The Address(60)

“I went off to Parsons, studied, partied, pulled away from my dad, as he did the same to me. It’s taken me this long to realize there’s only so much running you can do. It’s weird, but seeing that photo helped.” She confided in him about the drawing, with its secret inscription, and Renzo’s eyes grew large.

“That’s an interesting turn of events.”

“I know. Somehow imagining I’m a descendant of the love child of Theodore Camden and Sara Smythe makes me feel a little better.”

“Like you belong to someone.”

“Yes. Exactly like that. Then Melinda and I would be true cousins, not fake ones.”

“You sure you want that?”

“Yes, and not just because it might come with a share of the Camden trust fund. I want to feel like I’m part of a legacy, that it’s not just me spinning alone in the world. Then again, who knows what happened in the past? Maybe it’s better it stays that way.”

“If it were up to me, I’d put my money on it. Just on that eyebrow thing.”

He touched her gently on the temple and she flushed with self-consciousness. She took a couple of steps back, the moment broken. “How did you end up back here after Alaska?”

“I never imagined I’d come back to New York. But when my dad passed away, it seemed like a good thing to do, until I figured out my life.”

She wasn’t the only one hiding out at the Dakota and licking wounds. “And did you figure out your life?”

“I guess. I love the building. Not all the tenants, but some of them. Sure, every so often I get treated like I’m an idiot who only knows how to unclog a toilet, but it’s an honor to live there.”

“That’s lovely.”

He blushed under the lamplight. “Not something I tell most people. Don’t want them to think I’m a puddle of mush.”

“‘Puddle of mush’? Anyone who uses that phrase is, indeed, a puddle of mush.”

“You know what I mean.”

“In fact, I do.”

The building soared above them, and they both paused and studied its grand facade.

“She’s a beauty.”

Even without looking at him, Bailey could hear the smile in his voice.





CHAPTER NINETEEN



New York City, January 1885


Breakfast the next morning was a chunk of stale bread along with some tepid brown liquid that one of the other inmates referred to as cocoa. Sara downed the brew in one gulp and gnawed on the crust until it became soft enough to swallow.

Today she’d explain that she was not one of the dribbling ladies or maniacs, that they’d made a mistake. In fact, she’d awakened this morning feeling better than she had in several weeks. The headache and lethargy had dropped away. Her clearheadedness had come too late to save her from the trip in the tub of misery, as a nurse had referred to the ferryboat this morning.

After breakfast, they were again made to sit on the benches in the octagonal room. No movement, no speaking. Sara took the time to study the interactions of the nurses—there were five that day—and the doctor. Four of the nurses were stolid, nasty sorts, but the youngest one hadn’t yet turned bitter. Her interactions with the inmates were calmer and more patient. Sara heard her referred to as Nurse Alden. Dr. Fields preferred Nurse Alden, and seemed to go out of his way to speak with her instead of the others.

Many of the other patients were foreign and had little or no mastery of the language. Sara was certain the majority of these were also of sound mind but hadn’t been given the chance to plead their cases in their mother tongues. Of the others, the ones who spoke English, a few babbled to themselves endlessly, at the risk of being on the other side of a striking hand, and some were nasty, stealing bread from others’ plates or grabbing themselves inappropriately. Sara avoided eye contact with them, pulling into herself when they passed, trying to be invisible.

A bell rang and the group was herded outside into the January morning, where hundreds of other women huddled against the building or valiantly walked the grounds. Sara marched to the water’s edge and stared across the gunmetal waves of the East River at Manhattan. In the cold, clear air, she found what she was looking for immediately.

The Dakota.

The three triangles that made up the east roofline pointed into the bitter sky like beacons. She wondered if Theo had gone up onto the promenade to see if he could find her. He must be mad with worry. No doubt as soon as he figured out where she’d been sent, he’d get her released. It was only a matter of time.

“No point staring at the city. Will only make you sad.”

A woman with olive skin and black hair stood close by, arms wrapped around her chest for warmth. She looked to be around forty years old, with creases like kitten whiskers across her cheeks and a streak of gray in her hair.

“I’m Natalia.” Her foreign accent made the word sound delicious. Or maybe Sara was just hungry.

“I’m Sara. Sara Smythe.”

“You got here yesterday, right?”

“I did.” Sara looked back at the asylum.

“Don’t worry, no one’s in sight. They hate going out in the cold, so this is one of the few times we get for freedom.”

They began walking together along the pathway.

“How long have you been here?” Sara asked, fearing the answer.