The Dollhouse(77)

“If you stay here, you won’t get any more support from me.” She pointed a red-nailed finger in Darby’s direction. “I don’t want to hear from you, and I don’t want to see you. When you have been misused and mistreated, do not show up on our doorstep to ask for help. I have struggled since your father died to make a new name for myself, and I will not have you shred that again.”

“You needn’t worry. I won’t return.”

Mother picked up her purse and turned on her heel. She stared at Darby once, a cold, bitter look that seared her like a branding iron. Then she was gone.

Stiff and sore, as if she’d been beaten, Darby leaned over and picked up the satin dress that Esme had given her, hanging it back in the closet.

She had to find Esme. More than anything, she needed to hear Esme laugh and tell her everything would be all right. That she could survive in New York without the protection of her family and the Barbizon Hotel for Women.

In this new version of her life, Darby would work hard—whether it was writing, waiting tables, or even singing. And late in the evenings, when she and Esme were done for the day, they’d double-date with their beaux, and Sam would smell like spices and fresh bread.

She’d prove Mother wrong.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE



New York City, 2016


At least he isn’t suffering.” Rose had called Maddy from the hospital, but declined her offer to stop by. She liked being alone with her father, had just needed to hear a friendly voice to break up the stillness of the room.

“He’ll fade into a deep sleep, like my father did,” Maddy assured her.

“After all of his dedication to his work, his students, to me, it’s so weird that this is the end.” Rose sighed. “Out with not even a whimper.”

“Do you think he’d rather rage against the dying of the light?”

In spite of herself, she laughed at the thought. “Probably not. He’d never raged once, even when my mother left. And better this than the ongoing chaos of his dementia.”

“You sure I can’t come down? I’ll bring in a flask of the hard stuff for you.”

Rose assured her she was fine, then hung up and stared out the window at the gray skies. He’d last a few weeks at most, and she needed to make the necessary arrangements. All his life he’d talked about being cremated and for his ashes to be scattered around the lilac bushes on the corner of Sheep Meadow in Central Park. Apparently, that was where he proposed to her mother, before life became difficult.

Rose kept vigil until the nurses sent her home to sleep. Around midnight, nervous and wired, she scanned Darby’s bookshelves for something to read. A worn binding on the top shelf turned out to be an ancient copy of Romeo and Juliet, the cloth cover hanging on, literally, by a thread. She perched on the couch, the book balanced on her lap, and turned to the title page. It was printed in 1887, the pages mottled with time, although the gilt edging was still bright. One of Juliet’s soliloquies had been marked up in pencil, the page filled with questions, comments, and stage directions. At the very back of the book, a flash of white caught her eye. She picked up the envelope and gave a startled yelp at the return address. Sam Buckley had sent it from California. The postal stamp read 1953.


Dear Esme,

I assure you I won’t give up your secret, however devastating it has been to me. As you wish, I won’t try to contact you again.

Sam

But Esme was dead in 1953.

Or was she? Rose’s mind raced. Was the woman she’d assumed to be Darby really Esme impersonating her friend? She picked up her phone and tried to reach Jason. No luck. She left a voice mail for him to call her back right away and scanned the letter one more time.

If the slashing had been that brutal, Esme might have been disfigured enough to get away with the switch. And if Darby had been the one who fell to her death, the same reasoning applied. A grisly thought. Maybe Esme had become a new person, disconnecting herself from the drug scandal and forging a new life. But where had Darby’s family been in all this? Wouldn’t they have known?

According to this short letter, Esme had revealed the switch to Sam, who had been crushed by the news of Darby’s death. But something was off. The whole thing felt like a bad soap opera, a scene from one of Maddy’s scripts. Yet the letter existed for a reason.

Rose googled the address, but there was no Sam Buckley living there anymore. Not surprising, as more than sixty years had passed. But there was someone else she could ask. Stella had known Darby both before and after the accident. She called Stella’s cell phone and left a voice mail, asking if they could meet again.

The next morning, at ten a.m. sharp, she waited for Stanley Jr. outside the button shop. As he unlocked the gate covering the entrance, she got right to the point.

“I have an odd question for you. Did you ever hear Ms. McLaughlin speak Spanish?”

He laughed. “No, I can’t say that I did.”

Rose nodded. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.” She turned to go.

“But her young friend did.”

Rose spun back around. “She spoke Spanish to Darby?”

“She called her Tía. I remember that from high school Spanish. Practically the only thing I remember.”

Tía. Aunt.

Not Christina or Tina. Stella had heard the girl say “tía.”