The Dollhouse(95)

Rose stood. “Thank you for telling us all this. The story’s been killed, so we won’t be writing about you or Esme.”

“Killed?”

Rose cringed at her poor choice of words. “The company I worked for doesn’t want long stories anymore.”

“And this would be a doozy, huh?”

“It certainly would.” She paused. “You should see Sam again.”

Darby stood as well. “How could I, after all this time? We’re both doddering fools; nothing good can come of it.”

“You can return his book to him,” said Jason.

“Oh, you two can do that. No need for me to get involved.”

“You’re both in the same city after decades of being apart,” urged Rose. “Please don’t pass up the opportunity.”

“I couldn’t let him see me like this; better for him to remember the girl I was.” Darby’s fingertips went to her scar. For a moment she was lost in thought, lost in time. Then she shrugged. “Although I bet he’s no spring chicken anymore, either.”

“He’s a good-looking guy, for eightysomething.”

Darby let out an unexpected giggle. For a moment it was as if she were a teenage girl again. “I bet.”

“Think about it.” Jason’s voice was calm, soothing.

“When I think about all the things we could have seen and done together.” Tears filled Darby’s eyes. “I shouldn’t have sent that letter.”

“You can tell him yourself.” Rose moved closer and took her hand. “You should tell him yourself.”




“You seem more nervous than Darby,” whispered Jason to Rose as they guided Darby into the restaurant.

Rose made a face, but she had to agree. They were dining with Sam and Malcolm at Neo, Chef Steven’s restaurant.

Darby wore a mint-green satin vintage dress that curved around her skinny frame. A small matching hat was angled on her head, the requisite veil underneath. Jason gave Rose’s hand a squeeze as the hostess brought them over to where Malcolm and Sam sat, looking dapper in suits and ties. Both gentlemen rose to their feet.

Should she make introductions? The finer points of etiquette were completely inadequate here.

Darby walked over to Sam and took his hands in hers. “Sam. My dear Sam.”

Sam’s eyes watered and his chin quivered ever so slightly. “You’re here.”

“I’ve always been here.” She lowered her voice so it was barely audible. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Sam nodded slowly. “When I think of what you went through, my heart breaks.”

“I thought I was protecting you. But I was protecting myself.” She gestured toward the veil. “And I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“I have to be perfectly honest with you.”

Rose held her breath, unsure of what he would say next.

“With my glaucoma, you look like a 1950s pinup.”

Their laughter broke the ice, and after Darby filled Sam in on what had occurred after their parting at the hotel in 1952, Sam told his story. He kept the details vague, but his voice broke in the telling and Darby reached out and put her hand on his arm, where it remained until the waiter came out with the first course.

“I asked the chef to prepare something special for us,” explained Jason. “Please, dig in.”

Before them was grilled octopus on a bed of arugula.

Rose observed Sam’s face as he took a bite. His eyes grew wide and he quickly swallowed. “This is one of mine!”

Darby laughed like a child who’d been keeping a secret. “Jason and I gave a few of your blends to the chef, in honor of our dinner tonight. I hope you approve. This one is flavored with sea salt and fennel, with a hint of citrus.”

“I knew I was onto something, but in the hands of a master these rise to a completely different level,” Sam said. “Exquisite.”

The appetizer was followed by a Moroccan-inspired, spice-encrusted sea bass, and finished off with ice cream that tasted of lavender and honey.

As they finished their coffees, flavored with cardamom, Rose looked around the table. Darby and Sam were in a deep, private conversation, while Jason and Malcolm were chatting about a bebop festival being held next month.

“Rose, do you have the book?” asked Darby.

“Of course.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the book of spices and placed it in front of Sam.

“I thought this should go back to its rightful owner,” declared Darby.

Sam opened it and leafed through the pages. He leaned in and gave it a sniff. “I can still smell Kalai’s shop, after all these years. Thank you. I have one request.”

“Of course.”

“I’d like you to read it out loud to me. Over coffee one day, perhaps.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Darby patted his hand. “And now it’s my turn to surprise all of you. Follow me.”

To Rose’s shock, Darby led them down the side streets of SoHo to an intimate jazz club, one of several new venues that had sprung up over the past few years. They trod down a set of stairs so narrow and steep that Jason insisted he walk first so Darby had someone in front of her as a guide. Sam trotted down with a renewed vigor, Rose couldn’t help but notice.