“Not one of my most favorite clips.” She grimaced. “One of the reasons I was glad to leave television.”
“That and the controversy.” Tyler, chiming in. “We were lucky to snag Rose right after she resigned. ‘The woman who brought down Senator Madden.’ Our investors love it.”
Jason didn’t say a word, just lifted one eyebrow.
Rose flipped through her notebook, eager to move on from the topic. “Shall I fill you in on the Barbizon story?”
“Please do.” The words carried a trace of teasing. Other women probably found it charming, and there was an unmistakable air of masculinity to him that boys like Tyler wished they had.
She checked her notes and dove in. “The building was built in 1927 as a residence for professional women, with around seven hundred rooms. The whole idea was to create a private club-type building for women—only men’s clubs existed before then—and this one included perks like a gym and a pool. And it wasn’t like you could just show up and check in. Hotel guests had to supply three character references.”
“Isn’t this the place where Sylvia Plath went nuts?” asked Jason.
She took a deep breath. “Not exactly. In 1953, Sylvia Plath stayed at the Barbizon for a month while working as a guest editor for Mademoiselle magazine. After she went home, she tried to commit suicide, and then wrote about her experience in The Bell Jar, referring to the Barbizon as the Amazon Hotel.”
“That needs to be in there.” Tyler’s voice pitched up, a sign of excitement. “You can shoot B-roll of book covers, old photos, that kind of thing.”
Jason jiggled his leg. “Fading out on a shot of her gravestone?”
“I don’t think we need to focus so much on Sylvia Plath,” interrupted Rose. “It’s been said and done. Old news. We want to focus on the women who are living there now, who have seen it change from an exclusive women’s hotel to a condo. How their perspective mirrors the changes in New York City, how it relates to women today.”
“I like that.” Jason looked up, surprised.
“Besides, there are many other famous, accomplished women who lived there as well. Liza Minnelli, Candice Bergen, Joan Crawford.”
“Lots of good stuff here,” said Tyler. “But what about the lady with the scar?”
“Huh?” Jason turned to her for clarification.
Rose spoke up. “One of the women who arrived at the hotel in the early fifties now lives on the fourth floor, in one of the rent-controlled apartments that house a dozen or so women like her. She was involved in some kind of skirmish way back when, and was cut on the face, while one of the maids fell to her death from a terrace.”
“Now, that’s interesting. Will she talk to you about it?”
“She’s away at the moment, but I think I have an in.”
Tyler piped up. “Rose lives in the Barbizon.”
“Is there any kind of conflict of interest?” Jason asked.
“Not that I can see.” She didn’t mention that she was sleeping on Darby McLaughlin’s couch, without the woman’s knowledge. She’d find a rental soon enough and, hopefully, Darby would be so grateful that Rose stepped in to take care of Bird that she’d agree to be interviewed. At least that was the way it played in her head.
“I think you’ll make a good team.” Tyler stood, dismissing them. “Jason has been out in the field for a long time, working in war zones, so I’m guessing this chick-lit story will be a breeze for him, right, man?”
Tyler’s attempt at male bonding was met with another raised eyebrow from Jason. “Yeah, right.”
“Great. Let’s try to wrap this up by the first week in July.”
Three weeks away. It’d be close. She nodded and walked out of the room. Jason followed her to her cubicle and leaned against the partition, hands in his pockets.
“So what’s next, Ms. Lewin?”
His overly formal tone annoyed her. As did Tyler’s “chick-lit” comment. “I have to make some more inroads with the ladies on the fourth floor. I’ll need a couple of days. In the meantime, I’ve found some information about Darby McLaughlin.”
“Which one is she?”
“The one with the scar on her face.”
“The one who’s out of town, and you haven’t lined up yet, even though Tyler thinks she’s the focus of the story.”
“Right.” He was quick, obviously. She continued on. “You see, there’s this book of spices.”
“A what?”
“A scrapbook of descriptions of spices from 1952, with mementos and things like that tucked inside. I’m going to dig in a little deeper, see if I can find out some more background. Darby didn’t create it. Someone named Sam Buckley did, but she saved it all these years.”
“What makes you think this scrapbook is important?”
“There’s an inscription inside that mentions waiting until the coast is clear and then they’ll make a run for it, that kind of thing. My guess is it has something to do with her accident.”
“How did you get it?”
“One of the neighbors had it.” Another lie. “Do you want to see it?”
“Sure.”
She’d wrapped it in plastic and placed it in her bag on her way out the door that morning, hoping to find the time to study it further. Jason leaned over her desk and leafed through the pages. He fingered the delicate material with a gentle touch. “It’s beautiful.”
The magic of the drawings and scribblings was undeniable. “Even better, smell it.”
He leaned in and sniffed. “Powerful. Like walking into a Moroccan bazaar. Amazing, after all these years.”
“And if you look in the back, there’s an old menu to some jazz club. We could re-create that time period in the story, focus on 1952, what it was like to be a woman in New York City.”
“You seem to be very caught up by this Darby woman.”
“I am. She has this air of royalty about her, but not in a pampered way. More like she’s a force to be reckoned with, like she makes her own weather.”
“Superstorm Darby?”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure. Kind of like that.” She needed Jason on her side, if only to back up her ideas with Tyler.
“How many ladies are left?”
“Ten. One’s in the hospital, but I know she’ll be happy to be interviewed when she’s out. Another has already given me the green light. Give me a day and I’ll see if I can line up some more. It’s going to be slow going, as they’re all pretty reclusive.”
“Okay. You call the shots.”
Rose nodded and put away the book.
If only she did.
CHAPTER TWELVE
New York City, 1952
Stella stood just inside Darby’s room, biting her lip.
Darby had assumed the knock at her door was Esme, hoping to get some time away from Mrs. Eustis and chat, and was surprised to see Stella. For a few seconds, neither girl spoke. Then Stella heaved a deep sigh and placed her hand just inside the doorframe.
“Darby, I know you’re angry with me,” she said. “I should probably let things lie, but I can’t stop thinking about what happened with Walter in the park. I feel so awful. I want to make it up to you.”
Darby didn’t want to be reminded of that evening. “If you’re worried I’ll tell Mrs. Eustis that you were sneaking boys into the hotel, I assure you I won’t.”
“No, of course I know you wouldn’t do that.” Stella gave a dismissive wave of her manicured hand. “I was just hoping you’d come with me to the afternoon tea and fashion show. Please.”
Saturday’s list of events included a showing of coats and hats in the solarium. Anyone with a bit of sense would know that fashion shows weren’t for girls like Darby. But she had no desire to speak such humiliating words to Stella.
“I have too much work to do,” she said instead. That much was true, anyway.
Stella lowered her voice. “I don’t want you to think I’m like the other Ford girls. I only hang around with them because the agency likes us to be seen together.” She paused and offered Darby a wicked smile. “Plus, they attract all the best boys. But today you can meet my dear friend Charlotte. I think you two’ll get along swimmingly.”