“It’s very possible she has bipolar disorder. We’re trying to find out more.”
“I’m sorry.” She couldn’t argue with him. Sicknesses of the mind were just as terrible as those of the body, no different from cancer. Like her father, spiraling out of control, getting worse every day. “What are you going to do?”
“We’re finding a treatment center for her. It’s complicated, and that’s why I have to be around right now.”
“Do you think, once the crisis has passed, you might come back? That we could pick up where we leave off?”
“Perhaps. If you want that. I don’t know if you’d want that by then.”
“Neither do I.”
Of course she would. Why kid herself? She’d invested three years in their relationship, and letting go wasn’t easy.
“God, Rose, this is torture. I know I keep saying this, but I’m so sorry to do this to you.”
His voice was heavy, sad. If only he’d confided in her, told her what was happening. She knew Miranda was difficult, but assumed it was typical teen drama. A passing my-parents-ruined-my-life-by-getting-divorced kind of thing.
“I just wish you’d said something sooner. I might have helped.”
“It’s not for you to fix. It’s for me and Connie.”
Rose checked her watch. She should be getting back. “Can we keep on talking?”
“Of course. I’m going to Albany with the mayor for a few days. We’ll talk when I get back.”
Back in her cubicle twenty minutes later, Rose’s phone rang. Maddy calling for an update. She whispered a quick rehash of her conversation with Griff.
“You’re out of your mind.” Maddy was never one to hold back. “You need to be getting angry, not acting like an understanding suck-up.”
That hurt. “I’m not sucking up.” Rose ducked her head down, hoping for a smidgen of privacy. “He’s going through something awful, just like me and my dad. If I’m calm and reasonable about the situation, he might come to his senses later.”
“Do you really want a man like that?”
“What, one who cares for his children? Yes, in fact, I do.”
“Plenty of men get divorced and care for their children without having to go back to their ex-wives. It’s more than that. He’s giving you the sympathetic version because he knows you’ll fall for it.”
If she were Maddy, she’d toss Griff off the nearest cliff, but his actions weren’t so cut-and-dried in Rose’s mind. Griff was a man with a sick child, desperate to make her better.
A sharp pain seared along her scalp, the beginnings of a bad headache. Maddy had a point, Griff had a point. She didn’t know what to think.
“I’m not prepared to blow it all up yet. And I don’t think he is, either.” She rubbed her temples with her thumb and ring finger. “Please, Maddy, I need your support. Neither of us has kids, so we can’t really know what’s going on in his head.”
“Touché. I have enough stress from my sweet baby stepmonsters, never mind dealing with genetic offspring. But promise me you won’t wait around for him for too long. You deserve better.”
Rose promised and hung up, then lost herself in the research for the Barbizon story, a welcome distraction from her troubles.
The apartment was as desolate as ever when Rose finally made it home. Griff’s suits, the ones he wore every day, were missing from the closet, his sock and underwear drawers empty and left half-open.
She flung herself on the bed, hoping for a good cry, but when no tears came, she got up and sat by the window. Would it be better if she tossed the rest of his suits out onto the street below?
No. She needed to bide her time, let him return to Connie and see how awful it was, then allow him back with certain provisions. They had to get married, buy furniture, see a counselor. She mentally checked off a list one by one. If only she’d hired an interior designer to furnish the damn apartment in one fell swoop. Perhaps if he’d felt more settled, or even financially invested, he’d have stuck around. At the very least, then she’d have a nice place to stay, for a while. Instead of this tomb.
It was all she could do not to climb under the covers and go to sleep, turn off her brain for a moment. But she had to keep her job, which meant putting on a brave face and charming the woman downstairs. She rummaged through her bag for the letter she’d written at work, explaining who she was and asking for a short interview. She knew she’d have to earn Miss McLaughlin’s trust first, and she didn’t want to scare her off.
After swiping on a coat of fresh lipstick and smoothing her hair, she grabbed the envelope and her keys and took the elevator down to the fourth floor.
The dog, the one named Bird, barked furiously when she knocked on the door of 4B. She heard a muffled voice tell him to be quiet and the shuffle of steps. She stood back, trying to look as friendly as possible, the envelope tucked behind her back. But the door didn’t creak open, not even an inch.
She knocked again. “Miss McLaughlin, are you home?”
Nothing.
She put her ear to the door. She had the uncanny sensation of a presence lurking on the other side, but the older woman wasn’t moving a muscle.
“I’m Rose Lewin. I live upstairs. I was hoping I might be able to introduce myself.”
She waited. The woman didn’t even say hello. Rose should have come down saying that there had been a leak in her apartment and she wanted to make sure it hadn’t seeped through her neighbor’s ceiling. That would have gotten her in the door, at the very least. She was off her game. Normally, that type of thinking would have come instinctively.
She had to reach her somehow.
“I’m so sorry to bother you. I would love to say hello. I’m something of a historian-slash-journalist, and I’d like to find out about what the Barbizon was like back in the fifties. In fact, I’m doing research for an article.”
The dog gave a sharp yip, but was quickly silenced.
“Okay, well, sorry to have bothered you.” Unbelievable. The woman was standing a few feet away, behind her closed door. Who behaves that way?
“I’ll slip a note under your door. I hope you’ll take the time to read it. I’d love to get your help with the project. I’ll stop by again later.”
She slid the note under the door and waited, half expecting it to shoot back out.
“I’m off; have a good night.”
Back at her apartment, she poured a large glass of wine and curled up on the sofa. She needed this story. It was the first pitch she and Tyler had agreed on in ages. The woman in 4B was an enigma, living alone with her tiny dog in the same apartment year after year. How did she fill her time? Did she have family nearby? Did she have someone close to her she could rely on?
A faint sound came up through the open window. The music again. Rose perched on the windowsill, wine in hand, and listened as her curious neighbor played the same sad, sweet love song over and over.
CHAPTER SIX
New York City, 1952
The elevator girl hit the light switch in Darby’s room and closed the door behind them. “Ignore the giraffes; they’re a nasty bunch.”
Darby stared at the girl. Esme, they’d called her. She was about her height, with velvety brown eyes accentuated by the severity of her hairstyle, which was pulled back in a tight bun.
“Giraffes?” she croaked, wiping her eyes with the handkerchief.
“All long necks, loping along like prey. Just hoping a big lion will attack, if you know what I mean. A big, manly lion.”
As she talked, she walked behind Darby and unzipped her dress. Darby allowed it to pool at her feet and stepped out of the circle of fabric.
“I’ll have this washed and mended and it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about that.” Her accent was crisp, slicing through the air.
“Where are you from?” Darby couldn’t help asking.
“Manhattanville. Puerto Rico before that. I’m Esme, by the way. Do you know where Manhattanville is?”
“I’m Darby. And no, not exactly. Sounds very pretty.”