The Dollhouse

by Fiona Davis

  “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.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  New York City, 2016

  Who 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.”

  She was right. Rose had lost her mind. “Look, I was trying to be nice. Your dad and I . . .” She trailed off. What was there to say?

  “He dumped you. I heard.”

  “What did you hear?”

  Miranda gave a tense smile, pleased to have the upper hand. “Look. My father will never leave my mother now. And not because of my fucked-up problems. He used you as arm candy when you were on TV. Dating a hot future anchorwoman was good for his image back then. But for the job he wants now, he has to be a family man. Griff Van Doren has large ambitions. You were just a phase. A blip.”

  The truth hit her with a thud. He needed his ex-wife’s connections if he was going to take City Hall. Connie’s family ran in the right circles, could influence his race for mayor. In ways both positive and negative.

  Rose scooped up Bird and stood. “I gotta go.”

  Miranda let out a guttural sigh. “Don’t be mad, Rose. Trust me, I’m on your side. It’s better for me if they’re split up. Easier to manipulate the situation, get what I want.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. The girl’s skin was smooth, her lips so pink. She was just a troubled kid, yet Rose was sta
nding in a stairwell listening to her as if she were some wizened old sage. Between the two of them, Rose wasn’t sure who was more screwed up.

  “Miranda!” Connie’s voice echoed down the stairwell.

  Without a word, Miranda rose and headed upstairs, her combat boots heavy on each tread. Only when the fire door slammed shut did Rose continue on her way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  New York City, 1952

  The next couple of weeks passed peacefully, as Darby found a groove that allowed her to juggle her classes and hours of homework but still visit the club. She studied with Maureen and the twins on Monday and Tuesday evenings, and headed downtown after dinner on Wednesday through Saturday. Sunday was spent in bed, recovering. At the club, the first few hours were devoted to Sam in the kitchen, while Esme worked her shift. Mr. Buckley wouldn’t allow Sam to experiment with the menu any further, but he hadn’t raised a fit about his hijacking the kitchen, either. In the meantime, Sam was making great progress with his spice book, and Darby had promised to type it up for him once it was completed.

  Even better, Sam had kissed her several times in the back alleyway. She might have allowed him to take it further, but they were never alone. The memories of being with him tantalized her as she lay in bed after sneaking into the Barbizon, waiting to drop into a dreamless sleep.

  One Wednesday morning at Gibbs, her shorthand teacher called out her name. “Please report to Mrs. Tibbett’s office.”

  Darby looked up from her desk, surprised.

  “I’m sorry, why?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that. She’d like to see you now.”

  Darby stood up and gathered her books. She’d passed all her tests this week, albeit not with the high marks she’d been known for in high school. But still.

  Mrs. Tibbett’s office looked down on Park Avenue, one of the few two-way avenues in the city. Cars lined up bumper to bumper at the traffic lights, tearing away when they turned green, only to stop again a few blocks later. Like an inchworm with tires instead of feet. If inchworms had feet.

  Mrs. Tibbett gestured for Darby to take a seat.