The Dollhouse

by Fiona Davis

  Acting on Sam’s orders, she laid out shiny white plates as Sam supervised the modified menu. She prayed she wouldn’t drop anything or say something stupid.

  “Here’s what’s on the menu for tonight: Instead of fried chicken, we have a spiced roast chicken with satay sauce. Lamb burgers with cumin and garlic instead of the usual burger, and so on and so on.”

  “I hope your experiment goes well,” teased Darby. “Because if not, Esme and I and the rest of the musicians will be facing an angry, hungry crowd tonight.”

  “I’ll do my best. Once I heard my father would be out of town, I went straight to Mr. Kalai’s shop. We can always run for it and hide out there until things die down.”

  She laughed at his teasing, but she could tell he was worried. Uptown, this type of cuisine might go over, but down in the East Village, late at night, the regulars could be surly, drunk, and quick to rebel.

  About a half hour later, the first set of orders had been filled. During the lull, Sam cleaned every surface he could. Even though he was smiling and joking around, Darby could tell his nerves were on fire.

  The door to the main floor opened and one of the waiters returned, carrying the burger on the plate. He laid it down carefully on the counter and stepped back.

  The burger was practically untouched; only one bite had been taken.

  “Table six said he didn’t like this. Wants fries instead.”

  Sam rubbed his face with his hand. “Dominic, fire up the fryer.” He picked up the plate and dumped the unwanted burger in the trash.

  “Sorry, Sam.” Darby meant it. “These folks aren’t the crowd you should be cooking for. You need to be uptown, in your own restaurant.”

  “Right. As soon as I get rich, I’ll take care of that.”

  “Everyone in their right mind loves your food; don’t let one customer get to you.”

  He smiled. “I won’t. When I was in the war, I started getting requests from the sick soldiers, the really sick ones, for something that reminded them of home. I’d start by asking lots of questions about where they were from, what the soup their mother made tasted like, that kind of thing, and then I’d create a spice blend just for them. Whether they lived in Rhode Island and their families were originally from Portugal, or maybe from Mexico but living in California, I’d work in the kitchen until I had something that clicked. And you should’ve seen the look on their faces. Even if they’d lost a leg, or were blind in one eye, for a split second it was like they were home. I loved doing that. I want to keep doing that.”

  “And you will. Just maybe not tonight.”

  The kitchen door swung open again. Another waiter, another couple of plates.

  But they were empty.

  Not a crumb was left on either.

  “What did they order?” asked Sam, his voice breathless.

  “One chicken and one shrimp. They want more. The chicken wants the shrimp this time and vice versa.”

  Sam and Darby stared at each other, then he whooped with laughter and grabbed her, swinging her around. His build was strong and hard and she clung to his neck, their faces inches apart.

  “They liked it.”

  She let go and stepped backward, off balance. “You’d better get cracking.”

  The next hour flew by, with orders pouring in as word spread that the food was different, tastier.

  Before she knew it, Esme swooped in, telling her to change.

  “We only have twenty minutes. Hurry!”

  Annie Ross perched on the green-room couch, drawing on a cigarette and nodding as they dashed behind the screen. She was thin, with a close-cropped hairdo and elfin eyes. Not what Darby expected at all.

  “I’m scared,” Darby whispered. Her legs shook as she pulled the dress over her head. She’d been diverted from her stage fright by helping out Sam, but now the fear crushed her. “I’m not sure if I can breathe, never mind sing.”

  “Pretend. That’s what they teach us in acting class. Pretend and you’ll believe it soon enough.”

  She didn’t trip getting up onto the stage. Darby gave herself a mental pat on the back for that minor accomplishment. Ross looked at the drummer and then launched into the first number. Darby followed Esme’s lead and moved her hips right, then left, then snapped her fingers. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus. Song one was done.

  As she began to relax, she was able to look out over the audience, her eyes adjusting to the lights. Sam stood in the back, his arms crossed, grinning widely. Starting tomorrow, she’d happily dedicate herself to spelling tests and punctuation drills. But tonight had been worth it, if only to watch Sam’s culinary triumph.

  She shook a hip and snapped her fingers and smiled.

  Darby meant to head home as soon as their set was over, but by the time the bar cleared out, it was almost four in the morning. The busboy had placed the chairs upside down on all the tables except one, where she, Esme, and Sam sat with several of the musicians and toasted one another.

  The air smelled of marijuana and sweat. Darby sat back, enjoying the banter of the musicians as they teased and flirted with Esme. Sam had taken the seat next to her, one foot crossed over a thigh, his hand barely touching the skin below her neck as it rested on the back of her chair. She resisted the urge to shiver every time he moved his thumb ever so slightly over her flesh.

  He’d made burgers for the musicians and they devoured them with relish.

  “Damn, this is good.” The bass player wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Reminds me of the South.”

  “No, this is Chicago-style. I can’t figure out what’s in it, but it’s like what they do there.”

  Darby smiled over at Sam. The spices affected each taster differently, as if personalized to reflect his childhood, his mother’s cooking, their favorite meals.

  “He’s got to open his own place,” said Darby. “Don’t you think?”

  The men nodded. “I’d come by every day I’m in town.”

  “So?” The word was slurred, Esme’s eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. “When are you going to break free from your father and do it?”

  “It’s not so easy,” said Sam. “But I’m working on it. I have plans.”

  “You’ve got to put it into action, Sam. That’s what I’m doing. I’m clawing my way to the top if I have to. Nothing and no one will stop me.”

  “I am putting it into action. I have a benefactor.”

  “Mr. Kalai?” asked Darby.

  “Yes. He’s going to help me out when I’m ready. He says not yet, though.”

  “Mr. Kalai is a powerful man.” Esme raised her glass. “Good benefactor to have. Right, Sam?” She winked at him, then downed her drink. “And what about you, Miss McLaughlin? If I’m going to be a famous singer and actress and Sam is going to own his own restaurant, what’s your big plan?” She stood up, swaying to an imaginary beat.

  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 musici
ans 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 h
air 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.”