by Fiona Davis
Rose kept vigil until the nurses sent her home to sleep. Around midnight, nervous and wired, she scanned Darby’s bookshelves for something to read. A worn binding on the top shelf turned out to be an ancient copy of Romeo and Juliet, the cloth cover hanging on, literally, by a thread. She perched on the couch, the book balanced on her lap, and turned to the title page. It was printed in 1887, the pages mottled with time, although the gilt edging was still bright. One of Juliet’s soliloquies had been marked up in pencil, the page filled with questions, comments, and stage directions. At the very back of the book, a flash of white caught her eye. She picked up the envelope and gave a startled yelp at the return address. Sam Buckley had sent it from California. The postal stamp read 1953.
Dear Esme,
I assure you I won’t give up your secret, however devastating it has been to me. As you wish, I won’t try to contact you again.
Sam
But Esme was dead in 1953.
Or was she? Rose’s mind raced. Was the woman she’d assumed to be Darby really Esme impersonating her friend? She picked up her phone and tried to reach Jason. No luck. She left a voice mail for him to call her back right away and scanned the letter one more time.
If the slashing had been that brutal, Esme might have been disfigured enough to get away with the switch. And if Darby had been the one who fell to her death, the same reasoning applied. A grisly thought. Maybe Esme had become a new person, disconnecting herself from the drug scandal and forging a new life. But where had Darby’s family been in all this? Wouldn’t they have known?
According to this short letter, Esme had revealed the switch to Sam, who had been crushed by the news of Darby’s death. But something was off. The whole thing felt like a bad soap opera, a scene from one of Maddy’s scripts. Yet the letter existed for a reason.
Rose googled the address, but there was no Sam Buckley living there anymore. Not surprising, as more than sixty years had passed. But there was someone else she could ask. Stella had known Darby both before and after the accident. She called Stella’s cell phone and left a voice mail, asking if they could meet again.
The next morning, at ten a.m. sharp, she waited for Stanley Jr. outside the button shop. As he unlocked the gate covering the entrance, she got right to the point.
“I have an odd question for you. Did you ever hear Ms. McLaughlin speak Spanish?”
He laughed. “No, I can’t say that I did.”
Rose nodded. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.” She turned to go.
“But her young friend did.”
Rose spun back around. “She spoke Spanish to Darby?”
“She called her Tía. I remember that from high school Spanish. Practically the only thing I remember.”
Tía. Aunt.
Not Christina or Tina. Stella had heard the girl say “tía.”
Darby was hanging out with a young girl who spoke Spanish and called her aunt. Further bolstering the theory that Esme had switched identities.
Rose checked her phone on her way to work. Still nothing from Jason. A twinge of regret tugged at her. She’d thoroughly enjoyed their encounter at his apartment, but she’d been a needy, twisted mess that night. Bad timing all around.
Her phone rang. Stella.
“Well, hello, Rose. How is it going with Bird?”
“Just fine, Stella. More importantly, how are you?”
“I’m almost back in fighting form. I heard from Darby yesterday.”
Relief poured over her. Darby or Esme, whoever she was, was safe. “Oh, yes? How is she? Where is she?”
“She couldn’t talk long, and the line was crackly. Said she’d be back next Monday.”
Rose swallowed hard. Less than a week.
Stella continued on. “And I have to say she was a little miffed that I left Bird in your care. She said she’d refused to speak to you.”
She’d been caught. Better to play dumb. “She was reluctant, sure, but I had no doubt in time she’d warm up to the idea.”
“Hmm. Anyway, she said she’ll come to your apartment and collect Bird as soon as she arrives.”
She could imagine the look on Griff’s or Connie’s face when the old lady showed up at their door, demanding her dog back. They’d send her off to Bellevue. “Maybe you should just give her my cell number instead, and I’ll bring Bird to her.”
“If she calls me back, I will. Apparently, she’s out of the country.”
“I see. Listen, I was wondering if I could come back out to New Jersey. We’re on a tight deadline with the story, and I’d love to get your input on something that just came up.”
“That’s fine—and in fact, I think it is better we speak before Darby returns.”
“Can I come now?”
“Yes, you may.”
Stella waved away Rose’s polite inquiries about her health.
“I want to know what you’re doing with Darby’s story. She doesn’t know you at all, claims she’s never exchanged a word with you.”
Rose squirmed under her scrutiny. “Well, that’s true enough. I apologize for not being clearer, but as you know, it was an emergency. I was happy to help out.”
Stella pursed her lips, still not convinced.
“Did you know Darby well before her accident?” Rose asked.
“We spent some time together. Not much. We had something of a falling-out soon after she arrived. Why are you so relentless on this subject, Rose? Is it really all that newsworthy? Something that happened more than fifty years ago?”
“It’s part of the story of the hotel, in my mind. The guests, the staff, whatever dividing lines existed. Seems strange she’d want to stay on, after such a tragedy.”
“She had nowhere else to go, no other choices. Before the accident, she’d started coming out of her shell. It was easy to see who she might become given the opportunity. Afterward, though, it was as if she decided she’d been punished for trying to live outside her comfort zone. She withdrew again, and that was pretty much that.”
“I see. Did she seem very different after she got back from the hospital?”
“What exactly are you getting at?”
Rose leaned forward. “The girl she’s been hanging with, I think she called her Tía, not Tina. Which means ‘aunt’ in Spanish. I’m wondering if it’s at all possible that Darby was the girl who fell, and the maid, Esme Castillo, was the one who was scarred.”
Stella went white. “What on earth are you suggesting?”
“Is there any chance the two women may have switched identities? That the woman we think of as Darby is in fact Esme?”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Stella’s hands gripped the armrests, her fingers like talons. “Absolutely not. The poor woman has been through enough—and I won’t let you repaint her life as though it was some two-bit melodrama. Why can’t you just leave her alone?”
“I’m sorry.” Rose had overstepped. Coming here was a bad idea. “I guess I worry about her.”
“You don’t even know her.” Stella’s voice boomed.
“I understand what it’s like to be alone in the city and not have anyone to depend on.”
“How dare you assume to understand Darby? To understand me? You think just because we don’t have a man or children, we’re fragile, bitter old ladies? Scared of being mugged or dying in our apartments and not being found for days? Is that what you think our lives are like?”
“No, of course not.” Her reply wasn’t all that convincing.
“Well, let me put you straight.” She planted her legs wide and leaned forward on her elbows. “We aren’t weak. We don’t need anyone’s help. We help ourselves, and we help out each other. My life is rich and full and I get to do whatever the hell I want, when I want. If I want to eat macaroni and cheese for breakfast, I do it without thinking twice. The cit
y is teeming outside my window with life and people to watch, but I don’t want to be them. I don’t need to be them. I love my life and I don’t need your pity.”
Rose sat back, stunned.
“Don’t you dare project your own fears onto me.” Her nostrils flared. “I reject them. If you’re lonely and scared, you better deal with it now, because life only gets lonelier and scarier, no matter how many people fill your home or your heart.
“It’s up to you, sweetheart. Ultimately, you’re on your own.”
Jason was in the office kitchen when Rose finally made it to work. As he reached up to get a mug from the cabinet, his T-shirt rose slightly, showing off his flat stomach, pale and smooth.
He gave her a catlike grin. “Hey. I saw you left messages; it’s been crazy here. Some big announcement coming down the pike.”
“A new infusion of capital?”
“Don’t know. Tyler’s been in his office talking with men in suits all morning.”
Rose filled him in on the strange turn of events, including the letter from Sam and her conversation with Stanley Jr.
Jason gave a low whistle. “Darby is really Esme? Could she pull off that kind of stunt for so many years?”
“I wondered the same thing. When I mentioned the theory to Stella, she vehemently denied it. Maybe too much so.” Rose didn’t go into further details, as she was still recovering from the woman’s verbal onslaught. Which was well deserved, she had to admit.
“Wait a minute.” Jason held up a finger. “Our conversation with Malcolm. Do you remember what he said when you asked about Esme?”
“Not exactly. That he knew she’d died, something along those lines.”
“Follow me.” He hurried to one of the editing suites and pulled up Malcolm’s interview. He hit a button and Malcolm’s face appeared on the screen.
“Who, Darby?”
“No, Esme.”
“Right. They say she fell off a building and died. But I don’t know much else.”
He sat back and crossed his arms. “Malcolm mixes them up. And why use the qualifier words they say?”
“He also looks away from me when he answers.” Rose took a deep breath. “Do you think he knows the truth?”
“He might, if he and Sam have been in touch.”
Rose picked up her phone and tried Malcolm. Once again, it went straight to voice mail.
She left another message and hung up. “Darby’s coming back into town soon, so maybe we’ll get our answer.”
Jason nodded. “We’ll have to save it for the camera, though. Imagine the reaction shot. This could make this piece really sing.”
“But if we can’t see her eyes, how will we know?”
“She’ll stiffen, pause, something. We’ll be able to tell. As long as you get her to sit down and talk.” Jason moved closer and placed a hand lightly on Rose’s arm. “How’s your dad doing?”
“I’m heading back to the hospital as soon as work is over. I need to be there as much as possible. Even if he doesn’t know who I am.”
“I’m sure he senses something.”
She sighed. “Between the dementia and the sedatives, I’m hoping he doesn’t sense much at all right now.”
A coworker dashed into the room. “Tyler wants all of us together.”
Outside his office, Tyler shook hands with the men in suits and then headed into the conference room. WordMerge employees popped up from their cubicles like meerkats, shuffling in behind him, amid whispers and stifled laughter. Rose and Jason hovered near the back.
Tyler rubbed his hands together. His pants were fashionably short and tight.
“I’m happy to announce we’re exploring a new paradigm here at WordMerge.” He enunciated the company name carefully, the only way to say it without sounding like you hailed from the sticks. “Our audience has made it clear what they want: short, sharp pieces that can be shared on social media. You’ll be getting more details in the next couple of days, but for now I want everyone to start thinking in snappy visuals. Lists, photos, funny, smart, you know the type of thing I’m talking about, because it’s what you seek out every day.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” murmured Rose.
Jason shook his head. “I don’t do snappy.”
Rose raised her hand. Tyler looked annoyed. “Yes?”
“Does that mean we’re no longer doing in-depth pieces? I thought that was supposed to be WordMerge’s brand.”
He sighed. “The financials are difficult right now. We need to take a detour, get the page views and get the advertising.”
Another editor raised his hand. “What about the stories we’re currently working on?”
“Keep on working.”
He answered several more questions in a manner that was more vague than comforting, and closed the meeting. As Rose and Jason headed back to her desk, Tyler called them both into his office.
“Sit, sit.” He motioned to the chairs opposite his desk. “I’m killing the Barbizon story.”
Rose took a deep breath. “Why?”
“Too complex. So many story lines. It’s not for us.”
Jason spoke up. “I wish you’d let me walk you through it. There’s a narrative arc you might have missed, a compelling one.”
“The key source is returning to town in a few days,” added Rose. “And I have reams of notes. There’s a lot of gold in there.”
“Reams?” Tyler made a face. “So old school. And that’s the problem. If we’re going to survive, we have to shift gears.”
Frustration welled up. After all their work, all her digging. She imagined the looks on the women’s faces when she told them their histories hadn’t measured up. “Let me at least put together a rough outline for you. We’ve found out some shocking twists, heroin rings, identity switches. This is a killer story.”
“For The New Yorker, maybe. Not for us.”
She dug in. “When you hired me, you told me you were creating a multimedia version of The New Yorker.”
“That was then.” He turned to Jason. “I have a new assignment for you. You’ll work with Cheryl on a list of top ten narcoleptic dog videos.”
Jason spoke up. “I have to say I agree with Rose. The Barbizon story is good. It deserves a platform.”
“Sorry. I am, really. Check in with Cheryl, please.”
Rose nodded at Jason. Maybe if she could speak with Tyler alone, he’d be less defensive.
After Jason left, she tried again.
“Tyler—”
He cut her off right away. “Look, Rose, I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you signed up for, I get that. But I have to ask you to go along with this. The kids out there look up to you. If you’re walking around pissed off because your story got killed, it’s not going to help morale.”
She sat back, stunned. “First of all, I don’t walk around pissed off. I’ve had stories killed before and sucked it up with no complaints. I’m more worried about the shift in focus of the site. You’ll be like everyone else. Don’t you want to stand out? Isn’t that why you formed the company in the first place?”
He bit the side of his thumb. “If you don’t like it, you should just leave.”
The realization of what he was doing hit her hard. Her salary, though paltry, was bigger than any other journalist’s at the company. He wasn’t killing anyone else’s story, only hers. Because he wanted her out.
“Tyler, would you prefer it if I left WordMerge?”
“Of course not.” The expression on his face remained unchanged. “Unless, of course, you don’t feel you’d be happy here. You might find the work slightly tedious.”
“Then you should let me go.” How much severance could she get? Four months, maybe?
“Oh, no. Of course I’d never fire you.” He’d probably figured out the cost of her severance as
well. And didn’t want to pay it. “When you first came here, I was glad. But things have changed.”
Her jaw clenched. She refused to spend the few remaining days of her father’s life putting up with Tyler’s nonsense. “If I go, I’m taking everything to do with the Barbizon story with me.”
“You can’t do that, it’s the property of WordMerge.”
She lowered her voice, better to threaten him. “You don’t want that story. I do. I get everything and I don’t go to Gawker and tell them you’re floundering. You know they’d like nothing better than dirt from a notorious journalist.”
He went white. “Okay, fine, take your story with you. You can have it.”
“Thank you.” She stood, grabbed the ball that hung above his desk and yanked it so hard it came loose from its tether, then threw it into the trash can. “In that case, I quit.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
New York City, 1952
Darby entered the grand lobby doors of Carnegie Hall and looked about her, confused, until a man in an usher’s uniform redirected her to the back entrance. She took the elevator up to the floor where the American Academy of Dramatic Arts was located, and stepped into a hallway filled with young people her age. Some were talking loudly or laughing, others singing scales. The noise level was astounding.
She stepped over two khaki-clad men sprawled on the linoleum floor, smoking cigarettes and reciting their lines out loud. Hopefully, Darby would get a chance to pull Esme aside before the next class began. She scanned the crowd for her friend’s dark mane, with no luck, eager to surprise her with the news that her mother had come and gone, that the deed had been done.
Darby opened a door marked OFFICE at the end of the hallway, where a secretary talked with a distinguished-looking gentleman who perched on the side of her desk. The secretary looked annoyed at the interruption.
“I’m looking for Esme Castillo.” Darby was nervous, but all the phone lessons at Katharine Gibbs had paid off, for her voice remained perfectly modulated.