kids get back from ballet lessons or welding class or wherever the hell they are.”
Rose looked over at Jason, who nodded. The camera was rolling. “So many different kinds of women stayed at the hotel. How did they all get along? Or did they all get along?”
“God, no. It was a strict class system. Models were on top, then the guest editors for Mademoiselle and the others who were in publishing. The bottom tier was for the Gibbs girls.”
“Why is that?”
“The goal was to catch a man as soon as possible. Sure, we all paid lip service to the idea of working and making our own money. But it was just pocket money. Our parents took care of the bills until we were handed off to Prince Charming.”
“The competition must’ve been fierce.”
“You bet. The boys were tiered as well, handsome and rich was a top catch. The Ford girls expected the full package, but as you moved down the food chain, you might settle for an egghead with cash, or get swept off your feet by a dashing poet.”
“Where did you go on a typical date?”
Stella clapped her hands together. “Oh, the choices were endless. Dinner at the Drake, where the roast duck was to die for, or Café de la Paix at the Hotel St. Moritz. Dancing at the El Morocco until late. Broadway shows, the ballet.”
“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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
New York City, 1952
Close 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.