The Dollhouse(34)

The pretense and bravado fell from Esme’s face, replaced by a look of desperation. “You have to do this for me. One song, three verses, that’s all I’m asking. No one will know. Please.”

Underneath the rough voice and confidence, Esme was scared as well. Not scared of change, like Darby was, but scared of staying put, staying unchanged.

The place where Esme touched her bare skin tingled, the beginning of an illicit thrill that shimmied down her spine. Could she be a bad girl? Esme refused to define herself as a hotel maid. And maybe Darby didn’t need to define herself as a boring secretary. At least not tonight.

“Okay. I’ll try.”

Esme squealed and hugged Darby close. “Go out there and get a seat at a table up front. I’ll call you up when it’s time. And act like you’re having fun.”

“I’m not swaying my hips.”

“Okay, don’t sway, just sing. Keep the mic a few inches away from your mouth, not too close, not too far, and look at me if you get scared.”

Tanya moaned again.

“Should we do something for her?” Darby asked.

“She’ll be fine. She got herself into this mess, and she’ll have to get herself out. Buckley will make the busboys dump her in the gutter if she’s still here at closing.” She turned back to the mirror. “Off you go. I’ll see you under the lights of stardom.”

When Darby emerged from the green room, the club was three-quarters full. As directed, she took a table near the front. The stage was steps away, but she’d have to be careful getting up there so as not to fall or hike up her dress too high.

The undercover policeman whom she’d seen the first time walked by her table and gave her a nod, staring at her two beats longer than what was considered polite. In fact, several of the men at the nearby tables held her gaze, or tried to hold her gaze, before she looked away. A hot rush of shame traveled through her, from her forehead to her feet. Did they think she was a prostitute, sitting alone?

But so what if they did? They’d see soon enough that she was part of the show. She hummed the notes under her breath, imprinting them on her memory.

Finally, Esme’s name was announced and she bounced up to the stage to stand in front of the center mic. Darby nodded along with the beat and clapped at the end of the first song, but her mind was racing, her heart pounding faster than it ever had. A dry stickiness spread over her tongue, a combination of the lipstick and fear.

“And now I’d like to call up Darby McLaughlin to join me.” Esme’s voice thundered across the room.

A sprinkling of claps covered the endless walk onto the stage. Darby positioned herself behind the backup singer’s mic. Esme counted off and launched into “The Bluest Blues.” At one point, she looked back at Darby and gave her an encouraging wave of her hand, which Darby knew meant that she should stop standing like a statue and move in time with the music. She bobbed her head, the best she could do under extreme circumstances.

She couldn’t see a thing out in front of her with the bright lights shining down from the ceiling. It was as if a black fog hovered just beyond the foot of the stage, and she welcomed the darkness, the inability to see people staring back at her.

Esme swiveled her head around. Darby had missed her cue. She joined in, shocked by the loudness of her voice, then pulled back from the mic a couple of inches, remembering Esme’s advice. The first chorus was over before she’d even had time to think.

She was prepared the second time, and matched Esme note for note. The bassist raised his eyebrows and gave her a solemn nod. By the third chorus, she had relaxed enough to let her shoulders dip from side to side in time with the beat. Esme finished with a flourish, holding the last note with no vibrato, a muscular sound that lifted the audience to its feet in appreciation.

“I want to thank everyone,” Esme said over the clapping, then listed the band members one by one. “And especially Darby here, who stepped in at the last moment and saved the day for us. Let’s give her a special round of applause.”

Darby curtsied. As if she were a debutante at a ball. Then turned beet red at her mistake. They trailed off the stage, Esme accepting the accolades of the patrons as though she were Cleopatra on the Nile. At the back of the room, Sam stood next to the door to the kitchen, still in his apron, staring at her. He put his hands to his lips to let out a loud whistle, which soared above the clamor. Darby gave a little wave before a press of well-wishers trying to get to Esme blocked her view.

When they finally got into the green room, Esme turned around and gave Darby a huge hug. She smelled like cinnamon and fresh laundry, unlike any woman Darby had ever known. Then again, she was unlike any other woman she’d ever known.

“You did it, Darby. We did it.”

Darby could only nod, unable to say out loud what she was feeling, a mixture of relief and giddiness.

From the couch, Tanya snored on.





CHAPTER ELEVEN



New York City, 2016


Twelve hours after the migraine struck, the pain finally passed. Rose had spent the entire night on the couch, raising her head for a sip of water only once, trying to breathe through the nausea in her gut and the pounding in her head. Now relief flooded through her body, and everything she usually took for granted, like sunlight and the sound of construction and traffic outside the windows, she welcomed with what could almost be called joy.