“Who are you?”
“Sorry, Esme, this is Jason Wolf. He’s a journalist as well.”
“Jason Wolf. Quite the name.” She looked him up and down before turning back to Rose. “Why did you call me Esme?”
She’d blown it. But considering there was no way this woman would ever grant them an interview, the truth might as well come out.
Rose pointed to the bookcase. “One night I took out your copy of Romeo and Juliet. It caught my eye, the binding was so old. It’s a gorgeous edition.” She paused. “And a letter dropped out.”
“And you read it, of course.”
The awfulness of what Rose had done hit home. This poor woman wanted nothing more than to live in peace, not have to relive what must have been the most horrific few moments of her life. No matter what she’d done in 1952 to Sam and Darby, decades had since passed. “I apologize. I wasn’t thinking straight. I never should have read it. Or come in here at all.”
“You got that right.”
“Esme, I know what happened at the club, about the drugs, and Sam, and I wanted to know more. I couldn’t help myself. Maybe it’s because I’m a journalist. But it’s also because I’m a woman in a tough spot, not totally unlike the one you and Darby were in. No one’s here to blame anyone.”
“How dare you talk to me of blame?” Waves of anger emanated from her body.
She was blowing it. “Please, for Sam’s sake. He should know the truth as well.” Rose was taking a risk. Either Esme would rise to the bait, or she’d close them off forever.
Esme opened her lips, but no sound came out for a moment, all of her bluster faded away. “Sam?”
“He’s in town. We saw him a few hours ago. I’m sorry if that’s a shock.”
“A shock. Yes, you could say that.”
“Can I get you some water?”
“Yes, please.” Esme lowered herself into the armchair. Rose grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and by the time she’d returned, Jason had draped the throw over Esme’s shoulders. Her fierceness was gone, replaced by an overwhelming melancholy.
Rose knelt at her feet and looked up. “Please. What can I do to make this up to you?”
“Put on my record.”
She knew the one Esme was referring to. She walked over to the small record player, turned it on, and, with a shaking hand, lifted the needle and placed it carefully on the edge of the revolving vinyl. The familiar recording of the two women’s voices began, Esme and Darby, singing, followed by the tiny giggle at the very end.
Rose couldn’t help but smile. “I heard you playing this the day we met in the elevator. It’s beautiful. And intriguing. Your voices are remarkable together.”
“I’m so pleased you think so. And now it is time for you to get the hell out of my apartment.” Esme’s mouth was set in a firm line, her cheeks slightly flushed.
“Okay, we’ll go. I’m sorry it all came crashing down. I only started asking questions because I was worried about you. Being all alone—I get that. I’m alone now. No family, no job. I have to start again from the ground up. I’ll be the first to admit my behavior here was suspect. But it’s because I need to know how to do this. How to start again.”
“Don’t compare our situations.” Esme pointed a long, crooked finger at Rose and slowly rose back to her feet. “Maybe I could have had a different life; we’ll never know. Once I was marked, scarred, it was all over. I was only a shell after that, working in the back room of a button company, balancing books and paying bills, staying away from people who felt sorry for me or wanted to find out the lurid details.” She paused, breathing heavily. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Do you want to see it for yourself? Me as a freak?”
“Not at all,” protested Rose. “I don’t presume to know what you’ve been through.”
The woman gave out a low moan. “You speak of blame. And you’re right. I deserve everything that’s happened to me. I destroyed lives. Including my own.”
“Don’t say that.”
Rose’s own despair was nothing compared to the years of torment her neighbor had been through. She looked at Jason in a panic, and he held up his hands. “No, we’re very sorry. We’re going now.”
“Don’t move a step. You want to see the damage? Is that what you want?”
Without ceremony, Esme pulled off the hat and veil and tossed them on the floor. What first struck Rose was the elegant line of her neck and head, like a ballet dancer’s. But the slashes from the knife had brutally disfigured the upper part of her face. A thick white gash cut across her forehead like a waxy centipede, and another crossed from the corner of her forehead, down across the bridge of her nose and below the eye, stopping at the top of her cheekbone. The skin around her nose and forehead was pulled taut and looked weirdly translucent, and one eye drooped at the corner. The blade had barely missed her greenish-gray eyes, which stared back at Rose with bitterness.
Rose kept her gaze steady. She needed to reach this woman, to make her see that she was not the enemy. “What happened to you was awful. You’ve suffered, and we think we understand what happened. Would it help to talk to us? We won’t publish anything, we won’t tell a soul.”
On the couch, Bird whimpered.
“You charge in here, take my dog, spread your things around.” Esme grabbed the urn from the windowsill and held it up with one hand. “Redecorating, were you?”
Horrified, Rose ran over and snatched it from her, holding it close to her chest. “No, it’s not like that.”
“Now you know what it feels like to have a stranger manhandle your belongings.”
Shame washed over her. She should have never camped out at the Barbizon after Griff kicked her out. What she’d done was unforgiveable.
“Rose, are those your father’s ashes?” Jason spoke quietly.
Rose nodded.
Esme’s eyes grew wide. “Her what?”
“Her father’s ashes.”
“Dear God.” Shaking her head, Esme sat back down in her chair, mouth slack. She looked at her empty hands. “Dear, dear God.”
“No, this was all my doing. I’m sorry. We’ll go now.” Rose stepped toward her suitcases.
“Stop.” Esme thrust out her chin. “Sit. I need a moment to think.”
They did as she commanded, side by side on the couch.
Rose held her breath.
“You are obviously in distress, Ms. Lewin, and I was once like you.” Esme lifted her head. “I’m going to tell you what you want to know. But only because I don’t know which of us needs this confession more.” She took a deep breath. “You. Or me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
New York City, Halloween 1952
Darby’s room was dark and quiet, a contrast to the hallway where girls in an assortment of costumes roamed, screeching with excitement as they readied for the evening’s delights. A light rain had begun to fall, tapping against the window like the snap of tiny rubber bands. Darby was already packed, thanks to Mother, and in little more than an hour, she would simply gather her things and go. She’d meet Sam at the station and they would begin a new life together, someplace far away.
But first, she had to try to find Esme. She remembered when they’d met. Esme had rolled her eyes and made faces as the elevator crawled upward, while Mrs. Eustis ticked off the rules of the hotel. Darby had been terrified that day, and Esme offered a lifeline with no expectation of kindness or reward. Only a coward would abandon a girl like that when the tables were turned.
Darby tucked the recording of the two of them singing in one side of her suitcase, where it wouldn’t break, and added her hairbrush and comb. That was it. She’d be traveling with a man who was not her husband, but that couldn’t really be helped, given the situation. She wanted Sam to be safe, and if he had to leave the city, she would be by his side.