The Address(67)

She spent a good hour poring through books on late-nineteenth-century architecture, filled with drawings and sketches and biographies. Theodore Camden’s mentions were few, since he’d died so young, but she made note of the pertinent points, as if she were going to be tested later. By the end of two hours, her head was spinning from so much information. She stopped by the librarian’s desk on her way out.

The woman handed her a slip of paper. “The microfiche department will have a number of newspapers that Sara J. Smythe was mentioned in, and I’ve written down the names and dates.”

“Microfiche? How does that work?”

“You give them the information, then they’ll get the film and show you how to use the machines. It’ll take about forty-five minutes for them to round up what you need.”

She checked her watch. “I’ll have to come back.”

Bailey thanked the librarian and headed uptown, where she supervised the workers until they broke for lunch. Bailey grabbed a sandwich from the deli and sat on a bench on Central Park West. When her mother had quit smoking, she’d taken up knitting, and Bailey figured keeping her own hands busy might help with her sobriety. On top of that, finding the cottage drawing from Theodore Camden had rekindled her need to create. She hadn’t done much drawing since Parsons, but now, with extra time on her hands and such a grand subject at her disposal, she couldn’t resist. Using a graphite pencil, she blocked in the lines of the Dakota’s upper gables before filling in the ornamentation with a rapidograph pen and then finishing with a watercolor wash. Pleased with the results, she moved to a different bench and started all over again, this time focusing on a turret on the south facade. The work calmed her, focused her. The quickness of the lines lent the building a kind of animation, as if it were breathing, alive.

“You taking some time off from decimating the building?”

Kenneth stood over her, leaning on his cane and staring down at her sketch with a big smile on his face.

Bailey patted the bench next to her. “I thought I’d wait for the dynamite to take effect out here. Please, join me.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He lowered himself down. “That’s quite lovely, I must say.”

“I’m more than rusty. It’s been a long time. But I love the building, and it’s a challenge to capture it on paper.” She put down her pen. “I remember seeing an article in Renzo’s dad’s scrapbook, written when the Dakota first opened, predicting it would be a landmark. I think they called it ‘ “The Address” of New York’s West Side’ or something like that.”

“She’s instantly recognizable even a hundred years later, our Dakota.”

“I’ve been doing some research into an architect who lived here, Theodore Camden. When he died, he was on the verge of being really famous, because he was against all the crazy, show-off architecture of the Gilded Age.”

Kenneth nodded. “You know, I never really thought about the fact that it was called the Gilded Age, as opposed to, say, the Golden Age. That the era was all about money and the illusion of success, as opposed to offering anything truly valuable. Reminds me of New York City these days, to be honest with you.”

He had a good point. Rolex watches flashed on the wrists of bankers, consumption was king, and everyone she knew partied like there was no tomorrow. “But if the Dakota is an example of the Gilded Age, with all that crazy ornamentation, why do we care about saving it?”

Kenneth’s eyes lit up. “Smart girl. By your logic, the Dakota’s chaotic array of dormers and finials are the late-nineteenth-century equivalent of Melinda’s mauve pedestal sinks and mirrored walls.”

“Exactly. But to me, the Dakota represents a moment in time, one that still resonates. I can’t imagine mauve sinks holding up that long. Do you think, in thirty or forty years, people will mock what we’re doing today?”

“More like five to ten, I would venture.”

She burst out laughing. “You’re probably right.”

A busload of tourists disembarked on the corner of Seventy-Second Street. The guide pointed to the Dakota’s front gate, the scene of Lennon’s death, as they snapped photo after photo. Kenneth let out a low growl of disapproval.

Bailey didn’t want to be reminded of the recent notoriety; she preferred to stay in the past. “Theodore Camden had a vision of what the city of the future should look like, and it wasn’t all dolled up the way they liked it back then, but streamlined, sleek.” She turned to him. “Did you ever hear anything about him having an affair with the woman who eventually killed him?”

He turned to her in mock horror. “How old do you think I am?”

“No, not personally. But maybe there were rumors that were passed down? It must have been a major event at the Dakota.”

“What makes you ask?”

She explained to him about the drawing of the cottage and the photograph she’d found, and her possible connection.

“Let me ask around the old folks in the place and see what I can come up with for you,” he offered. “Even though I know a lot about the history of the place, much has probably been lost to time.”

“I’m not sure if I want to be related to either Sara Smythe or Theodore Camden, to tell the truth.”

“Architects do have a reputation for being maniacs. Sara Smythe seemed to be one already. But from what I can tell, all your marbles are intact.”