The Dollhouse

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.

As soon as they’d ordered a round of drinks, the lights dimmed and a young woman stepped into the spotlight, accompanied only by a bassist. She began singing a plaintive, deceptively simple version of Monk’s “Ask Me Now,” one that conveyed layers of pain and the sorrow behind the lyrics.

Rose listened closely, mesmerized. Not just by the voice, but by the girl. Esme’s grandniece, Alba. She wore a simple coral-colored sheath dress with matching lipstick and her dark hair fell in waves over her shoulders. As she sang, her luminous skin caught the light and reflected it, as if she were glowing from within. She was magnificent.

No matter how she had suffered, Darby hadn’t retreated from life after all. In fact, she’d embraced it. Quietly, carefully, but with dignity and love. Rose silently vowed that she wouldn’t retreat either.

Jason took her hand and squeezed it. She smiled and nestled next to him, imagining the ghost of Esme hovering around the darkened room, soaking in every note and breath.





Epilogue



After only a couple of weeks of searching, Rose had scooped up a one-bedroom apartment on the Lower East Side, right around the block from where the Flatted Fifth used to be. Its uneven, sloping floors and blackened brick fireplace only added to the charm, in her opinion. And when the tiny retail shop on the ground floor came up for rent, Sam and his stepdaughter, Jessica, signed a lease and opened up Sam’s Spice Shop. News of their magic powders spread among the chefs of Manhattan with lightning speed, and a feature story in The New York Times stoked demand from amateur gourmets as well.

Rose spent her days working on a book about the women of Barbizon’s fourth floor, for which she’d received a healthy advance, while a floor below, Jessica filled orders in the shop and Sam played around with new spice combinations. A few evenings a week, Rose would meet up with Jason to hear about the progress on his documentary on the history of the city’s heroin trade, and after he’d often stay over in her spice-infused bedroom. The arrangement worked perfectly, with time for play as well as time for work.

Every weekend, Rose would pay a visit to Sam and Darby in their apartment at the Barbizon, followed by a walk with Bird in the park, where the regal woman with the hat and the man holding a cane drew looks from passersby for their obvious devotion to each other.

The Dollhouse, once the stalwart host to thousands of girls, was now dwarfed by skyscrapers that were taller and shinier. The guest rooms were gone and so were the young ladies who had once dreamed and plotted beneath the building’s Moorish arches. But every time Rose approached the building, she would stop and look up and think of them all, forgetting—for a few quiet moments—the steady stream of pedestrians who curled on the sidewalk around her.





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



This book couldn’t have been written without Stefanie Lieberman’s encouragement and expert guidance, as well as Stephanie Kelly’s enthusiasm and sharp eye. The entire team at Dutton deserves a huge round of applause, as do those who weighed in on early drafts, including Lisa Nicholas, Madeline Rispoli, Lindsey Ross, Jess Russell, Tamra Tuller, and Jamie Brenner.

In terms of research, I am grateful to Carol Kirn, Joan P. Gage, Olga Jiménez de Wagenheim, and Swing University at Jazz at Lincoln Center. Several books and articles provided inspiration, including The Art of Blending by Lior Lev Sercarz (which I first read about in Alex Halberstadt’s New York Times article on Lev Sercarz), Katharine Gibbs: Beyond White Gloves by Rose Doherty, and The Puerto Ricans: A Documentary History edited by Kal Wagenheim and Olga Jiménez de Wagenheim.

Finally, I want to thank my dear friends Linda Powell, Cynthia Besteman, and Carrie Molay, and my family—Brian, Dilys, and Martin—for their unwavering support.

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