“You did just fine.” He smiled. “I liked touching you.”
She relaxed slightly, and he pulled her head to his chest. His heartbeat was going as fast as hers. “But I can’t do this. It’s not safe.”
“I understand. We don’t have to do anything else.”
She looked up at him. “Why do you like me?”
“I saw you singing onstage and it was like you were shining up there. You weren’t pretending to be a singer, or crying out for attention from the crowd.” He took both her hands in his and placed his forehead against hers. “There was the song, your voice, and your body. The combination was beautiful and that was when I decided I had to kiss you.”
She was quiet for a moment, stunned.
“And it helps that you like my cooking.”
Maybe she didn’t have to be scared after all.
Darby took the back stairs of the Barbizon two at a time, as light as Fred Astaire. At the landing with the mural, she came upon Stella untangling herself from a boy with jet-black hair and crooked glasses.
“Darby, wait. Arthur here was just leaving. I’ll walk up with you.”
Stella kissed the boy on the lips and then pushed him away from her. Bewildered, he lost his balance and tipped precariously on the top step, catching hold of the handrail just in time.
Stella put her hand to her mouth and giggled. “You’re so silly, Arthur. Be careful now.” Her Southern lilt was more pronounced than usual.
As the two girls tromped up together, Stella threw one arm around Darby’s shoulders. “And where are you sneaking back from?”
“The Flatted Fifth.”
She made a sour face. “That jazz club?”
“Yes. You should come sometime. It’s quite a scene.”
“Right.”
Her lack of enthusiasm rankled. “I mean it. You get lost in the music and the rhythms; it’s like being hypnotized.”
Stella paused at the next landing and slid off her red stilettos. Fuschia-colored toenails gleamed under her stockings. She picked up her shoes and continued climbing. “I take it you were with that maid tonight.”
“I was with Esme, yes.”
“You really ought to expand your horizons.”
A prickle of sweat ran down Darby’s back. “Why? Because she’s a maid? She happens to be a wonderful person—and she’s a talented singer, too. I have no doubt she’s destined to be a star.”
“She’s roped you right in, I see.”
Darby’s legs, so weightless at the start of her climb, now felt like lead. “Why do you dislike her so much? Is it because she works at the hotel? Or that she’s from another country?”
“Neither. But I’ve heard rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That she’s bad news.”
Candy immediately came to mind. “Right. Because she doesn’t let the guests walk all over her and treat her like a slave. I respect her for that. And I like her.”
Stella raised her eyebrows but didn’t respond.
“Meanwhile, you’re on the back stairs with a different guy every weekend.” Darby didn’t care how snappish she sounded. “You shouldn’t judge someone else’s character.”
“I have a plan, and I’m perfectly up front about it. I’m not so sure about Esme’s intentions, about why she’s always skulking after you.”
“Because we’re friends. Friends spend time together; it’s not skulking.” Exasperated, she changed the subject. “What exactly is this plan of yours?”
Stella brightened. “I’m looking for a man who can afford my expensive tastes and drive me wild. Not easy. What I want takes work and the right connections. You see, Thomas—the boy from the park—goes to the same college as Paul, who you met last month in the stairwell. Now, Paul comes from money but is dumb as a box of hair. But he introduced me to Arthur, whose father runs a shipping company. I figured, why not take Arthur for a test run and see if there’s fireworks?”
“And were there?”
“Not a one.”
Darby couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I think you’re wrong about Esme. You should come out with us one night and really get to know her.”
They’d reached their floor. “I’ll take a pass on that. In the meantime, start dating some boys and doing your own thing, away from her.”
“Right.” She thought of Sam in the kitchen and smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thatta girl.”
Stella blew her a kiss good night and padded down the hallway to her room.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
New York City, 2016
Who exactly are we meeting here? I hope you don’t think we’re going to be able to expense this.” Rose turned in exasperation to Jason. He’d called her a few hours ago and instructed her to meet him at an address downtown, which turned out to be a restaurant called Neo. She’d read about it in The New York Times a few weeks earlier, where it had been well received by the dining critic for its refreshing, offbeat menu.
“A friend of mine works here,” Jason assured her. “It’s part of our research.” He led Rose inside, where the hostess, a doe-eyed beauty with a huge Afro, ignored them.
From what Rose could tell, the entire waitstaff had been chosen from the cream of the genetic pool, young men and women with long limbs and shiny hair. “In what way is this part of our story? Do you think Darby’s working here as a waitress?”
He gave a snort of a laugh. “Now, there’s an image. No, I don’t think that. Did you bring the spice book?”
She pulled it out of her bag. “Yup. But I—”
“Good. Now please give this a chance for five minutes?”
Jason whispered something to the hostess and her demeanor changed dramatically. She laid a manicured finger on his arm and gave him a warm smile revealing even, white teeth. Then she turned and wobbled away on her four-inch heels.
Very impressive. “What did you say to her?”
“Just dropped a name.”
More people had squeezed into the narrow foyer and now they were pressed against one wall, shoulders touching. Chasing the latest trends in fine dining wasn’t for her. Too much posing, for one thing—she hated all those hot spots where more attention was paid to the atmosphere than the food. She’d take a good juicy burger over a celebrity sighting any day of the week.
“Jason!”
The crowd waiting to be seated parted like the Red Sea as a large man in a chef’s uniform strode forward. He shook Jason’s hand with enthusiasm and nodded when Rose was introduced. “So glad you could come.”
“Chef, you look sharp in that toque. And busy,” said Jason.
“Always have time for you.”
“Rose, this is my buddy Steven Hinds. Steven, Rose.”
He shook her hand and led them back to the kitchen. Jason gave Rose a wink.
She refused to rise to the bait. “I get it, so you know the chef. Stop showing off.”
They swept through swinging doors into the enormous open kitchen. Every surface was pristine, and the copper pots glistened under the fluorescent lights. The line cooks and sous chefs barely looked up, concentrating on the task at hand, whether searing meat or cutting herbs into slivers.
The chef directed them to a quiet corner. “Let’s see your book, then.”
Rose placed it on the counter, happy to see that he wiped his hands on his apron before handling it.
“This is from the fifties?”
“Nineteen fifty-two, to be exact,” she said. “A man named Sam Buckley compiled it, and we’re trying to find out more about him.”
He spent several moments perusing the text. “Well, I can tell you this much: Sam Buckley was way ahead of his time. No one back then would dare experiment with these spices. Several were unheard of in America until thirty or so years ago. Where did this guy come from?”
“From New York City, originally. But he was abroad during World War Two. We think he wrote this after he got back.”
“These are amazing blends, surprising even today. Let’s try one of them and see.”
He called out a list of herbs from page seventeen of the book to his sous chef, and in no time had a pestle and mortar as well as jars of fresh spices lined up in front of him.
“Nice to have someone do your bidding,” said Jason.
“Like when I used to make you do my science homework.”