“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.”
“And what did you find?”
“So much. There are ten tiny islands clustered in the Banda Sea that used to be the only source for nutmeg and mace. And the oldest clove tree in the world is located on an island called Ternate in the Molucca Sea.”
“How old is it?”
“They estimate between three hundred and fifty and four hundred years old. It even has a name. Afo.”
“Afo.” Such an exotic word. “What did it look like?”
“It’s tall but lifeless, with some bare branches. I saw it when we took over the island from the Japanese at the end of the war.”
“I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.” To go to islands at the other end of the world, to visit dead trees and learn about history that went back so far in time, was unfathomable.
He shrugged. “In the beginning, lots of guys were complaining about the food. The rations were pretty horrible. But then I began experimenting with what the local folks used. I started adding spices to everything we served: eggs, fish, meat. Even desserts. Some of the guys hated it, of course, but they were idiots. Everyone else raved. They gave it a chance. Although, to be honest, the soldiers didn’t have much of a choice. Unlike my father.”