The Dollhouse (3 page)

“Now, tell me, where are you from in Ohio?” asked Stella once they'd sat down at the table filled with their hall mates.

“Defiance.”
Keep your answers short and sweet; don't drone on.

“What an original name for a town. Much better than Granite Falls, anyway—that's where I'm from in North Carolina.” Stella took a dainty bite of potato and continued. “It's strange they put you on the same floor as the models, though. The Gibbs girls are up on sixteen and seventeen.” She put a hand on Darby's arm. “We're happy to have you, of course.”

“Why, thank you. Happy to be had.” Wrong. Stupid. Stella threw her an odd glance.

Darby wished she were at home, cuddling her dogs while Mother cooked, enjoying the few quiet hours after school and before Mr. Saunders came home. She'd brought several books with her, including her beloved anthology of Shakespeare's plays, and part of her wanted nothing more than to run up to her room and lose herself in
Twelfth Night
or
Cymbeline
, imagining the stage sets and costumes in her head as she read.

“I'm sorry, I'm out of my element here.” Darby fiddled with her cutlery as tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

“There, now.” Stella lowered her voice. “I felt the same way before I settled in. Granite Falls doesn't even have a bus depot, so you can imagine how overwhelming this was for me when I arrived.”

For the first time, Darby noticed the other girl spoke with a soft Southern lilt. Her voice was musical, like a song.

“I like your accent.”

“Thank you. I try to play it down—the modeling agency thinks it makes me seem unsophisticated.”

“How can they say that? It's beautiful, like a melody.”

Stella drew back, pleased. “That's so well put. You should be a writer.”

“You're kind, but I can't waste time daydreaming. I'm here to learn to be a secretary. Mother used all of the insurance money she got when Daddy died to get me here. I won't have another chance.”

“I see,” said Stella. “And where would you like to work once you're through with Katie Gibbs, Little Miss Serious?”

Darby smiled. “Funny, I hadn't thought that far ahead.” The din was nice; it offered them a cocoon of privacy.

“Well, I think you should aim high. You could be the secretary to a top businessman, to someone who runs a publishing house or a fashion line. Someone who'll appreciate a girl who has a way with words.”

“That sounds like a dream. But we don't have any such people in Defiance.”

“So don't go back to Ohio at all, then. You can stay here in New York City.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't do that.”

“But why not?”

Darby wouldn't dare explain why. That she'd miss her dogs too much, and Mother would be left alone with Mr. Saunders and his moods and temper.

“Did you hear what happened last year?” Candy addressed the entire table, cutting into Darby and Stella's conversation.

“No, what?” asked Stella, turning away from Darby.

“I heard one of the girls jumped to her death from the fourteenth floor.”

“Hush, Candy. That's just a rumor and you know it.”

“No, it's true.” Candy stared right at Darby. “One of the doormen told me all about it. Said they covered it up so the papers wouldn't find out, just shoveled up the body and sent it home to wherever she was from.”

“Awful!” The girls' protests rang out.

“We're not supposed to know. And apparently another girl used a gun to shoot herself in the head in her room several years ago. Her ghost still walks the halls, half of her head gone.”

Stella pushed away her plate. “Lord, Candy. I'm still eating. You could at least wait until bedtime for such gruesome stories.”

“She wasn't a guest editor or a model, I know that much. Probably a Katie Gibbs girl. You better watch out, Darby.”

The room began to spin.

“You don't look very well,” said Stella.

“I'm fine.” Darby wiped her mouth with her napkin and offered up a weak smile.

“You know, I have a powder that would be perfect for the shine on your nose.” Stella again, saving the day. Bored with the line of conversation, the other girls turned away. “I'll give it to you when we go back to our rooms. Would you like that?”

“I would like that very much. Thank you.” Embarrassed, Darby patted at her cheeks with her napkin, hoping to tone down the oily sheen that had haunted her since she was fourteen. She was way out of her league with these girls: ugly, uninformed, and dull-witted. How many dinners would she have to sit through before she could return to Defiance? September through June, ten months, seven dinners a week, four weeks a month: two hundred and eighty, minus some for the holiday vacations.

Back in her room, Darby threw herself facedown on her bed and silently wept into her pillow. She had just wound down when a knock sounded on her door.

“Darby, I brought your powder. Pond's Angel Face; it's to die for.” Stella stepped in and closed the door behind her. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Darby sat up and wiped her eyes. “I want to go home, Stella. I don't want to be here.”

Stella joined her on the bed and put her arm around her. She smelled of vanilla, and Darby couldn't help but lay her head on her shoulder. Stella didn't flinch, as she might have, and this small kindness almost set off another round of tears.

“There, there.” Stella reached around with her free hand and tucked Darby's hair behind her ear. “You'll settle in soon enough.”

“Do you really think there's a ghost?”

“No. I think Candy's a first-class brat. Don't let her get to you. You're a Barbizon girl now; you're one of us.”

The dull panic that had clutched her heart since she'd left Ohio loosened, just a little, and Darby let out a deep, sad sigh.

New York City, 2016

T
he risotto was simmering nicely by the time Griff arrived home, and the scent of the peonies drifted in from the foyer, where Rose had placed them in a glass vase. He popped his head into the kitchen and she smiled up at him. “Well, hello, stranger.”

Her heart flipped as it always did when she saw him, even after three years together. His eyes, which were the color of seawater, had a laserlike intensity that made politics the obvious career choice. That or terrorist interrogator. She'd seen both men and women turn into pools of mush before him. To be the object of his affection was flattering.

He gave her a quick kiss. “Gotta change out of this suit. Just give me a minute.”

“How did it go today?”

“The mayor's got me digging into the latest housing scandal, leaving me to figure his mess out.”

As the first deputy mayor of the city of New York, Griff was in charge of everything the mayor threw at him. Rose sympathized, having experienced similar chaos in the television studio.

While he changed, she poured two glasses of his favorite Burgundy. After a gentle stir of the risotto, she lowered the burner to a simmer, covered the pot, and joined him in the living room.

Griff reached for his glass of wine and took a large sip, then sank down into the sofa, staring into the black void of the TV screen.

“The risotto needs another ten minutes.” She rubbed his leg with her hand. “You okay?”

“I'm fine. I have some interesting news.”

“Let's hear it.”

“On my way out the door, the mayor stopped me and suggested I run for office when he's done with his term.”

Griff had talked about running for mayor down the road, when he had more political capital and experience behind him. But that was supposed to happen far in the future. If Griff ran and won in the next election, she'd be the first lady of New York City in less than two years. The idea rattled her. The scrutiny would be horrible, Page Six of the
New York Post
every day. “Wow. That's a huge leap.”

Griff gave a shy smile. “He thinks I have a strong chance, that people are looking for a fresh candidate—one who isn't imbedded in the system.”

Whatever happened, they'd manage. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. She loved the way he seemed surprised by his success, and he truly was. Just a good boy from upstate who happened to be brilliant at his job.

“Probably best not to think about it too much yet.” Griff dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “There's so much to accomplish before then.”

“Of course.”

His eyes were more sunken than usual, and she wondered if he might be coming down with something. She curled her legs under her and snuggled in for closer inspection. Usually when they met up in the evening, she liked to entertain him with the latest exploits of her ridiculous twentysomething boss. When Rose's job at the network had ended in a spectacular flameout, Griff had encouraged her to take a pay cut and work where she could write about culture and the arts, her first loves. She took a job at WordMerge, a media start-up with an admittedly terrible name, one that tripped on the tongue when uttered aloud.

“Today, Tyler asked if I'd cover some new strip club in Brooklyn that offers farm-to-table food and microbrewed beer. It's called Au Naturel. Can you believe it?”

Griff nodded. “Very hip. Are you going to do it?”

“I'd rather not. I'll let one of the assistant editors have it.”

“Why all the fluff all of a sudden?”

“I think the board is pressuring Tyler to attract more advertisers. And right now that means finding readers who only eat organic at strip clubs and are willing to drop two hundred bucks on a pot of beard-grooming cream.”

Griff smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Could be a great story.”

“You're kidding, right?”

“Hey, sometimes you have to do certain things to please certain people. Then you get what you want.”

She sat up, surprised. “I guess so. Still.” She checked her watch. “The risotto should be ready. Are you hungry?”

“Um, not yet.”

Usually he came home ravenous.

“Okay, we can wait a few more minutes, no problem. You'll never guess what I learned from Patrick today.”

His brow furrowed. “Patrick?”

“The Irish doorman.”

“Right.”

“I shared an elevator with one of the longtime residents, a very odd, elegant old lady who wore a veil that covered her face. She lives in the apartment right below us. Turns out she was involved in an incident on one of the terraces way back when. She was cut on the face by a maid, who then fell to her death.”

“Huh.”

He was far away, not even listening to her.

“Anyway, what a story, right?” She ran a finger around the lip of her wineglass. “And your daughter called, looking for you.”

He snapped back to attention. “Which one?”

“Miranda.”

He leapt up with a smooth leonine grace. “I'll call her back now, before dinner.”

His footsteps echoed against the stark walls as he retreated into the bedroom. He didn't seem like a man on the verge of proposing. Or maybe he was behaving so strangely because he was nervous.

Swigging down another mouthful of wine, she looked out the window at the brick facade of another building filled with people who were aging and fighting and making love. The thought was oddly comforting.

Griff's murmurs were unintelligible. She wandered to the kitchen and gave the risotto an idle stir before adding salt and pepper.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

He was suddenly beside her, looking serious.

“Of course.”

He led her back into the living room and they sat back down. As he reached into his pocket, she gripped her palms tightly together, trying to remain calm. The time had come. He was so anxious, her heart went out to him.

He pulled out his cell phone and turned it off.

Griff never turned off his phone. He'd put it on vibrate, maybe. But not off.

“You've been so good to me,” he said.

“Of course. And you've been good to me.” Her words came out robotic, an automatic response.

“Rose, I love you so much.”

Her mouth went dry. She was reminded of the first time she'd ever presented the news: the countdown to going on air, the fear of doing something stupid or saying the wrong words. Like then, she reminded herself to breathe and loosened her shoulders, letting the tension flow out of her. She hoped he'd get to the point quickly, put her out of her misery, proposal or no.

“Talk to me, Griff.”

“I've been speaking with Connie lately, about the girls, and we've been really worried, particularly about Miranda.”

Not the response she was expecting. And the use of
we
was troubling. Not
we
as in Rose and Griff, but the prior
we
.

He continued, one jean-clad leg jiggling furiously. “I do want to get married. I do.”

The sentence should have been a simple declaration. But the two words tagged on at the end changed everything, acted as a hinge, a doorway to a different meaning entirely. She waited for the next part of the phrase, the one that would turn it on its head.

“I think I have to go back to them.”

Her head swarmed with confusion, her thoughts like bees whose hive has been destroyed. “Go back to Connie?”

“Not Connie, exactly. The girls. I realize what I've done to you is a terrible, terrible thing. I love you and I always will.”

She held perfectly still and scrutinized his face. His eyes were wide, innocent, an open book. But his pupils dilated with fear, dark wheels barely encircled with green.

“And I love you.” She continued to play by the script, waiting until she had surer footing.

“But my family needs me right now. The girls are a mess. Miranda's been suspended from school again. Connie can't handle her alone. “

“I'm so sorry, but maybe you shouldn't make any impulsive decisions right now. Let's furnish this apartment so you can spend more time with the kids here. I'll help. You don't have to go there every weekend.”

Every weekend. He'd told Rose that Connie stayed with friends when he went to the house in Litchfield to spend time with the girls. But maybe she'd been there as well, luring him back, sleeping with him, making him miss the comforts of home and hearth. While Rose had been left sitting in a half-empty, three-bedroom condo, playing the patient girlfriend when she wasn't putting in ten-hour workdays.

She'd taken a huge cut in salary to join WordMerge. How was she
going to pay for her father's care now? Her despair simmered into a dull anger.

The smell of burning rice snapped her to attention.

In the kitchen, she yanked the pot off the burner and turned off the gas. The bottom of the risotto was burned, and the pot would have to be tossed. How would she be able to buy a new one, never mind an entirely new set of cutlery, dishes, furniture? The list went on and on.

Griff came up behind her and rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. The pressure was soothing. Maybe this was temporary insanity.

She turned around and his hands slid to her hips.

“Do you think that maybe you're panicking here?” she asked. He dropped his head and pressed his forehead to hers. Her heartbeat slowed ever so slightly, more like R & B than speed metal for the moment. “Miranda will be fine; you need to give her time. Think of everything we have together.”

“That's just it. We do have so much, such an amazing connection. But I have to do this for my daughter.”

“But you're divorced. Who goes back to their ex-wife? It's insane.”

“You can stay here for as long as you need to, while I work the details out. I'm as confused as you right now.”

Fuck the risotto. Fuck his sad-dog face and soft words that covered up the fact that he was dumping her. Fuck him.

On her way out the door, Rose picked up the vase of peonies from the foyer table and threw it down the hall, sending shards of glass skittering across the rosewood floor.

“
He's an asshole.”

Maddy tossed back the last of her bourbon and followed it with a defiant shake of her blond head.

Rose nodded but couldn't speak. She kept waiting for a flood of tears to come, now that she was safe in a Hell's Kitchen bar with her best
friend, away from Griff and his lies and betrayal. Her mind was working like some kind of supercomputer, circling around her father, her finances, her future, then back again to Griff, but she was in a daze, perhaps still recovering from the shock. They made quite a pair in the dive bar, Rose dressed in the casual uniform of an Upper East Side power wife, the part she thought she'd been auditioning for, and Maddy in a strapless lilac gown, looking as if she'd just descended from a horse-drawn carriage.

“Looking back now, he has been sort of withdrawing the past few weeks. I just didn't know why.” Rose took a sip of her bourbon, and for a fleeting moment the liquid's slow burn provided a distraction. “Thanks for meeting me. I know this was supposed to be a fun night for you, not a sob fest.”

Maddy yanked up the bodice of her dress. “I lost, anyway. To Missy Lake. Her fake boobs were bigger than mine. Typical. I knew I should have gone up a size.”

“Stop. You don't want to look like a Real Housewife.” Maddy and Rose had bonded the first day of speech class at college, when the professor had encouraged the students to open their throats wide, as if “you're swallowing the Empire State Building.” Maddy, a beauty queen with champagne-blond tresses, had burst out laughing, as had Rose, and they'd been tight ever since. Even now, if they passed the landmark building in the backseat of a cab, they'd lose it, unable to speak for several minutes.

“So tell me what the clues were.”

Rose sighed. “He called less and less, just to check in. At one point, he said he had a conference call and went into another room, but his tone wasn't right; it wasn't work. He was talking to Connie.” Anger and confusion welled up in her stomach, and she thought she might be sick.

“He's a dick.” Maddy rubbed her friend's back and signaled the bartender for another round.

“He's worried about his daughter.”

“You're being too nice. Who leaves his girlfriend to go back to an ex-wife? He encouraged you to give up your apartment and move in with him. You gave up your apartment for him.”

The loss of her cozy studio apartment, sunny and equipped with a working fireplace, a true find in this city of overpriced hellholes, cut into her like a knife. Someone else lived there now. She'd given up the one thing she'd been most proud of: a rent-stabilized West Village studio. The perfect artist's garret, at the top of a set of narrow, creaky stairs.

“I'm homeless.”