The Dollhouse(42)

He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, as if he were suppressing a smile. “But what about images of events that rile people up, make them want to improve the world or change things? What about Hurricane Katrina, or Abu Ghraib? Do you think readers would have reacted the same way without the photos, the video?”

“Those images summed up the story in a way that caused outrage, no question. But what about when you’re dealing with a subject that has multiple layers?”

“Give me an example.”

“Watergate. What one photo could explain the ramifications of political corruption in the White House?”

“I’m sure I could think of something.”

She’d backed him into a corner, but there was no reason to make enemies today. He’d be frustrated soon enough, once he realized how flimsy her hold was on Darby. “Anyway, thanks. I figured I was the only one working on a Saturday.”

“Just let me know what I can do to help.”

The offer was unexpected, and for some reason, her eyes burned with a rush of emotion. She shrugged her bag up on her shoulder and looked around. “I think we’re good here. There’s not much else to show.”

“Where did the maid fall from?”

“It was called the sky terrace in all the old articles on the building, but now it’s part of someone’s apartment. I’ll work on that as well.”

“In that case, let’s take a quick look around the lobby, then I’ll buy you a coffee so we can brainstorm some ideas.” He paused. “If you have time, of course.”

Griff had to be in Connecticut. She made a silent prayer as they took the stairs down to the lobby. “You’ve seen the black-and-white photos of the lobby from when it was first built, right?”

“I have. Lots of palm fronds, if I remember correctly.”

“They went in a different direction when they renovated. Not a frond in sight.”

She breathed a sigh of relief that Patrick wasn’t on duty. He didn’t typically work weekends, and he was the only doorman who would ask about Connie’s takeover.

Jason stood in the center of the lobby’s marble floor and looked around. “I kinda miss all the original details, that grand balcony, for instance.”

“Yes, they basically stripped the place of all its character when they went condo, in my opinion. Not much to shoot.”

“Could be a great before and after. Once you’ve gotten permission, of course.”

“Of course.”

A loud voice reverberated across the room. “We’ll want to make it a rush. Priorities are the bed and the dining room table. And the credenza. You agree?”

In a small alcove off the lobby, two women sat side by side on a sofa, staring down at some cut sheets laid out on the glass coffee table. The woman facing away from Rose and Jason had a single streak of gray that began, Rose knew, at the middle of her forehead and ran the length of her thick brown hair. Once, Griff had proudly recounted how he’d forbidden Connie to dye the streak when it first appeared in her twenties. He’d sounded so proud of the fact that she didn’t look like all the other wives. A toxic combination of jealousy and panic threatened Rose’s fragile composure.

She turned around and pointed to the revolving door. “We should go.”

He followed her in silence until they got out onto the street. “Problems with your neighbors?”

“Exactly. One of the more difficult residents.”

She led him to a coffee shop on Lexington, her heart still pounding from the near miss.

They chose a booth near the back and ordered coffee. Jason tapped the edge of the table with his index finger. “So how did you get into journalism?”

“In high school I worked on the paper. Then I majored in journalism in college. I loved collecting facts and then making a story out of them. The perfect combo of science and art. How about you?”

“I thought the outfits were cool. You know, those flak jackets with all the pockets.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.

“I’m only half kidding.”

“I’m not surprised. So let’s talk about the structure for the story.” She fished for her notebook in the bottom of her bag. “I figure the text will start with the history of the place, then mention the denizens of the fourth floor.”

“Denizen; fancy word.”

“Resident, then.”

“No, I like denizen.”

Why was he toying with her? She couldn’t get a good read on this guy. “I’ll mention Darby McLaughlin’s story in the opening, but then jump to each woman’s story, in the order of when they first arrived. We’ll cover the changes over time through their voices. At the end, I’ll circle back to Darby and reveal what happened to her. We’ll include extras like on-camera interviews, shots of the place past and present, that kind of thing.”

“Very nice. Won’t get you the Pulitzer, though.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s no injustice, no quest. It’s a boring feature.”

“I prefer to let the story reveal itself, rather than try to define the narrative immediately. It’s all about asking the right questions.” She pushed her coffee to the side. “For now, I’m interested in learning more about these women’s lives, what they wanted when they first came to the Barbizon, and whether they got it.”