The Dollhouse(61)

“Right. As soon as I get rich, I’ll take care of that.”

“Everyone in their right mind loves your food; don’t let one customer get to you.”

He smiled. “I won’t. When I was in the war, I started getting requests from the sick soldiers, the really sick ones, for something that reminded them of home. I’d start by asking lots of questions about where they were from, what the soup their mother made tasted like, that kind of thing, and then I’d create a spice blend just for them. Whether they lived in Rhode Island and their families were originally from Portugal, or maybe from Mexico but living in California, I’d work in the kitchen until I had something that clicked. And you should’ve seen the look on their faces. Even if they’d lost a leg, or were blind in one eye, for a split second it was like they were home. I loved doing that. I want to keep doing that.”

“And you will. Just maybe not tonight.”

The kitchen door swung open again. Another waiter, another couple of plates.

But they were empty.

Not a crumb was left on either.

“What did they order?” asked Sam, his voice breathless.

“One chicken and one shrimp. They want more. The chicken wants the shrimp this time and vice versa.”

Sam and Darby stared at each other, then he whooped with laughter and grabbed her, swinging her around. His build was strong and hard and she clung to his neck, their faces inches apart.

“They liked it.”

She let go and stepped backward, off balance. “You’d better get cracking.”

The next hour flew by, with orders pouring in as word spread that the food was different, tastier.

Before she knew it, Esme swooped in, telling her to change.

“We only have twenty minutes. Hurry!”

Annie Ross perched on the green-room couch, drawing on a cigarette and nodding as they dashed behind the screen. She was thin, with a close-cropped hairdo and elfin eyes. Not what Darby expected at all.

“I’m scared,” Darby whispered. Her legs shook as she pulled the dress over her head. She’d been diverted from her stage fright by helping out Sam, but now the fear crushed her. “I’m not sure if I can breathe, never mind sing.”

“Pretend. That’s what they teach us in acting class. Pretend and you’ll believe it soon enough.”

She didn’t trip getting up onto the stage. Darby gave herself a mental pat on the back for that minor accomplishment. Ross looked at the drummer and then launched into the first number. Darby followed Esme’s lead and moved her hips right, then left, then snapped her fingers. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus. Song one was done.

As she began to relax, she was able to look out over the audience, her eyes adjusting to the lights. Sam stood in the back, his arms crossed, grinning widely. Starting tomorrow, she’d happily dedicate herself to spelling tests and punctuation drills. But tonight had been worth it, if only to watch Sam’s culinary triumph.

She shook a hip and snapped her fingers and smiled.




Darby meant to head home as soon as their set was over, but by the time the bar cleared out, it was almost four in the morning. The busboy had placed the chairs upside down on all the tables except one, where she, Esme, and Sam sat with several of the musicians and toasted one another.

The air smelled of marijuana and sweat. Darby sat back, enjoying the banter of the musicians as they teased and flirted with Esme. Sam had taken the seat next to her, one foot crossed over a thigh, his hand barely touching the skin below her neck as it rested on the back of her chair. She resisted the urge to shiver every time he moved his thumb ever so slightly over her flesh.

He’d made burgers for the musicians and they devoured them with relish.

“Damn, this is good.” The bass player wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Reminds me of the South.”

“No, this is Chicago-style. I can’t figure out what’s in it, but it’s like what they do there.”

Darby smiled over at Sam. The spices affected each taster differently, as if personalized to reflect his childhood, his mother’s cooking, their favorite meals.

“He’s got to open his own place,” said Darby. “Don’t you think?”

The men nodded. “I’d come by every day I’m in town.”

“So?” The word was slurred, Esme’s eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused. “When are you going to break free from your father and do it?”

“It’s not so easy,” said Sam. “But I’m working on it. I have plans.”

“You’ve got to put it into action, Sam. That’s what I’m doing. I’m clawing my way to the top if I have to. Nothing and no one will stop me.”

“I am putting it into action. I have a benefactor.”

“Mr. Kalai?” asked Darby.

“Yes. He’s going to help me out when I’m ready. He says not yet, though.”

“Mr. Kalai is a powerful man.” Esme raised her glass. “Good benefactor to have. Right, Sam?” She winked at him, then downed her drink. “And what about you, Miss McLaughlin? If I’m going to be a famous singer and actress and Sam is going to own his own restaurant, what’s your big plan?” She stood up, swaying to an imaginary beat.

Esme already knew the answer and was trying to make Darby look ordinary, unambitious.