The Dollhouse(25)

“No, not if she’s uncomfortable. I would like to talk to her, though, about other things. Do you think you might explain what I’m doing the next time you see her?”

“You seem like a nice enough gal. I’ll see what I can do, but you shouldn’t hold your breath. Darby’s probably the last of the old-timers you’ll get to open up. After the accident, she closed herself off. Like a curtain coming down at the end of a play.”

Rose left her business card with Stella and took the stairs up one flight. On one hand, Miss McLaughlin’s sudden exodus put her story into a tailspin. On the other, Stella’s story would make an epic profile and might keep Tyler at bay until she returned.

Exhausted, she passed out on the couch until the ringing of her cell phone woke her up out of a heavy, black sleep. She hurried to it, hoping maybe it was Griff. Instead, Stella’s voice crackled across the line.

“I need your help.”

“Sure, Stella, what can I do for you?”

“Get my apartment key from Patrick and take Darby’s dog.”

“I’m sorry?”

“My doctor put me in the hospital for tests. Apparently it’s my heart, not my nerves. They think I’m having some kind of a heart attack or something.”

“I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

“What I just asked. Take care of Bird while I’m away. Patrick will give you the key.”

“I’m happy to help, but Miss McLaughlin and I barely know each other.”

“Darby doesn’t have many friends, so that’s nothing new. You live in the building, and I can track you down if you steal anything, not that we have anything to steal.”

“I won’t steal a thing, I promise.”

“If he runs out of food, there’s more in Darby’s apartment. Her key is on my kitchen counter. He’s a good dog, won’t poop on your rugs or anything like that. Darby’s instructions are on the kitchen counter.”

Rose tried not to sound too excited. Once Miss McLaughlin found out she’d stepped in during a crisis, she’d have to talk. Assuming she wasn’t too pissed off. Either way, Rose was just being neighborly, and it was an opportunity to move the story forward and connect with the primary source. “Okay, get well soon and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

“Enjoy being young. That’s what you can do for me.”





CHAPTER EIGHT



New York City, 1952


So this was what a hangover felt like.

Darby wanted to curl back in bed and wait for the pounding in her right temple to subside, but that wasn’t what a Katie Gibbs girl did. No, a Katie Gibbs girl gets up and goes to work no matter how ill she might be, knowing that her boss depends on her punctuality. Or at least that’s what the typing teacher said as Darby slunk to her seat five minutes after the other girls had arrived.

“Punctuality and presence. If you’re not there to answer Mr. Blake’s phone, he may miss a very important call, one that the entire organization depends on. Would you want to be the girl who causes a business crisis?” Mrs. Allen peered at Darby through thick-framed glasses, like a scientist staring into a petri dish. “Darby McLaughlin. You are late.”

Darby’s stomach churned. She had never been late a day in high school. As a matter of fact, she’d always arrived early, terrified of standing out.

“I’m sorry. I got lost, but it won’t happen again.”

“You got lost?”

Thankfully, the girl who sat next to Darby raised her hand, and Mrs. Allen was momentarily distracted.

“Yes, Maureen.”

“Mrs. Allen, who is Mr. Blake?”

“Mr. Blake is the name of the first boss I ever had. I learned much from him, so I use him as my teaching tool.” She glared in their direction. “Any other questions?”

“No, ma’am.”

She turned away from Darby and began handing out sample letters. Darby slid hers into the stand at the right of the gray Remington typewriter and wished her eyes weren’t so blurry. She had taken a terrible risk, going out with Esme. No more taking reckless chances. She’d experienced two sides of New York City, the snooty and the subversive, and from now on, her studies would take precedence.

Mrs. Allen turned on the record player and they began typing in time to a slow march. By the end of a couple of months, according to Mrs. Allen, they’d progress to the Ringing Anvil March, typing forty-seven words per minute. Upon completion of the course, they’d be up to fifty-five. The music helped, flowing through Darby like water and making her fingers dance on the keys. At the end of the class, Darby was pleased to be one of the only students whose letter was deemed “mailable.” Her desk mate, the girl named Maureen, had also done well.

As they walked to the next class, Darby tapped her on the arm. She had thin blond hair that looked almost white, and pale blue eyes. A pretty girl, but Darby’s mother would probably have described her as big-boned. “Thank you for distracting Mrs. Allen. I thought she might expel me there and then.”

“Happy to do it. I heard that one girl in her class went to put in a new sheet of paper after she made a mistake, and Mrs. Allen tossed her out on the spot.”

“That’s the last thing I want.”