The Dollhouse

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.

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 musicians 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 hair 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.”

“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.