“You’re dodging the question.” He gestured for the driver to go forward.
“Very well, then. I suppose a cottage in the country, with a small garden. That would suffice.”
“Not at all. I won’t have it. If you had all the money in the world and could build anything you wanted, here on Fifth Avenue, what would it look like?”
“To think that this is what you do all day, come up with designs. I admit, I haven’t the faintest idea. Certainly not a Richard Morris Hunt mansion. I’d get lost on my way to breakfast.”
He let out a guffaw that pleased her.
“I will draw you a house, how’s that? Once all the chaos has calmed down and the Dakota is moving along smoothly, I’ll draw you something. Even if it’s a thatched-roof cottage that reminds you of home.”
She looked away. Home. As soon as she received her first paycheck, Sara would send half of it back to the cottage at Fishbourne, with a short, cheery note assuring her mother that all was well. Hopefully, that would alleviate the guilt at having moved so far away, but she knew better than to expect a letter of thanks or a return letter at all. Not from Mum.
By the time the carriage made it to Grand Street, Mr. Camden had pointed out the many ways the city had changed during the past several decades, from the weathered wood shacks that dated back a hundred years, to Federal-era brick dwellings, and finally the chocolate brownstones that now dominated the side streets. They passed the Academy of Music, where members of New York’s high society gathered for a taste of culture, and a rustic Gothic Revival church on Twentieth Street where they prayed.
Mr. Camden was the only man in the fabric shop other than the store owner, but he didn’t seem to mind. Together, he and Sara examined silks and damasks, but he dismissed both as too heavy and unwieldy. “I know Mrs. Camden will want to hang something like this once she arrives, but for now I simply need something to block out the harsh rays and still let in light.”
“How about this?” Sara pointed to a tea-colored sheer.
“That will do nicely.” He gestured to the shopkeeper, who came running over.
“When do you expect your family to arrive?” she asked as the fabric was wrapped in brown paper and string.
“Sometime after opening day.” He gestured back to the shelves stacked with a rainbow of fine material. “Now you must pick out something for your own windows.”
“No, indeed. My windows have shutters and they’ll do fine.” She ran her finger over a spare piece of black ribbon that lay on the counter.
“Here you are doing me an enormous favor, and I must return it. How about this?” He pointed to an exquisite, finely woven white lace.
“Oh no, sir. I couldn’t.”
“I insist.”
She couldn’t help but imagine how they would look in her windows, waving in the breeze when she woke each day.
She bit her cheek to stop from breaking out into a beaming smile and thanked him profusely as he put her back in the carriage bound for the Dakota.
Mr. Camden shook his head. “No need to thank me. I’m still making it up to you for saving my daughter’s life. Now I owe you a second debt for putting off Daisy’s attacker. I figure you’re a good one to have in my corner, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you there.”
How different Mr. Camden was from the other men she’d encountered at work. He needed no assurance that he was powerful, the way Mr. Birmingham at the Langham had, no tests of loyalty. He seemed to simply enjoy her industriousness, as well as her company.
His words stayed with her the entire journey home.
CHAPTER NINE
New York City, September 1985
Once the workers left, Bailey spent an hour examining the apartment and the architectural drawings of the renovation. True, it was mainly cosmetic, but most of Melinda’s ideas consisted of either stripping off the original details or covering over them, remaking the place into something else entirely. While change was well and good, there was no way around the basic configuration of the place: skinny hallways, huge expanses of great rooms, a nest of smaller ones clustered around the kitchen. The bones of the place screamed “tradition,” not “Barbie beach house.” But it was Melinda’s money.
Usually, Bailey was able to keep her mouth shut when a client wanted something that she found to be outrageous and in bad taste. Obviously, the truth had begun squeaking out over the past few years, fueled by her drinking, culminating in her massive verbal slap-down of Mrs. Ashfield-Simmons and her half-wit daughter. But for some reason, the idea of giving the family’s Dakota apartment a major face-lift really irked her. Bailey’s own grandfather, Christopher Camden, had spent his childhood in these same rooms, after being taken in as the ward of Theodore Camden, the celebrated architect, and his aristocrat wife, Minnie. Bailey had never really known her grandfather—he’d died when she was a baby—but she felt a curious sort of pride in the Dakota apartment because of his history here. It wasn’t a sense of ownership exactly; she understood her place too well for that.
But it was something.
Bailey’s father never said much at all about Grandpa Christopher. Bailey got the impression that he was a crusty sort when her dad was growing up, not what you’d call a warm or involved parent. A man from a different era, with a different way of thinking, who left home at the age of fifteen, joined the navy, and ended up fixing cars in New Jersey.
On the way to each pilgrimage to visit Sophia and the twins, Bailey’s mother would question her father about what exactly happened back then, only to be met with a couple of shrugs at best. The fact that Grandpa Christopher had completely cut ties with the Camdens was absurd, according to Peggy. Surely, there must have been some kind of mistake or misunderstanding.
But maybe Bailey’s grandfather wasn’t interested in living the same way his foster parents did. Maybe he thought the rest of the family were terrible snobs or something. If so, Bailey’s sentimental attachment to the Dakota was sadly misplaced. Perhaps the Camdens were so mean to Christopher, an outsider, when he was a kid that he would have loved to see the place trashed.
Like Bailey, Peggy had been enamored of the building. She would enter the Dakota courtyard wearing big sunglasses as if she were a movie star, even on the cloudiest day. But Bailey knew they were mainly for hiding her sidelong glances into the dizzying array of dark windows that surrounded them, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the famous inhabitants. How excited Peggy would have been to learn that Bailey was not only working, but living, in the building.
A cold sweat made Bailey shiver. Even though it had been years since the accident, the thought that her mother’s physical being no longer existed—or no, it did exist and, even worse, was buried in South Jersey’s sandy soil—still gutted her.
Bailey made the long journey down to the East Village, collected her two suitcases, and unpacked back at the Dakota. It took all of three minutes. Luckily, she’d stashed most of her belongings in her dad’s basement in New Jersey before moving into the ex-boyfriend’s cramped apartment, which had probably kept them from being pawned off during her stint at Silver Hill. Not that she needed much at the moment.