The Dollhouse - Fiona Davis Page 0,40
as if a black fog hovered just beyond the foot of the stage, and she welcomed the darkness, the inability to see people staring back at her.
Esme swiveled her head around. Darby had missed her cue. She joined in, shocked by the loudness of her voice, then pulled back from the mic a couple of inches, remembering Esme’s advice. The first chorus was over before she’d even had time to think.
She was prepared the second time, and matched Esme note for note. The bassist raised his eyebrows and gave her a solemn nod. By the third chorus, she had relaxed enough to let her shoulders dip from side to side in time with the beat. Esme finished with a flourish, holding the last note with no vibrato, a muscular sound that lifted the audience to its feet in appreciation.
“I want to thank everyone,” Esme said over the clapping, then listed the band members one by one. “And especially Darby here, who stepped in at the last moment and saved the day for us. Let’s give her a special round of applause.”
Darby curtsied. As if she were a debutante at a ball. Then turned beet red at her mistake. They trailed off the stage, Esme accepting the accolades of the patrons as though she were Cleopatra on the Nile. At the back of the room, Sam stood next to the door to the kitchen, still in his apron, staring at her. He put his hands to his lips to let out a loud whistle, which soared above the clamor. Darby gave a little wave before a press of well-wishers trying to get to Esme blocked her view.
When they finally got into the green room, Esme turned around and gave Darby a huge hug. She smelled like cinnamon and fresh laundry, unlike any woman Darby had ever known. Then again, she was unlike any other woman she’d ever known.
“You did it, Darby. We did it.”
Darby could only nod, unable to say out loud what she was feeling, a mixture of relief and giddiness.
From the couch, Tanya snored on.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
New York City, 2016
Twelve hours after the migraine struck, the pain finally passed. Rose had spent the entire night on the couch, raising her head for a sip of water only once, trying to breathe through the nausea in her gut and the pounding in her head. Now relief flooded through her body, and everything she usually took for granted, like sunlight and the sound of construction and traffic outside the windows, she welcomed with what could almost be called joy.
The apartment smelled yeasty and stale. She opened the windows and took a shower before heading out with the dog. Bird seemed as happy as she was to be outdoors, and didn’t charge any of the other dogs they passed on the narrow pathways in Central Park.
Rose made sure to enter and exit through the building’s service entrance, where the doormen were unlikely to engage her in conversation. When she turned down the hallway to Miss McLaughlin’s apartment, a woman with a walker clomped her way, stopping to let out a phlegmy cough.
As Rose drew closer, the woman regarded her with suspicion, one bushy gray eyebrow raised. “Who are you?”
“I’m the dog sitter for Miss McLaughlin.”
“Where’d she go?”
“I’m not sure. On vacation.”
“Darby never goes on vacation.”
“She’ll be back in a couple of weeks. I’m Rose.” She stuck out her hand and the woman gave her a limp handshake.
“Alice Wilcox.”
Bird sniffed the legs of her walker.
“Have you lived here long?” asked Rose.
Alice laughed. “I came to the hotel in the sixties. Long enough.”
“And do you know Miss McLaughlin well?”
“Nope. Keeps to herself. But I don’t like that dog. Barks too much. ’Specially when she comes home after midnight.”
“Does Miss McLaughlin often stay out late?” Seemed strange for an octogenarian.
“Sure does. She goes out in the evening, dressed all fancy, and returns home at one A.M., sometimes. Damn dog barks when she comes home and it wakes me up. I’ve talked to her, but she just nods in that weird way of hers. Not very neighborly.”
“I’ll try to keep the dog quiet for you.”
As they chatted on, Alice eventually recognized Rose from the news and agreed to be interviewed for the WordMerge story.
Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.
Rose thanked her and stuck the key in the lock of Miss McLaughlin’s front door. Instead of continuing on to the elevator, Alice turned around and clomped slowly back. “I’m doing my laps,” she said by way