The Dollhouse(58)

For the first time since Griff had given Rose the terrible news, hope glimmered, followed by a wash of shame. The family was hurtling toward disaster. But the sooner he figured out that being with Connie wouldn’t help their daughter any more than being apart, the better. If anything, they seemed to be botching the reconciliation completely.

For the past week, she’d imagined Connie had transformed the apartment into a warm, comfy respite. But a brilliant interior design would never make it a happy home for Griff’s family.

What if his misguided attempt at patching things up failed? She imagined him begging her to come back to him, promising the moon.

Could she ever again trust a man who had turned her life upside down?




Stella’s grandniece lived in an imposing brick house in Fort Lee just off the highway. Rose could hear the endless whoosh of cars on I-95 as she and Jason got out of the cab.

Stella guided them into the toy-strewn living room.

“It’s a pigsty, but I can’t say anything because I’m the grateful aunt, happy to be taken in.” She eased herself into a recliner and gestured for them to take a seat on the sofa. The only sign of her illness was a hollowness in her cheeks and a slight wheezing. “Mind you don’t sit on a Lego. You’ll get a bruise for days.”

“I take it you’re eager to get back to the Barbizon,” Rose ventured.

“You bet. They say another few weeks and I’ll be good as new.”

Rose briefly ran through the various interviews she and Jason had lined up, and Stella’s eyes widened with astonishment. “I’m surprised you reached so many of us. You must be very persuasive.”

“I think they agree with me that the history of the Barbizon makes a great story.”

“Right. Well, what do you want to know? We only have an hour until Susan and her kids get back from ballet lessons or welding class or wherever the hell they are.”

Rose looked over at Jason, who nodded. The camera was rolling. “So many different kinds of women stayed at the hotel. How did they all get along? Or did they all get along?”

“God, no. It was a strict class system. Models were on top, then the guest editors for Mademoiselle and the others who were in publishing. The bottom tier was for the Gibbs girls.”

“Why is that?”

“The goal was to catch a man as soon as possible. Sure, we all paid lip service to the idea of working and making our own money. But it was just pocket money. Our parents took care of the bills until we were handed off to Prince Charming.”

“The competition must’ve been fierce.”

“You bet. The boys were tiered as well, handsome and rich was a top catch. The Ford girls expected the full package, but as you moved down the food chain, you might settle for an egghead with cash, or get swept off your feet by a dashing poet.”

“Where did you go on a typical date?”

Stella clapped her hands together. “Oh, the choices were endless. Dinner at the Drake, where the roast duck was to die for, or Café de la Paix at the Hotel St. Moritz. Dancing at the El Morocco until late. Broadway shows, the ballet.”

“Did you ever head downtown to the jazz clubs?”

“Downtown? Not so much. We tended to stick to the ones on Fifty-Second Street. Those downtown ones, as well as the ones way up in Harlem, were off-limits for the Ford girls. They were considered seedy and full of dangerous elements.”

Too bad. She would have loved Stella’s take on the Flatted Fifth. “I assume you were pursued by a number of suitors.”

“Got that right. But I made a huge mistake. Decided to have a ball, enjoy myself, play around. By the time I was twenty-three, I was no longer a good girl and no longer young. Can you believe that? Twenty-three. That’s a baby these days. Still, I don’t regret a thing.”

“What about the Gibbs girls? Weren’t they there to find good jobs?”

“Secretaries fell into two categories: the dowdy type who wouldn’t threaten the wife, and the bombshell who looked good behind a desk or, even better, on top of it.”

Rose stifled a laugh so as not to screw up the audio. “What category would Miss McLaughlin fall into?”

“Dowdy, for sure. At least at first. But she began to blossom. Who knows how far she might have gone.” Her voice trailed off.

The opening was exactly what Rose had been hoping for. “If she hadn’t had the accident?”

Stella nodded.

“Do you remember when it happened?”

“Halloween 1952. Some things you never forget.” She shifted in her chair and changed the subject, and Rose didn’t press. She bided her time, asking questions about the characters Stella had met over the years.

“I had a friend, Charlotte Foster, who was strangely beautiful, though not about to get on the cover of Vogue. Charlotte did well for herself. She didn’t mess about with any marriage nonsense, and I have to say I think she was right. Focus on your job, do what you love, and get on with your life.”

The words resonated. Rose had done so early on, getting a coveted internship out of college and plowing through the office politics. But somewhere along the way, she’d reverted to a 1950s paradigm: Griff had become the center of her world.

She snapped back to the interview. “What happened to Charlotte Foster?”