The Dollhouse(64)

“Meanwhile, you’re on the back stairs with a different guy every weekend.” Darby didn’t care how snappish she sounded. “You shouldn’t judge someone else’s character.”

“I have a plan, and I’m perfectly up front about it. I’m not so sure about Esme’s intentions, about why she’s always skulking after you.”

“Because we’re friends. Friends spend time together; it’s not skulking.” Exasperated, she changed the subject. “What exactly is this plan of yours?”

Stella brightened. “I’m looking for a man who can afford my expensive tastes and drive me wild. Not easy. What I want takes work and the right connections. You see, Thomas—the boy from the park—goes to the same college as Paul, who you met last month in the stairwell. Now, Paul comes from money but is dumb as a box of hair. But he introduced me to Arthur, whose father runs a shipping company. I figured, why not take Arthur for a test run and see if there’s fireworks?”

“And were there?”

“Not a one.”

Darby couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I think you’re wrong about Esme. You should come out with us one night and really get to know her.”

They’d reached their floor. “I’ll take a pass on that. In the meantime, start dating some boys and doing your own thing, away from her.”

“Right.” She thought of Sam in the kitchen and smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thatta girl.”

Stella blew her a kiss good night and padded down the hallway to her room.





CHAPTER NINETEEN



New York City, 2016


Who exactly are we meeting here? I hope you don’t think we’re going to be able to expense this.” Rose turned in exasperation to Jason. He’d called her a few hours ago and instructed her to meet him at an address downtown, which turned out to be a restaurant called Neo. She’d read about it in The New York Times a few weeks earlier, where it had been well received by the dining critic for its refreshing, offbeat menu.

“A friend of mine works here,” Jason assured her. “It’s part of our research.” He led Rose inside, where the hostess, a doe-eyed beauty with a huge Afro, ignored them.

From what Rose could tell, the entire waitstaff had been chosen from the cream of the genetic pool, young men and women with long limbs and shiny hair. “In what way is this part of our story? Do you think Darby’s working here as a waitress?”

He gave a snort of a laugh. “Now, there’s an image. No, I don’t think that. Did you bring the spice book?”

She pulled it out of her bag. “Yup. But I—”

“Good. Now please give this a chance for five minutes?”

Jason whispered something to the hostess and her demeanor changed dramatically. She laid a manicured finger on his arm and gave him a warm smile revealing even, white teeth. Then she turned and wobbled away on her four-inch heels.

Very impressive. “What did you say to her?”

“Just dropped a name.”

More people had squeezed into the narrow foyer and now they were pressed against one wall, shoulders touching. Chasing the latest trends in fine dining wasn’t for her. Too much posing, for one thing—she hated all those hot spots where more attention was paid to the atmosphere than the food. She’d take a good juicy burger over a celebrity sighting any day of the week.

“Jason!”

The crowd waiting to be seated parted like the Red Sea as a large man in a chef’s uniform strode forward. He shook Jason’s hand with enthusiasm and nodded when Rose was introduced. “So glad you could come.”

“Chef, you look sharp in that toque. And busy,” said Jason.

“Always have time for you.”

“Rose, this is my buddy Steven Hinds. Steven, Rose.”

He shook her hand and led them back to the kitchen. Jason gave Rose a wink.

She refused to rise to the bait. “I get it, so you know the chef. Stop showing off.”

They swept through swinging doors into the enormous open kitchen. Every surface was pristine, and the copper pots glistened under the fluorescent lights. The line cooks and sous chefs barely looked up, concentrating on the task at hand, whether searing meat or cutting herbs into slivers.

The chef directed them to a quiet corner. “Let’s see your book, then.”

Rose placed it on the counter, happy to see that he wiped his hands on his apron before handling it.

“This is from the fifties?”

“Nineteen fifty-two, to be exact,” she said. “A man named Sam Buckley compiled it, and we’re trying to find out more about him.”

He spent several moments perusing the text. “Well, I can tell you this much: Sam Buckley was way ahead of his time. No one back then would dare experiment with these spices. Several were unheard of in America until thirty or so years ago. Where did this guy come from?”

“From New York City, originally. But he was abroad during World War Two. We think he wrote this after he got back.”

“These are amazing blends, surprising even today. Let’s try one of them and see.”

He called out a list of herbs from page seventeen of the book to his sous chef, and in no time had a pestle and mortar as well as jars of fresh spices lined up in front of him.