The Address(23)

The pale limestone, littered with a multitude of gables, balconies, and finials, seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, rendering it like a mirage compared to the earthen-colored buildings nearby. The structure resembled a doll’s house that had been grossly inflated, as if at any moment it might burst through the severe iron gate that surrounded it. It belonged on a mountaintop in Europe, not a crowded city street.

The design was so ostentatious she almost laughed out loud. “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to look,” said Sara finally.

“There are four thousand millionaires in the city, every one of them trying to top the other. I call the current movement European wedding cake.”

“I have to agree. It’s awfully loud.”

He smiled down at her. “Like the Dakota, no?”

“The Dakota is rather busy as well, I must admit. But it’s a showpiece, and I assume that’s what the tenants want. If they can’t live in one of the Fifth Avenue mansions, why not take up in a building even bigger and fancier?”

“What kind of house would you like to live in, Mrs. Smythe?”

No one had asked her anything of that nature before. Flustered, she couldn’t answer right off. Indeed, she had never imagined living somewhere other than the London bedsit or her Dakota garret. Her place of residence had been secondary to her place of work, always.

“I like my current lodgings perfectly well.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“What would you design if you could do anything, and not have to answer to Mr. Hardenbergh or the Mrs. Putnams of the world?”

“You’re dodging the question.” He gestured for the driver to go forward.

“Very well, then. I suppose a cottage in the country, with a small garden. That would suffice.”

“Not at all. I won’t have it. If you had all the money in the world and could build anything you wanted, here on Fifth Avenue, what would it look like?”

“To think that this is what you do all day, come up with designs. I admit, I haven’t the faintest idea. Certainly not a Richard Morris Hunt mansion. I’d get lost on my way to breakfast.”

He let out a guffaw that pleased her.

“I will draw you a house, how’s that? Once all the chaos has calmed down and the Dakota is moving along smoothly, I’ll draw you something. Even if it’s a thatched-roof cottage that reminds you of home.”

She looked away. Home. As soon as she received her first paycheck, Sara would send half of it back to the cottage at Fishbourne, with a short, cheery note assuring her mother that all was well. Hopefully, that would alleviate the guilt at having moved so far away, but she knew better than to expect a letter of thanks or a return letter at all. Not from Mum.

By the time the carriage made it to Grand Street, Mr. Camden had pointed out the many ways the city had changed during the past several decades, from the weathered wood shacks that dated back a hundred years, to Federal-era brick dwellings, and finally the chocolate brownstones that now dominated the side streets. They passed the Academy of Music, where members of New York’s high society gathered for a taste of culture, and a rustic Gothic Revival church on Twentieth Street where they prayed.

Mr. Camden was the only man in the fabric shop other than the store owner, but he didn’t seem to mind. Together, he and Sara examined silks and damasks, but he dismissed both as too heavy and unwieldy. “I know Mrs. Camden will want to hang something like this once she arrives, but for now I simply need something to block out the harsh rays and still let in light.”

“How about this?” Sara pointed to a tea-colored sheer.

“That will do nicely.” He gestured to the shopkeeper, who came running over.

“When do you expect your family to arrive?” she asked as the fabric was wrapped in brown paper and string.

“Sometime after opening day.” He gestured back to the shelves stacked with a rainbow of fine material. “Now you must pick out something for your own windows.”

“No, indeed. My windows have shutters and they’ll do fine.” She ran her finger over a spare piece of black ribbon that lay on the counter.

“Here you are doing me an enormous favor, and I must return it. How about this?” He pointed to an exquisite, finely woven white lace.

“Oh no, sir. I couldn’t.”

“I insist.”

She couldn’t help but imagine how they would look in her windows, waving in the breeze when she woke each day.

She bit her cheek to stop from breaking out into a beaming smile and thanked him profusely as he put her back in the carriage bound for the Dakota.

Mr. Camden shook his head. “No need to thank me. I’m still making it up to you for saving my daughter’s life. Now I owe you a second debt for putting off Daisy’s attacker. I figure you’re a good one to have in my corner, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you there.”

How different Mr. Camden was from the other men she’d encountered at work. He needed no assurance that he was powerful, the way Mr. Birmingham at the Langham had, no tests of loyalty. He seemed to simply enjoy her industriousness, as well as her company.

His words stayed with her the entire journey home.





CHAPTER NINE



New York City, September 1985


Once the workers left, Bailey spent an hour examining the apartment and the architectural drawings of the renovation. True, it was mainly cosmetic, but most of Melinda’s ideas consisted of either stripping off the original details or covering over them, remaking the place into something else entirely. While change was well and good, there was no way around the basic configuration of the place: skinny hallways, huge expanses of great rooms, a nest of smaller ones clustered around the kitchen. The bones of the place screamed “tradition,” not “Barbie beach house.” But it was Melinda’s money.