The Address(87)

“Don’t talk, I’ll call for the doctor.”

“Thank you.” Her lips were chapped and her eyelids fluttered and then closed.

Sara went to the kitchen, Lula trailing behind her like a dutiful sheepdog. Why was there no one home? And where was Theo? She rang the bell for the night porter and met him out in the hallway to tell him to call for a doctor right away. The baby’s wailing had grown louder by the time she returned.

Lula shrugged. “He won’t stop crying. He wants Mother.”

A lump caught in Sara’s throat. She didn’t want to see or make any kind of contact with Theo’s new ward. This boy that was now part of his family, when the boy she should have had was gone, buried in an unmarked grave on that hellish island. But she couldn’t stand the desperation that grew with each cry.

The child had thrown off all his bedclothes and was circling his arms and legs, such chubby limbs, like he was trying to swim to the surface of a pond. His peony-pink mouth was open in a big O, while his eyes were closed tight. She leaned over and picked him up. He weighed more than she’d expected. She sat on the rocking chair next to the crib and tucked him into her, bouncing him softly in her arms.

Lula spoke with a reverent hush. “He’s hardly ever quiet.”

“He’s hungry, perhaps.”

Lula just shrugged.

“Where is your nanny?”

“Not here this week. Traveling to some place or other.”

“Your mother is alone with you?”

“Yes.”

“Has she been ill long?”

The girl sighed. “Forever, it seems.”

Theo should have been back, taking care of his family, who obviously needed him. Needed someone to take charge.

Sara rose, the baby still in her arms, and walked back to the bedchamber. Mrs. Camden opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling, as if she were trying to remember where she was. Her head slowly turned in Sara’s direction and she stared for several moments without blinking. Her expression was neither grateful nor hateful. But she knew everything, of that Sara was certain.

When the doctor arrived, followed by a nurse as well as Mrs. Haines, Sara reluctantly put the boy back down in his crib. He was fast asleep and didn’t stir, although she waited a few moments in case the lack of human contact brought him out of his slumber. Part of her wished it might.

Unnoticed, she slipped out of the Camden apartment and back up the stairs to her own.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN



New York City, September 1985


The work on Melinda’s apartment reached a feverish pitch over the next week, swarmed by painters who transformed the dark walls and columns into swaths of faux marble and stucco. Melinda had insisted they paint a long trompe l’oeil “crack” in the living room wall, so that it resembled a Parisian apartment she’d seen in a French movie, the kind that were once grand but had gone to elegant seed.

In the meantime, Bailey successfully distracted herself from beginning each day with a shot of vodka by going to an AA meeting in Midtown before hitting furniture showrooms. She’d even found a sponsor, a retired theater publicist named Lydia who had a deep-throated laugh and a wicked intuition. Bailey hadn’t been back to the Sixty-Ninth Street meeting, and on the few occasions she ran into Renzo, she tried to be polite but not too forthcoming. Melinda had warned her to stay away from him until the lawyers came to an agreement.

They were deep in negotiations with the co-op board and the Met to determine who owned the rights to the sheath, all dependent on the completion of the DNA testing.

While Melinda had warned her away from Renzo, she hadn’t said anything about the Camdens’ family advisor.

Bailey had located him using the Yellow Pages and gotten an appointment two days later. The offices, as expected, were formidable for a firm that handled generations of clients’ money: mahogany walls, a mid-century sofa in the waiting room, and a receptionist who looked as if she sucked on lemons in between phone calls.

“Miss Camden?”

An older man in a well-cut suit beckoned her into his office. He had a long face and chin that reminded her of Dick Van Dyke, whom she’d developed a mad crush on as a young girl. “I’m Fred Osborn; very nice to meet you.”

“Yes, thank you for seeing me.” She took a chair opposite his desk and looked about. Behind him, on the window ledge, were dozens of trophies, the kind that children receive for signing up for a soccer league. He caught her looking at them.

“My grandchildren’s. Their rooms were overrun with the things and they insisted I display them here.”

She liked him already. “Mr. Osborn, I won’t take up too much of your time, but I want to be tested to find out if I am a true Camden. Not only in name but in blood.”

He studied her, no reaction on his face. “First off, please call me Fred. Now, what makes you think you might be? I know about the ward, your grandfather. But you think you’re related to Theodore and Minnie Camden?”

“Not exactly. Theodore Camden, yes. I believe he had an affair with the woman who killed him, Sara Smythe, and that Christopher Camden was the result.” She explained what she had discovered, and dug into her handbag to show him the cottage drawing, the letter, and the photo. “You see, I discovered the sheath and bone. I think it’s only fair that I be included in the DNA testing.”