He’d been the driving force in their relationship, and she was only too happy to enjoy his attention. Slowly, she gave up her identity, leaving her apartment and her job for what she assumed was the next step in her life. Marriage, supporting a husband who had political aspirations. Then he blew it all to bits.
She reached the terrace that overlooked the boat pond, with the restaurant off to the right, and the enormous angel sculpture spurting white water into Bethesda Fountain in the plaza below. A group of teenagers splashed each other with water and shrieked, the girls covering their heads, all black fingernails and long legs. One of the teens was louder than the others, more physical with the boys. Rose stared hard before she recognized the girl. One of Griff’s daughters.
Miranda had stared out at her every morning upon Rose’s waking, from the photo on top of their bedroom bureau. In it, taken several years ago, Miranda wore a salmon-colored silk dress with ruffles along the top. Rose had admired it for its retro feel, like the disco dresses from the seventies.
But today Miranda sported a T-shirt cut in horizontal strips, revealing a black bra underneath. Rose pulled her sun hat down low and moved along the balustrade until she could see the girl’s face. Her skin was pale and smooth and her hair cascaded down her back in thick curls, like a damsel in a romance novel. Even from this distance, Rose could tell her makeup was heavy, with thick black lines around her eyes and lips the color of blood. Griff must hate it. He’d never liked when Rose came home from work wearing pancake makeup from the broadcast. After a while, she’d been sure to take it off in her dressing room instead of waiting until she got home.
A couple holding hands wandered into the frame of her vision and it took a moment for her to realize it was Griff and Connie, coming from the direction of the Boathouse. She knelt down fast, under the pretense of petting Bird. He was panting and needed to be in the shade. She’d forgotten how close his tiny body was to the waves of heat emanating off the concrete sidewalk.
She crossed the street with the intention of heading south along Literary Walk, which was lined with shady elms. Anything to get away from the sight of Griff and Connie together. But as she passed the stairway that led to the tunnel underneath the Seventy-Second Street tranverse, she paused. Scooping up Bird, she took the stairs quickly, clutching the handrail. The tunnel had an arched ceiling, and was a coveted spot for street musicians who took advantage of its excellent acoustics, the sound reverberating around the tiled walls.
Today, the area was empty and dark, a perfect hiding spot. The column and the contrast in light kept Rose hidden from view.
Griff and Connie stopped in their tracks when they spotted Miranda. From Rose’s vantage point, the tension in their faces was palpable. They murmured to each other like spies working undercover, and then Connie called out to Miranda in a high, sharp voice. The girl turned her head in their direction and all animation fell from her face. Rage briefly crossed over her pretty features before disappearing. Griff’s low baritone carried across the plaza but not clearly enough for Rose to catch what he was saying. He let go of Connie’s hand and surreptitiously rubbed his palm on a pant leg.
Once Miranda stood before them, Connie put her hands on her hips and thrust her neck forward. She seemed to be berating Miranda, before Griff interrupted her with a dismissive motion of his hands.
Rose tried to tamp down the elation building up inside her. He’d only returned home out of guilt. And his attempt at reconciliation looked rather rocky.
They were coming undone, and Rose was embarrassed for all of them. For the daughter, who was probably confused by the coming and going of the adults in her life, and for Griff, who was a loving dad but unequipped to handle a daughter with a strong agenda of her own.
Without warning, Miranda threw her phone at Griff’s feet. It clattered to the ground, bouncing twice. She stared down at it for a second, stricken at what she’d done, then ran off. Connie’s face contorted with anguish, and Griff put a hand on her back, but the gesture was automatic, not driven by a need to comfort.
For the first time since Griff had given Rose the terrible news, hope glimmered, followed by a wash of shame. The family was hurtling toward disaster. But the sooner he figured out that being with Connie wouldn’t help their daughter any more than being apart, the better. If anything, they seemed to be botching the reconciliation completely.
For the past week, she’d imagined Connie had transformed the apartment into a warm, comfy respite. But a brilliant interior design would never make it a happy home for Griff’s family.
What if his misguided attempt at patching things up failed? She imagined him begging her to come back to him, promising the moon.
Could she ever again trust a man who had turned her life upside down?
Stella’s grandniece lived in an imposing brick house in Fort Lee just off the highway. Rose could hear the endless whoosh of cars on I-95 as she and Jason got out of the cab.
Stella guided them into the toy-strewn living room.
“It’s a pigsty, but I can’t say anything because I’m the grateful aunt, happy to be taken in.” She eased herself into a recliner and gestured for them to take a seat on the sofa. The only sign of her illness was a hollowness in her cheeks and a slight wheezing. “Mind you don’t sit on a Lego. You’ll get a bruise for days.”
“I take it you’re eager to get back to the Barbizon,” Rose ventured.
“You bet. They say another few weeks and I’ll be good as new.”
Rose briefly ran through the various interviews she and Jason had lined up, and Stella’s eyes widened with astonishment. “I’m surprised you reached so many of us. You must be very persuasive.”
“I think they agree with me that the history of the Barbizon makes a great story.”
“Right. Well, what do you want to know? We only have an hour until Susan and her kids get back from ballet lessons or welding class or wherever the hell they are.”
Rose looked over at Jason, who nodded. The camera was rolling. “So many different kinds of women stayed at the hotel. How did they all get along? Or did they all get along?”
“God, no. It was a strict class system. Models were on top, then the guest editors for Mademoiselle and the others who were in publishing. The bottom tier was for the Gibbs girls.”
“Why is that?”
“The goal was to catch a man as soon as possible. Sure, we all paid lip service to the idea of working and making our own money. But it was just pocket money. Our parents took care of the bills until we were handed off to Prince Charming.”
“The competition must’ve been fierce.”
“You bet. The boys were tiered as well, handsome and rich was a top catch. The Ford girls expected the full package, but as you moved down the food chain, you might settle for an egghead with cash, or get swept off your feet by a dashing poet.”
“Where did you go on a typical date?”
Stella clapped her hands together. “Oh, the choices were endless. Dinner at the Drake, where the roast duck was to die for, or Café de la Paix at the Hotel St. Moritz. Dancing at the El Morocco until late. Broadway shows, the ballet.”
“Did you ever head downtown to the jazz clubs?”
“Downtown? Not so much. We tended to stick to the ones on Fifty-Second Street. Those downtown ones, as well as the ones way up in Harlem, were off-limits for the Ford girls. They were considered seedy and full of dangerous elements.”
Too bad. She would have loved Stella’s take on the Flatted Fifth. “I assume you were pursued by a number of suitors.”
“Got that right. But I made a huge mistake. Decided to have a ball, enjoy myself, play around. By the time I was twenty-three, I was no longer a good girl and no longer young. Can you believe that? Twenty-three. That’s a baby these days. Still, I don’t regret a thing.”
“What about the Gibbs girls? Weren’t they there to find good jobs?”