“I don’t know about that. We sell most of our stock online these days. I’m looking into the possibility of getting out of the bricks-and-mortar part of the business.”
She looked around the room. “Do everything online? That would be a shame.”
“Another piece of New York City gone with the wind.”
Stalling for time, Rose selected six coffee-colored buttons that looked like round chocolates, good enough to eat.
“Good choice.” Stanley Jr. brought them to the register and wrapped them in tissue paper. “These will liven up a fall or winter jacket. Very stylish.”
As he rang up the purchase, Rose pressed on. “What kind of person was Darby when she was younger? I only ask because she’s such a grande dame now. Curious how she was in her youth.”
“She was careful, wry. Ate a tuna sandwich for lunch every day, year in and year out. She didn’t mind if I played near her desk. In fact, I think she liked it. She had a great sense of humor, loved to play practical jokes.”
“Jokes? Really?”
“Sure.” He shrugged, thoughtful. “She may have kept to herself because of what happened to her, but she’s no stick-in-the-mud. Darby is a tough cookie. She has class, style. Swagger, almost. An elegant mystery, my father liked to say.”
Rose placed the buttons in her bag. “Does Darby have any family or anyone close to her? My mother is hoping she’s well taken care of these days but doesn’t want to be rude and ask her outright.”
“Not really. She complained about her neighbors quite a bit, said they were way too nosy for her taste.”
No surprise there.
“But her young friend seemed like someone who would look out for her.”
Rose stopped in her tracks. “What friend?”
“Young girl, in her teens. Stopped in a few times. Lovely girl.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Allie, Abby, something like that.”
“Her last name?”
He shook his head. “I’m sure Darby mentioned it when she first introduced me, but I don’t remember.”
“And she never said who she was, how she knew her?”
“Gosh, no. Darby was pretty tight-lipped about everything. The girl made her happy and seemed nice enough, so I didn’t push.”
“Right. Well, thanks for your help. And the buttons.”
“Sure thing. Tell Miss McLaughlin I said hello when you see her.”
“Will do.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
New York City, 1952
Darby watched as Esme readied the hatcheck room, which was really an old closet with a Dutch door, for the evening rush at the Flatted Fifth. When Esme had encouraged Darby to come down to the club earlier that day, she’d quickly agreed. She’d put on the dress Daddy always liked, a black-and-white polka-dotted cotton with a pleated full skirt, and pinned the new black beret on her head so it tilted dramatically to one side.
“Tell me, Esme, what’s acting school like?” she asked.
Esme thrust out her chin. “I’m learning to talk right. Check it out: ‘If you like peanuts, you’ll like Skippy.’”
She sounded like a movie star, with no noticeable trace of an accent. “That’s amazing. They teach you television ads?”
Before she could reply, two men walked in the front door and stood in front of the hatcheck. Neither removed his coat.
Esme stiffened. “Club’s not open yet.”
“We’re not here for the club. We’re here for you.” The taller man spoke with a growl. “You need to work harder, Esme.”
“Not sure what you’re talking about. I can only check as many coats and hats as come in.”
“You know exactly what we’re talking about. Come along and let’s have a little talk in the back.”
Darby opened her mouth to call for help, but Esme put her fingers to her lips. “Shush. I won’t be long. All part of the job. Gotta keep the goons happy.”
They walked off into the club, and Darby wrapped her arms around herself. She was debating what, if anything, to do, when the front door slammed shut behind her.
“Where’s your friend?” Mr. Buckley stepped into the foyer and shook the raindrops off his hat.
Darby whirled around and stared up at him, dumbstruck. His height, authority, and demeanor reminded her of her stepfather. “You mean Esme?”
“You look like a fish. Close your mouth.”
She did.
“So where is she?”
“She stepped away, just for a moment.”
“She’s fired if she doesn’t get back here when we open in ten minutes. It’s pouring out there, and I can’t have everyone sitting in their wet coats during the show.”
If Esme lost her job, she wouldn’t be able to pay for her acting classes. “I’ll do it. I’ll cover until she gets back.”
Twenty minutes later, Darby was near tears. The men and women coming into the club had piled their coats on the small divider without waiting for tickets. A couple even tossed their umbrellas at her as she frantically tried to keep up with the onslaught. The air smelled of wet wool and underarms, her skirt clung to her legs, and her hair was plastered to her skull. Even worse, she’d had to shove the beret into her purse after it’d fallen onto the muddy floor. She’d never be able to sort this mess out, and every coat looked exactly like the others. Mr. Buckley would fire Esme and never let her sing again. And what if Esme was in terrible trouble right now? Who were those men?
“You look like you just took a bath.”
Sam appeared, holding a coffee cup in his hand. He leaned back on the opposite wall and took a sip.
“Esme was taken away.” Darby could hardly get the words out. “Two men. I’m not sure where they went.”
Sam seemed unperturbed. “Don’t worry; that Esme can take care of herself.”
“But they seemed awfully angry.”
“All bark and no bite. Everyone’s a tough guy downtown.”
His laconic manner put her slightly more at ease. “And someone just threw an umbrella at me. Threw it.” She grabbed a hanger and stuffed a coat onto it. “They’re a bunch of animals.”
“If it makes you feel any better, they don’t treat the waitstaff much differently. Or the musicians, if they see them in the street. Up onstage is one thing, but the magic is gone in the light of day.”
“I don’t know how Esme handles this night after night. I’d go crazy.”
“You sounded great the other night, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Seriously. Esme’s voice is like velvet, but yours is silvery, like a nightingale.” He scuffed one foot on the floor.
As she paused to catch her breath, the enormous pile of coats slid off the divider and landed in a mad crush on the mud-stained hallway floor. She and Sam stared in dismay at the mound of fabric, then burst out laughing.
He placed his cup on a nearby table, and reached down and lifted the pile in one fell swoop. “Open the door.”
She did and stepped to the side. He handed her a coat and she hung it on a hanger, placed it on the rack, and shoved them together to make more room. They kept at it, over and over. The motion reminded her of the slam of a typewriter carriage return at the end of a line.
“Why aren’t you in the kitchen?” she asked.
“They’re fine in there, they don’t need me.”
“But you’re the cook.”
“They’re just making simple stuff—peas, fries, and chicken liver sauté. Nothing they can’t handle.”
Every so often, their fingers would touch during the handoff of the hangers, and he was close enough that she could pick up the scent of fryer oil and clove on him. An interesting mix, and not unpleasant.
To her embarrassment, he noticed her sniffing the air. “I hope I don’t reek.”
“No. You smell like clove. Reminds me of the holidays.”
He smelled his forearm. “I’ve been working on a new recipe. Steak with a mixture of clove, turmeric, and honey.”
Her mouth watered. She hadn’t eaten anything since a Danish from the Barbizon coffee shop that morning. “Sounds lovely.”
“We’ll see.”
“Will you put it on the menu?”
His laugh was harsh. “Not if my father has anything to do with it. He doesn’t want anything that tastes ‘weird,’ in his words.”
“So you found out about combining spices in the army?” She liked hearing him talk. And it was much easier to have a conversation when they were both focused on the coats.
“Right, in Southeast Asia, working as a cook. I had to use what I found.”