The Address(106)
But these regrets were no longer of consequence. The boy was what mattered most, and she was determined he be given every chance in the world to succeed, independent of the sordid story of his parentage.
“Did you find the drawing in my room?”
Mrs. Camden took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve hung it over his crib as you asked. It’s the first thing he sees when he wakes and before he goes to sleep each night.”
Her dream cottage, so her child might also dream of lovely things. For all of Theo’s betrayals, he’d left behind many beautiful creations. Including the drawing. And their son. “What about my letter, you have my letter?”
“It’s in a safe place and I promise to give it to Christopher when he turns twenty-one. Then he’ll know everything, and he can come and visit you.”
Sara smiled. That was twenty years from now. She wouldn’t be around. She could feel it in her bones. Something inside her was eating away at her. Guilt, maybe. Anger at having been so misused. Anger at herself. Her insides were a stewy, nasty mess and would kill her eventually.
Nothing more needed to be said on the subject. They had an agreement. Mrs. Camden spoke of Christopher and Luther and the girls, telling her what they’d said and did, the words he spoke, the way he wobbled about on his fat little legs. Sara drank in every word, every image, to fill her library of thoughts for later use.
She would feed on them until the next visit. Until her energy faded and her soul dissipated into the night air. Her last remembrance was that of holding her boy, in his sailor suit, on top of the roof promenade of the Dakota, the city gleaming below her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
New York City, September 1986
A year after Strawberry Fields was officially dedicated, the hilltop had become a hive of activity most hours of the day, the gray-and-white “Imagine” mosaic strewn with flowers and candles.
To be honest, Bailey avoided the area if she could. It wasn’t a place she felt comfortable striding through, veering around the tourists wielding cameras. Doing so was like galloping through the Sistine Chapel to get to St. Peter’s. Covered in a canopy of American elm tree branches and lined with hollies and mountain laurel, the site demanded an air of reverence and respect.
She found a spot on an open bench vacated by a couple of college students in torn jeans, carrying backpacks. Red roses had been arranged in a peace symbol, and three guitarists sat together on a bench opposite, strumming out tunes to a receptive crowd. She watched as a little girl danced about, jumping and swinging her arms to the beat, unaware of the tragedy behind the music.
One year sober. She’d made it. Not only had she made it, she’d risen to the challenge, supporting others at meetings, newcomers who came in weeping and scared, or those who’d relapsed and walked in amid a cloud of self-hatred. Each time she’d helped someone else, she couldn’t help but reanalyze her own journey and mark her own progress, remember what it was like. And vow to stay healthy and strong.
Soon after the insanity in Fred’s office, Bailey had reached out to Melinda. She’d hated the way things had ended, and could only imagine what it felt like for Melinda to have lost everything, to be cast out from her own family history. To make Melinda suffer had not been her goal.
So Bailey and Jack had offered to buy the Dakota apartment from Melinda and Manvel. Melinda had demanded a princely sum, which they’d gladly paid, hoping it would bring Melinda some peace and help Manvel’s outsider artists. From what Bailey had heard, Melinda was on a rampage these days, partying hard in her white-brick condo on the East Side. Bailey had called several times, trying to make amends and explain her actions, but Melinda refused to return her calls. With time, Bailey hoped, they might be able to renew their friendship, but on more equal footing. But if not, at least Bailey had tried.
She checked her watch. It wasn’t like Renzo to be late. Then again, it wasn’t like Renzo to ask to meet in the most touristy spot on the Upper West Side. Usually, they wandered around the park’s reservoir, comparing demanding clients and tenants. His advice was invaluable and he’d even stopped by her latest project a few times to offer a second opinion when the electrician or plumber came in with a bid that seemed high.
Together, Renzo and Bailey had restored the Dakota apartment to its original grandeur: Gone were the bamboo poles and sponge-painted walls, and in their place stood the original architectural details, down to the cast-iron washbasins and solid brass hardware. She’d held an open house for the other tenants once the work was done, spurring requests for her expertise. In a year, she’d become the go-to interior designer for the restoration of town houses, penthouses, and prewar apartments around Manhattan, a niche that separated her from the pack of postmodernists like Tristan. The fact that she’d repaid Tristan in full for her time at Silver Hill had helped ease her reentry in the design community considerably.
Theodore Camden would have been pleased, she hoped. Sara Smythe as well. Fred had dug further into the family’s records and discovered that Minnie died suddenly of the flu in 1900. Which explained why Christopher never got the letter or the annuity.
Sara, meanwhile, had passed away in prison from some kind of cancer, a few years after being sentenced. Bailey was glad she and Jack finally knew some concrete details about their family’s past, no matter how lurid. Knowing that Minnie Camden had attempted to take care of Christopher financially had gone a long way to ease her father’s mind. Once the trust money was transferred over, Jack scooped up the lot next door and doubled the size of his auto repair shop, and bought a boat of his own. “Simple pleasures,” he’d said one day, after taking her and Renzo out for a cruise.