The Dollhouse

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.