The Address(31)

A man with a thick mustache stepped over. “I say, as members of the F.F.D.s, this is a bang-up way to begin our communal living experiment.”

While the group gaped at the impolite intrusion, Sara spoke up. “Mr. Tatum, what a lovely thought. The First Families of the Dakota, no?”

“On the nose!”

Never mind that he’d been using the term in his correspondence with Sara, where he’d inquired weekly about the size and number of water closets in his apartment.

“Commodore, we’re honored to have you on board.”

The group closed in on itself, and Mr. Camden guided Sara away.

“‘Commodore’?” Mr. Camden murmured.

“Mr. Tatum is the head of the New York Yacht Club. I’ve been reading the society columns religiously since I arrived.”

“Clever girl.”

Once the last drop of the champagne had been downed, Mr. Camden led the group on a tour of the public rooms on the ground floor, the basement level with its amenities, and then up to the roof garden, where the clear day offered a view twenty miles in all directions.

Finally, the group splintered off to their own apartments, the ladies walking with a slight sway to their step and the men whistling under their breath.

The Dakota was officially open.





CHAPTER ELEVEN



New York City, October 1884


The wind threatened to blow her away, but Sara stood firm on top of the roof of the Dakota, holding on to the metal railing. Opening day had been a success, thanks to the champagne toast. In fact, the alcohol had lubricated more than the throats of the tenants; it had eased the transformation of the building from one that was under construction to one that was up and running, teeming with life. She’d finished up the day by meeting with all of the tenants’ staff, making sure they understood where their duties ended and the building’s began—and so far she’d seen no bruised egos—before climbing up to the very top of the building to get some air.

The roof garden looked out over Central Park, with its picturesque castle and lake in the distance. Although the sun had set, the glow of gas lamps lit up the pathways that carved through the trees.

“Mrs. Smythe!”

Mr. Camden sauntered toward her. He carried the afternoon edition of the newspaper in his hand and drew up beside her, his eyes twinkling with excitement. He unraveled the paper, not easy with the breeze, and read aloud.

“Probably not one stranger out of fifty who ride over the elevated roads or on either of the rivers does not ask the name of the stately building which stands west of Central Park.”

A corner of the paper blew loose from his grasp and she reached out and held it taut while he continued on.

“The name of the building is the Dakota Apartment House, and it is the largest, most substantial, and most conveniently arranged apartment house of the sort in this country. An astonishing geographic and architectural landmark, the Dakota will undoubtedly be known as ‘The Address’ of New York’s West Side.”

“How wonderful. You must be pleased.”

“I gave the reporter a private tour last week, but he was tight-lipped the whole time. I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or horrified. But here, look at the headline.”

She glanced down and followed his finger, which tapered to a curved, elegant tip. “‘One of the Most Perfect Apartment Houses in the World.’ That’s brilliant.”

“Mr. Douglas will have a waiting list for years to come.”

Mr. Camden’s boyish excitement made her laugh. “You’ve done it,” she said.

“We’ve done it.” He closed up the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I don’t know how I would have managed earlier today; it would have been an angry stampede of F.F.D.s without your quick thinking.” He looked down at her. “Sorry to disturb your stroll on the rooftop, but I was walking across the park and saw you.”

To think that he was able to recognize her from so far off. A breeze played with her skirts and she patted them down.

“Shall we sit out of the way of the wind for a moment?” he inquired.

A bench beside the enormous gabled roof protected them from the elements. Sara tucked the loose strands of her hair back into place. “What shall you do next, now that this project is finished up?”

He leaned back and stretched out his legs. “Hardenbergh has me already assigned to a new building, all the way downtown. But in another couple of months, I’ll be starting up my own firm, thanks to this newspaper article and Hardenbergh’s backing.”

“I’m sure it will be a great success. You’ll probably be quite happy to have Mrs. Camden and your children back in town.”

“Of course.”

Silence fell between them. She struggled to fill the space. “Where did you study architecture, Mr. Camden?”

“I was on a scholarship at the Hasbrouck Institute in Jersey City, where I first met Hardenbergh. When he got an early commission from Rutgers and asked me to work for him, I jumped at the chance.”

She admired the way he’d forged his own path. Part of her had hoped that by coming to New York City, to America, she would do the same, but she lacked his brash confidence. Her mother had done her a disservice, constantly reminding her of her blood connection to nobility, while at the same time cursing her bastardy. She didn’t know where she belonged.