Outside, they said their good-byes and Rose and Jason promised to stay in touch.
Sam held Rose’s hand tightly in his. “It was all so long ago, but what’s funny is I still dream of Darby. Just last night, in fact, I dreamed of her. That she was singing at the club and it was as if she was only singing to me. That’s what it was like, watching her. Like you were the only man in the world.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
New York City, 2016
Rose asked Jason to help her move her things to Maddy’s after their talk with Sam; she didn’t want to wait until morning. As they climbed the back stairs for the last time, she was hit by a wave of nostalgia. She was connected to the building like no other in Manhattan, even her West Village studio, even the town house she’d grown up in. Knowing that hundreds of women had walked the halls—it was a history she was pleased to have been part of, even if it was only for a few months.
She opened the door to the fourth-floor hallway. “Thanks for helping me out.”
“Of course.”
She put the key into the lock and opened the door.
The figure of a woman stood less than two feet away.
Rose jumped backward and let out a screech.
Esme.
Her figure was cast into silhouette by a bright light behind her, making her seem more like a dark ghost instead of a human being. When she spoke, her scratchy voice echoed in the small hallway. “Well, well, well. Looks like Goldilocks has returned.”
Rose’s heart pounded in her chest and her mouth went dry. “You’re back.”
“Indeed, I am.” She studied Rose and Jason through a brown hat and veil that sat slightly askew, as if she’d quickly planted it on her head. She stepped aside and waved them in.
Rose cautiously led the way, hoping at the very least that Bird would jump into her arms, happy to see her. But he remained on the couch, panting like a lunatic, as if he were curious to see how this all played out.
Her suitcases were stacked beside the coffee table, the throw she’d used as a blanket these past few weeks neatly folded on top of the pillow she’d borrowed from the bedroom.
“You’ve made yourself right at home in my absence, it appears. Sleeping in my bed, drinking my coffee.”
“I wasn’t sleeping in your bed. Just on your couch.” As if that helped.
“Are you being impertinent?”
“No, not at all. I’m so sorry about this.”
“So tell me.” Esme crossed her arms. “Why are your belongings in my apartment?”
“You see, Miss Conover—”
Esme cut her off before she could go on. “Yes, Stella tells me you walked Bird while I was away. And I thank you for that. But you don’t need suitcases to walk a dog.”
“You remember I lived right above you? Well, I had to leave my apartment.”
“And why was that my problem?”
“I had to move out, but I didn’t want to leave Bird. No one else on the floor offered to take him in.”
“Bunch of hermit crabs. Not surprised at that.”
Encouraged, Rose carried on. “So you see, I decided to stay here until you returned. Miss Conover said you wouldn’t be back until Monday.”
“Were you planning to make a quick escape before I came home?”
Not being able to see Esme’s eyes made it difficult to connect with her, to gauge what she was feeling. “To be honest, yes. I felt horrible, doing this, but it was an emergency, because Miss Conover had to go to the hospital.”
“I ought to call the police on you. I know exactly what you were up to. You wanted to find out more about what happened to me, so you made yourself right at home and went through my things.” Her voice rose. “This is a complete invasion of privacy.”
Jason stepped forward. “Rose’s father just passed away. She lost her job, her father died, and taking care of Bird became very important to her. She was out of line, that’s true, but she didn’t mean to do you any harm.”
“Who are you?”
“Sorry, Esme, this is Jason Wolf. He’s a journalist as well.”
“Jason Wolf. Quite the name.” She looked him up and down before turning back to Rose. “Why did you call me Esme?”
She’d blown it. But considering there was no way this woman would ever grant them an interview, the truth might as well come out.
Rose pointed to the bookcase. “One night I took out your copy of Romeo and Juliet. It caught my eye, the binding was so old. It’s a gorgeous edition.” She paused. “And a letter dropped out.”
“And you read it, of course.”
The awfulness of what Rose had done hit home. This poor woman wanted nothing more than to live in peace, not have to relive what must have been the most horrific few moments of her life. No matter what she’d done in 1952 to Sam and Darby, decades had since passed. “I apologize. I wasn’t thinking straight. I never should have read it. Or come in here at all.”
“You got that right.”
“Esme, I know what happened at the club, about the drugs, and Sam, and I wanted to know more. I couldn’t help myself. Maybe it’s because I’m a journalist. But it’s also because I’m a woman in a tough spot, not totally unlike the one you and Darby were in. No one’s here to blame anyone.”
“How dare you talk to me of blame?” Waves of anger emanated from her body.
She was blowing it. “Please, for Sam’s sake. He should know the truth as well.” Rose was taking a risk. Either Esme would rise to the bait, or she’d close them off forever.
Esme opened her lips, but no sound came out for a moment, all of her bluster faded away. “Sam?”
“He’s in town. We saw him a few hours ago. I’m sorry if that’s a shock.”
“A shock. Yes, you could say that.”
“Can I get you some water?”
“Yes, please.” Esme lowered herself into the armchair. Rose grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and by the time she’d returned, Jason had draped the throw over Esme’s shoulders. Her fierceness was gone, replaced by an overwhelming melancholy.
Rose knelt at her feet and looked up. “Please. What can I do to make this up to you?”
“Put on my record.”
She knew the one Esme was referring to. She walked over to the small record player, turned it on, and, with a shaking hand, lifted the needle and placed it carefully on the edge of the revolving vinyl. The familiar recording of the two women’s voices began, Esme and Darby, singing, followed by the tiny giggle at the very end.
Rose couldn’t help but smile. “I heard you playing this the day we met in the elevator. It’s beautiful. And intriguing. Your voices are remarkable together.”
“I’m so pleased you think so. And now it is time for you to get the hell out of my apartment.” Esme’s mouth was set in a firm line, her cheeks slightly flushed.
“Okay, we’ll go. I’m sorry it all came crashing down. I only started asking questions because I was worried about you. Being all alone—I get that. I’m alone now. No family, no job. I have to start again from the ground up. I’ll be the first to admit my behavior here was suspect. But it’s because I need to know how to do this. How to start again.”
“Don’t compare our situations.” Esme pointed a long, crooked finger at Rose and slowly rose back to her feet. “Maybe I could have had a different life; we’ll never know. Once I was marked, scarred, it was all over. I was only a shell after that, working in the back room of a button company, balancing books and paying bills, staying away from people who felt sorry for me or wanted to find out the lurid details.” She paused, breathing heavily. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Do you want to see it for yourself? Me as a freak?”
“Not at all,” protested Rose. “I don’t presume to know what you’ve been through.”
The woman gave out a low moan. “You speak of blame. And you’re right. I deserve everything that’s happened to me. I destroyed lives. Including my own.”
“Don’t say that.”
Rose’s own despair was nothing compared to the years of torment her neighbor had been through. She looked at Jason in a panic, and he held up his hands. “No, we’re very sorry. We’re going now.”