“Pastels?”
“More than that. I want people to walk in and feel like they’re entering a beachfront Roman villa. Here.” She opened the binder. “We’re stripping out everything and then redoing it. I want lots of trompe l’oeil, so we’ll paint the columns as if they were marble, like with pink and gray veining. Tony’s friend has a company that does that kind of thing and it’s glorious. In the gallery, we’ll use this cool sponge technique on the walls. I think it should be ochre but Tony wants more orangey. We’ll decide once you get us swatches.”
Bailey swallowed. The thought of painting over the fine wood and taking off all the molding made her sick. “Huh.”
“I know, you’re speechless, right?” She turned to the back of the binder, where furniture spec sheets had been inserted into clear plastic sleeves. “You can still get a designer discount at the showrooms, right?”
“Sure.” Bailey flipped through. Gilt dining room chairs, armchairs covered in a leopard print, a Lucite coffee table. She didn’t even know where to begin. In Malibu this might work, but there was something unseemly about doing this in the Dakota.
She closed the binder. “Are you sure? There’s so much history in this apartment. Your family, Theodore Camden’s legacy. It feels kind of drastic.”
“I am so tired of hearing about Theodore Camden, blah, blah, blah. That was a hundred years ago. He’s dead. Times change. Everyone in the building is doing this kind of thing.” Melinda snorted. “Well, not everyone. There’s some old fuddy-duddies who won’t change a thing. But we have celebrities, musicians, artists, actors. It’s all shag carpets and white walls and stainless steel. You of all people should know that.”
Bailey did the calculations in her head. She had enough money in her bank account to cover basic living expenses, and if she could stay here during the renovation and end up with a big fat check, she’d be in good shape. It would give her time to catch her breath and figure out her next move. Maybe she’d have enough to start her own design firm.
Maybe Melinda was right. The apartment had a sad, old-person smell to it, a mix of laundry soap and stale rosewater.
“I’ll take care of your renovation, and we’ll celebrate the end of the job and your trust fund money coming in at the same time I launch Bailey Camden Designs.” She held out her hand.
Melinda shook it and yelped with joy. “I’m your first official client. Remember me when you’re a big star.”
“I will do my best.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
New York City, September 1884
Two days later, Sara hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night. Whenever she tried, the list of what was still needed to be accomplished ran through her head, like a runaway train that refused to stop to let passengers off. Luckily, she was able to take the Langham’s operations and apply most of it to the Dakota, drafting staff work schedules and committing to memory significant details, like Mrs. Knoblauch had not one but two butlers coming with her, and the Putnams loved to entertain and would be having their grand piano delivered within the week.
She’d arranged for regular coal and wood deliveries to begin the last week in October, and even made a point to visit the boarding stables a few streets away and introduce herself to the head groom. Hallways were swept and runners laid down, muffling the echo of footsteps and making the building feel less like an institution and more like a home. Or so she hoped.
She had seen very little of Mr. Douglas, which suited her, as his anxiety only increased her own. The few times she’d bumped into Mr. Camden, they’d exchanged basic pleasantries and she’d tried to appear calm and in control, to tamp down the unease lodged in her throat. Daisy had been a delight to work with, Mrs. Haines not as much, but that wasn’t surprising. Sara had no doubt that Mrs. Haines would make an excellent gatekeeper for the residents, ensuring the unwashed masses didn’t get through to their castle in the sky.
After a quick lunch in the staff room off the downstairs kitchen, Sara headed back to her office, where a stout woman stood in the reception area, an ermine wrap around her shoulders and an air of impatience coming off her like steam.
“May I help you?” Sara inquired.
“I certainly hope you may. I’ve been standing here for minutes, and no one has attended to me.”
“I do apologize.” Mrs. Haines, who should have been at her desk, was nowhere to be seen. Sara stepped closer. “I’m Mrs. Smythe, the managerette. What can I do for you?”
The woman sniffed. “I’m here to meet Mr. Hardenbergh. We have an appointment to view my apartment.”
“Of course. May I ask your name?”
“Mrs. Horace Putnam.”
Apartment 63. Mr. Putnam, an attorney, and his wife. They’d taken one of the larger apartments in the building, encompassing fifteen rooms including a parlor with twin fireplaces and Baccarat chandeliers.
“How lovely to meet you. I will be happy to escort you. Please come this way.”
Sara’s attempts at small talk were rebuffed as they crossed the courtyard. The door to number 63 was cracked open and Mr. Camden’s voice, more passionate than usual, carried into the hallway.
“I am doing everything I can, Mr. Hardenbergh. You can’t go back on your commitment.”
A deeper voice responded. “I have made no promises. We must wait and see how things turn out. Don’t try to force my hand, Theo.”
Sara called out Mr. Camden’s name in a loud voice, alerting him to their presence, as they entered. Mr. Camden stood in the foyer next to a tall, balding man. The waxed tips of his handlebar mustache curled up like parentheses.
“Why, Mrs. Putnam!” Mr. Hardenbergh stepped forward. “I’m eager to show you about. Please follow me.”
Mrs. Putnam disappeared into the dining room with Mr. Hardenbergh. Sara glanced over at Mr. Camden.
“She’s one of our toughest critics,” whispered Mr. Camden. “Wants nothing to do with the place. Her husband is the one who’s keen to move uptown.”
“And that’s Mr. Hardenbergh, I assume?”
Mr. Camden nodded as Mr. Hardenbergh’s voice rang out from the other room. “We need you, Camden. And bring your woman as well.”
Your woman. Lovely.
A long gallery ran the length of the apartment, and seemed to go on forever. Sara glanced into the rooms on either side as she made her way down. The library connected to a drawing room twice the size, and to the right was a wainscoted dining room, where Mrs. Putnam stood examining the corner china cabinets. “I don’t like this wood. Too dark. Strip it down and replace it with something else.”
“For the china cabinet?” asked Mr. Camden.
“No, the whole room.”
Mr. Camden brought his hand to his forehead. “But this is the finest mahogany and oak.”
“The Rutherfords imported some kind of tiger maple. I want that.” She turned to Sara. “You’re in charge of the moving, is that right?”
Sara nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I don’t think my dining room table will fit. And I’m not getting a new one.”
“I will determine the measurements with your housekeeper, Mrs. Putnam, and report back. If not, we can have a carpenter make adjustments.”
“The doorknobs are sterling silver, is that right?”
Mr. Camden forced a smile. “Exactly as you directed.”
“Excellent. I want more plaster molding on the walls and ceiling, covered in gold leaf. The room is rather dingy.”
Dingy was the last word that came to mind. Mr. Camden stuttered but couldn’t seem able to come up with a response, whether from shock or anger at the insult.
Mr. Hardenbergh fiddled with his mustache. “That will be no trouble at all.” Sara didn’t miss the pointed look at Mr. Camden as he spoke.
Sara spoke up. “I can see why you’d want to liven up the room. What if we ordered a set of Limoges jade dinnerware for the cabinets? The color would be lovely and bright.”
The woman looked up as if seeing Sara for the first time. “Limoges. Right. That might work.”