The Dollhouse

by Fiona Davis

  Jason spoke quietly. “You never heard from your family again?”

  “No. I wrote my mother, but she didn’t write back. I made a quiet life for myself, working, coming home. It’s more in my personality, to do the same thing day after day. Like Bird, here.”

  “He does like a structured regimen,” said Rose.

  “Thank you for watching over him while I was away.”

  “I’m sorry I invaded your apartment. That was terrible of me.”

  Darby’s shoulders tensed, but instead of scolding Rose as expected, she shrugged and let out a sigh. “It’s the building. I would probably have holed up in a broom closet at the Barbizon if they hadn’t offered me the chance to stay on after Esme died. By then, it had become my refuge, my sanctuary. I can understand the deep pull of the place. You can shelter here when the city feels too overwhelming to bear. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a living, breathing animal instead of an inanimate pile of stone and cement.”

  The thought was strangely comforting. Rose spoke up. “Can I ask where you’ve been the past few weeks?”

  Darby gave a mischievous smile. “Oui. Montreal.”

  “Montreal?” Jason blinked a couple of times and he and Rose exchanged incredulous looks. Not their first guess.

  “Yes.” Darby pointed to the black-and-white photo on the bookshelf. “The girl I consider my grandniece was performing at the festival they hold there each year. Her international debut.”

  Rose stood and took the photo down. “The one who calls you Tía. I thought this was a photo of Esme.”

  “No, no. Alba loves the old black-and-white studio portraits from the fifties; she insisted on this for her professional photo. My influence, I’m proud to say. A head shot, they called it.” She wiggled her fingers at Rose, who handed her the photo. Darby stared at it, smiling, and for a moment, Rose got the sense of what she might have looked like without the scar tissue. Her face was radiant, underneath the damage.

  “Looks just like Esme,” Darby said. “We’re not related, but she calls me Auntie anyway, dear girl. Alba is the granddaughter of Esme’s sister. She’d invited me to hear her sing in Canada and initially I said no, too far for an old lady like me to go. But when you showed up at my door, I figured it was a good time to hit the road, as they say. You lived in the building, I knew there would be no avoiding you. So I flew up and she took great care of me. I had the best seats, was brought backstage, went out for drinks after the gig with the band. Treated like royalty. She’s a good girl.”

  “So you’d stayed in touch with Esme’s family all these years?”

  “About twenty years ago, I had sunk pretty low. It was during October, a time of year I’ve always found difficult. I had constant nightmares, as if Esme was haunting me. Although I had always visited her grave a few times a year, that year I went on the anniversary of her death.”

  “On Halloween?”

  “Yes. I’d hoped to have a quiet moment to say I was sorry, but there was a group of women there, lots of commotion, in a good way. Esme’s family. They were pleased to meet someone who’d known her then.”

  “Did they know who you were?”

  She shook her head. “The hotel told them that Esme jumped of her own accord. Keeping the fuss to a minimum. This little girl was there, at the graveyard, dressed as a fairy in her Halloween costume. She played by herself off to the side, singing in perfect pitch, and I found her delightful. Over the years the family was kind to me, invited me over for dinners every so often. And as Alba grew up, I offered to pay for her singing lessons, head shots, whatever she needed.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “Inside and out. When I was in Montreal with her I told her the truth, about who I was and what I’d done. Alba didn’t care. She said it explained why I’d taken her under my wing and nurtured her. That it was my way of making it up to Esme.”

  “Esme would have been so proud of her,” offered Rose.

  “True. Esme made some terrible decisions, but she should have had a singing career, an acting career. If she’d lived, I have no doubt she would have made something of herself.”

  Rose stood. “Thank you for telling us all this. The story’s been killed, so we won’t be writing about you or Esme.”

  “Killed?”

  Rose cringed at her poor choice of words. “The company I worked for doesn’t want long stories anymore.”

  “And this would be a doozy, huh?”

  “It certainly would.” She paused. “You should see Sam again.”

  Darby stood as well. “How could I, after all this time? We’re both doddering fools; nothing good can come of it.”

  “You can return his book to him,” said Jason.

  “Oh, you two can do that. No need for me to get involved.”

  “You’re both in the same city after decades of being apart,” urged Rose. “Please don’t pass up the opportunity.”

  “I couldn’t let him see me like this; better for him to remember the girl I was.” Darby’s fingertips went to her scar. For a moment she was lost in thought, lost in time. Then she shrugged. “Although I bet he’s no spring chicken anymore, either.”

  “He’s a good-looking guy, for eightysomething.”

  Darby let out an unexpected giggle. For a moment it was as if she were a teenage girl again. “I bet.”

  “Think about it.” Jason’s voice was calm, soothing.

  “When I think about all the things we could have seen and done together.” Tears filled Darby’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have sent that letter.”

  “You can tell him yourself.” Rose moved closer and took her hand. “You should tell him yourself.”

  “You seem more nervous than Darby,” whispered Jason to Rose as they guided Darby into the restaurant.

  Rose made a face, but she had to agree. They were dining with Sam and Malcolm at Neo, Chef Steven’s restaurant.

  Darby wore a mint-green satin vintage dress that curved around her skinny frame. A small matching hat was angled on her head, the requisite veil underneath. Jason gave Rose’s hand a squeeze as the hostess brought them over to where Malcolm and Sam sat, looking dapper in suits and ties. Both gentlemen rose to their feet.

  Should she make introductions? The finer points of etiquette were completely inadequate here.

  Darby walked over to Sam and took his hands in hers. “Sam. My dear Sam.”

  Sam’s eyes watered and his chin quivered ever so slightly. “You’re here.”

  “I’ve always been here.” She lowered her voice so it was barely audible. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Sam nodded slowly. “When I think of what you went through, my heart breaks.”

  “I thought I was protecting you. But I was protecting myself.” She gestured toward the veil. “And I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

  “I have to be perfectly honest with you.”

  Rose held her breath, unsure of what he would say next.

  “With my glaucoma, you look like a 1950s pinup.”

  Their laughter broke the ice, and after Darby filled Sam in on what had occurred after their parting at the hotel in 1952, Sam told his story. He kept the details vague, but his voice broke in the telling and Darby reached out and put her hand on his arm, where it remained until the waiter came out with the first course.

  “I asked the chef to prepare something special for us,” explained Jason. “Please, dig in.”

  Before them was grilled octopus on a bed of arugula.

  Rose observed Sam’s face as he took a bite. His eyes grew wide and he quickly swallowed. “This is one of mine!”

  Darby laughed like a child who’d been keeping a secret. “Jason and I gave a few of your blends to the chef, in honor of our dinner tonight. I hope you approve. This one is flavored with sea salt and fennel, with a hint of citrus.”

&n
bsp; “I knew I was onto something, but in the hands of a master these rise to a completely different level,” Sam said. “Exquisite.”

  The appetizer was followed by a Moroccan-inspired, spice-encrusted sea bass, and finished off with ice cream that tasted of lavender and honey.

  As they finished their coffees, flavored with cardamom, Rose looked around the table. Darby and Sam were in a deep, private conversation, while Jason and Malcolm were chatting about a bebop festival being held next month.

  “Rose, do you have the book?” asked Darby.

  “Of course.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the book of spices and placed it in front of Sam.

  “I thought this should go back to its rightful owner,” declared Darby.

  Sam opened it and leafed through the pages. He leaned in and gave it a sniff. “I can still smell Kalai’s shop, after all these years. Thank you. I have one request.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like you to read it out loud to me. Over coffee one day, perhaps.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” Darby patted his hand. “And now it’s my turn to surprise all of you. Follow me.”

  To Rose’s shock, Darby led them down the side streets of SoHo to an intimate jazz club, one of several new venues that had sprung up over the past few years. They trod down a set of stairs so narrow and steep that Jason insisted he walk first so Darby had someone in front of her as a guide. Sam trotted down with a renewed vigor, Rose couldn’t help but notice.

  As soon as they’d ordered a round of drinks, the lights dimmed and a young woman stepped into the spotlight, accompanied only by a bassist. She began singing a plaintive, deceptively simple version of Monk’s “Ask Me Now,” one that conveyed layers of pain and the sorrow behind the lyrics.

  Rose listened closely, mesmerized. Not just by the voice, but by the girl. Esme’s grandniece, Alba. She wore a simple coral-colored sheath dress with matching lipstick and her dark hair fell in waves over her shoulders. As she sang, her luminous skin caught the light and reflected it, as if she were glowing from within. She was magnificent.

  No matter how she had suffered, Darby hadn’t retreated from life after all. In fact, she’d embraced it. Quietly, carefully, but with dignity and love. Rose silently vowed that she wouldn’t retreat either.

  Jason took her hand and squeezed it. She smiled and nestled next to him, imagining the ghost of Esme hovering around the darkened room, soaking in every note and breath.

  Epilogue

  After only a couple of weeks of searching, Rose had scooped up a one-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side, right around the block from where the Flatted Fifth used to be. Its uneven, sloping floors and blackened brick fireplace only added to the charm, in her opinion. And when the tiny retail shop on the ground floor came up for rent, Sam and his stepdaughter, Jessica, signed a lease and opened up Sam’s Spice Shop. News of their magic powders spread among the chefs of Manhattan with lightning speed, and a feature story in The New York Times stoked demand from amateur gourmets as well.

  Rose spent her days working on a book about the women of Barbizon’s fourth floor, for which she’d received a healthy advance, while a floor below, Jessica filled orders in the shop and Sam played around with new spice combinations. A few evenings a week, Rose would meet up with Jason to hear about the progress on his documentary on the history of the city’s heroin trade, and after he’d often stay over in her spice-infused bedroom. The arrangement worked perfectly, with time for play as well as time for work.

  Every weekend, Rose would pay a visit to Sam and Darby in their apartment at the Barbizon, followed by a walk with Bird in the park, where the regal woman with the hat and the man holding a cane drew looks from passersby for their obvious devotion to each other.

  The Dollhouse, once the stalwart host to thousands of girls, was now dwarfed by skyscrapers that were taller and shinier. The guest rooms were gone and so were the young ladies who had once dreamed and plotted beneath the building’s Moorish arches. But every time Rose approached the building, she would stop and look up and think of them all, forgetting—for a few quiet moments—the steady stream of pedestrians who curled on the sidewalk around her.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book couldn’t have been written without Stefanie Lieberman’s encouragement and expert guidance, as well as Stephanie Kelly’s enthusiasm and sharp eye. The entire team at Dutton deserves a huge round of applause, as do those who weighed in on early drafts, including Lisa Nicholas, Madeline Rispoli, Lindsey Ross, Jess Russell, Tamra Tuller, and Jamie Brenner.

  In terms of research, I am grateful to Carol Kirn, Joan P. Gage, Olga Jiménez de Wagenheim, and Swing University at Jazz at Lincoln Center. Several books and articles provided inspiration, including The Art of Blending by Lior Lev Sercarz (which I first read about in Alex Halberstadt’s New York Times article on Lev Sercarz), Katharine Gibbs: Beyond White Gloves by Rose Doherty, and The Puerto Ricans: A Documentary History edited by Kal Wagenheim and Olga Jiménez de Wagenheim.

  Finally, I want to thank my dear friends Linda Powell, Cynthia Besteman, and Carrie Molay, and my family—Brian, Dilys, and Martin—for their unwavering support.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Fiona Davis lives in New York City and is a graduate of the College of William and Mary in Virginia and the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism. The Dollhouse is her first novel.

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