She had to find Esme. More than anything, she needed to hear Esme laugh and tell her everything would be all right. That she could survive in New York without the protection of her family and the Barbizon Hotel for Women.
In this new version of her life, Darby would work hard—whether it was writing, waiting tables, or even singing. And late in the evenings, when she and Esme were done for the day, they’d double-date with their beaux, and Sam would smell like spices and fresh bread.
She’d prove Mother wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
New York City, 2016
At least he isn’t suffering.” Rose had called Maddy from the hospital, but declined her offer to stop by. She liked being alone with her father, had just needed to hear a friendly voice to break up the stillness of the room.
“He’ll fade into a deep sleep, like my father did,” Maddy assured her.
“After all of his dedication to his work, his students, to me, it’s so weird that this is the end.” Rose sighed. “Out with not even a whimper.”
“Do you think he’d rather rage against the dying of the light?”
In spite of herself, she laughed at the thought. “Probably not. He’d never raged once, even when my mother left. And better this than the ongoing chaos of his dementia.”
“You sure I can’t come down? I’ll bring in a flask of the hard stuff for you.”
Rose assured her she was fine, then hung up and stared out the window at the gray skies. He’d last a few weeks at most, and she needed to make the necessary arrangements. All his life he’d talked about being cremated and for his ashes to be scattered around the lilac bushes on the corner of Sheep Meadow in Central Park. Apparently, that was where he proposed to her mother, before life became difficult.
Rose kept vigil until the nurses sent her home to sleep. Around midnight, nervous and wired, she scanned Darby’s bookshelves for something to read. A worn binding on the top shelf turned out to be an ancient copy of Romeo and Juliet, the cloth cover hanging on, literally, by a thread. She perched on the couch, the book balanced on her lap, and turned to the title page. It was printed in 1887, the pages mottled with time, although the gilt edging was still bright. One of Juliet’s soliloquies had been marked up in pencil, the page filled with questions, comments, and stage directions. At the very back of the book, a flash of white caught her eye. She picked up the envelope and gave a startled yelp at the return address. Sam Buckley had sent it from California. The postal stamp read 1953.
Dear Esme,
I assure you I won’t give up your secret, however devastating it has been to me. As you wish, I won’t try to contact you again.
Sam
But Esme was dead in 1953.
Or was she? Rose’s mind raced. Was the woman she’d assumed to be Darby really Esme impersonating her friend? She picked up her phone and tried to reach Jason. No luck. She left a voice mail for him to call her back right away and scanned the letter one more time.
If the slashing had been that brutal, Esme might have been disfigured enough to get away with the switch. And if Darby had been the one who fell to her death, the same reasoning applied. A grisly thought. Maybe Esme had become a new person, disconnecting herself from the drug scandal and forging a new life. But where had Darby’s family been in all this? Wouldn’t they have known?
According to this short letter, Esme had revealed the switch to Sam, who had been crushed by the news of Darby’s death. But something was off. The whole thing felt like a bad soap opera, a scene from one of Maddy’s scripts. Yet the letter existed for a reason.
Rose googled the address, but there was no Sam Buckley living there anymore. Not surprising, as more than sixty years had passed. But there was someone else she could ask. Stella had known Darby both before and after the accident. She called Stella’s cell phone and left a voice mail, asking if they could meet again.
The next morning, at ten a.m. sharp, she waited for Stanley Jr. outside the button shop. As he unlocked the gate covering the entrance, she got right to the point.
“I have an odd question for you. Did you ever hear Ms. McLaughlin speak Spanish?”
He laughed. “No, I can’t say that I did.”
Rose nodded. “Okay. Thanks. Sorry to bother you.” She turned to go.
“But her young friend did.”
Rose spun back around. “She spoke Spanish to Darby?”
“She called her Tía. I remember that from high school Spanish. Practically the only thing I remember.”
Tía. Aunt.
Not Christina or Tina. Stella had heard the girl say “tía.”
Darby was hanging out with a young girl who spoke Spanish and called her aunt. Further bolstering the theory that Esme had switched identities.
Rose checked her phone on her way to work. Still nothing from Jason. A twinge of regret tugged at her. She’d thoroughly enjoyed their encounter at his apartment, but she’d been a needy, twisted mess that night. Bad timing all around.
Her phone rang. Stella.
“Well, hello, Rose. How is it going with Bird?”
“Just fine, Stella. More importantly, how are you?”
“I’m almost back in fighting form. I heard from Darby yesterday.”
Relief poured over her. Darby or Esme, whoever she was, was safe. “Oh, yes? How is she? Where is she?”
“She couldn’t talk long, and the line was crackly. Said she’d be back next Monday.”
Rose swallowed hard. Less than a week.
Stella continued on. “And I have to say she was a little miffed that I left Bird in your care. She said she’d refused to speak to you.”
She’d been caught. Better to play dumb. “She was reluctant, sure, but I had no doubt in time she’d warm up to the idea.”
“Hmm. Anyway, she said she’ll come to your apartment and collect Bird as soon as she arrives.”
She could imagine the look on Griff’s or Connie’s face when the old lady showed up at their door, demanding her dog back. They’d send her off to Bellevue. “Maybe you should just give her my cell number instead, and I’ll bring Bird to her.”
“If she calls me back, I will. Apparently, she’s out of the country.”
“I see. Listen, I was wondering if I could come back out to New Jersey. We’re on a tight deadline with the story, and I’d love to get your input on something that just came up.”
“That’s fine—and in fact, I think it is better we speak before Darby returns.”
“Can I come now?”
“Yes, you may.”
Stella waved away Rose’s polite inquiries about her health.
“I want to know what you’re doing with Darby’s story. She doesn’t know you at all, claims she’s never exchanged a word with you.”
Rose squirmed under her scrutiny. “Well, that’s true enough. I apologize for not being clearer, but as you know, it was an emergency. I was happy to help out.”
Stella pursed her lips, still not convinced.
“Did you know Darby well before her accident?” Rose asked.
“We spent some time together. Not much. We had something of a falling-out soon after she arrived. Why are you so relentless on this subject, Rose? Is it really all that newsworthy? Something that happened more than fifty years ago?”
“It’s part of the story of the hotel, in my mind. The guests, the staff, whatever dividing lines existed. Seems strange she’d want to stay on, after such a tragedy.”
“She had nowhere else to go, no other choices. Before the accident, she’d started coming out of her shell. It was easy to see who she might become given the opportunity. Afterward, though, it was as if she decided she’d been punished for trying to live outside her comfort zone. She withdrew again, and that was pretty much that.”
“I see. Did she seem very different after she got back from the hospital?”
“What exactly are you getting at?”
Rose leaned forward. “The girl she’s been hanging with, I think she called her Tía, not Tina. Which means ‘aunt’ in Spanish. I’m wondering if it’s at all possible that Darby was the girl who fell, and the maid, Esme Castillo, was the one who was scarred.”
Stella went white. “What on earth are you suggesting?”