The Address, page 8
“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.
Her stomach grumbled. HALT. God, she had been conditioned. It was more like brainwashing than substance abuse counseling: Avoid being hungry, angry, lonely, or tired if you want to stay sober. Well, she was all four, when it came right down to it. She stood in line at a pizza place on Columbus and then wolfed down a couple of slices back in the apartment’s library, where a ratty folding table had been set up to review plans. She really should find an AA meeting nearby, but it was getting dark and she didn’t feel like wandering around without having a better idea of the neighborhood, which streets to steer clear of, which were safe. Tomorrow, for sure.
A scratching noise up in the ceiling caught her attention. Mice, most likely. What a field day the critters must have in this building, with its thick, horsehair-stuffed walls and three feet of mud between each story. Plenty of room to make nests from which to make forays into the residents’ kitchens and feast on crumbs. The thought was weirdly comforting.
The mirror on the opposite wall reflected her image back to her. At thirty, after a decade of hard living, the skin around Bailey’s eyes had lost the baby smoothness of her teenage years. But lately her face had begun to fill out, as the hollowness of addiction disappeared. Without alcohol and drugs, she’d started eating again, hence the two slices of pizza.
She’d always thought her hair and eyes to be unremarkable, brown on brown, her mouth too large. As a young girl, people often asked her if she was about to cry when she was just lost in space, thinking about something, minding her own business. Her mother had liked to say she had a “kind” face. Whatever that meant.
Bailey pushed her hair behind her ears. God, that perm. Never again.
She sat back and looked about her, her gaze settling on the spot where Theodore Camden had been murdered. Poor man, struck down in his own home. She hoped his ghost wouldn’t come back and haunt her for the destruction of his property.
Bailey walked back to the kitchen, tossed the pizza box into the trash, and reluctantly stepped into her tiny room. In the darkness, it was no longer cozy or reminiscent of Silver Hill. It was the servant’s apartment, where the kitchen maid, or whoever, had made a tiny life by serving other people, and then probably died after she was no longer of use, with no pension, no security.
That would not be Bailey’s fate. She had her wits about her now, her mind no longer clouded with toxic substances. The cot creaked beneath her as she lay flat on her back, exhausted. After being abandoned in her teens without any guidance at all, she had been shown a world of pleasure and fun by Melinda, and it had been a wild ride. But no more. Bailey had veered toward a dangerous precipice the past few years, and now she had an opportunity to straighten herself out.
The jarring sound of the doorbell woke her the next morning. Bailey opened her eyes. A soft, gray light came through the window of the room. Her watch said it was seven o’clock, too early for the workers to be here. She pulled on her jeans and threw a sweater over her T-shirt.
“Hold on, I’m coming.”
The ringing became incessant. For God’s sake.
She unlocked the door and swung it open. An elderly black man stood before her, wearing suit pants, a crisp white shirt, and purple bow tie. Deep creases lined his forehead and cheeks, and the pouches of skin below his eyes drooped, lending him a sleepy air. Yet his carriage was that of a far younger man: tall, upright, and broad shouldered.
He didn’t look happy.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope you can. I live right below you and water is streaming down from the ceiling of my bathroom.”
Bailey rushed to the bathroom in the master bedroom. The workers had yanked out the grand claw-footed bathtub the day before, in order to replace it with some monstrous hot tub.
A dripping noise came from the floor.
“The pipes must’ve broken,” said Bailey. “I’ll call my guys right now and get them here to fix it.”
“You bet you will.”
Bailey sighed.
What had she gotten herself into?
The plumber agreed to come right over after Bailey phoned him. She reluctantly trooped back down the stairs to tell the other tenant, and realized that she didn’t even know his name.
He answered her knock, his mouth set in a firm line. Bailey had dealt with angry residents in adjacent apartments during other renovations. It was standard practice in New York City to piss off at least two out of four during a renovation.
“Hi, me again.”
He raised his gray eyebrows.
“The plumber will be here in an hour and he’ll figure out what’s wrong. I’ve turned off the water, so at least the worst is over.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. I do. Is it all right if I take a look at your bathroom? That way I’ll be able to figure out which tradespeople to call to put it back in order.”
“You may.”
He opened the door and let her in. The apartment was one of the smaller ones, but with the high ceilings it really didn’t matter. Especially as almost every inch of wall space was covered in framed paintings from multiple eras, a joyful abstract pop art inches away from a stern, nineteenth-century portrait. The Victorian sofa and chairs were loaded with mismatched throws, while rugs of all sizes and colors zigzagged along the floorboards. The effect was dizzying, like being inside a spinning kaleidoscope.
“I’m afraid I didn’t get your name?” She held out her hand.
His grip was soft, his fingers long and delicate. “I’m Kenneth Worley.”
“Bailey Camden. I’m the interior designer slash owner’s rep for Melinda Camden. Pleased to meet you, although I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
“As am I.”
The ceiling of his bathroom looked like a wet diaper, with enormous bubbles of plaster threatening to burst through at any moment. Water stains marred the wallpaper, a gorgeous pattern of wild roses, and obviously antique.
“God, this wallpaper is ruined. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. It was put up in the roaring twenties. I’m guessing I won’t find its replacement.” Although his voice stayed even, she detected a faint sense of panic behind the words. He blinked a couple of times. Was he on the verge of tears?
“No, sir. You won’t. But I will find something as similar as I can. Or I’ll draw it on the walls myself.”
She was half joking, but he seemed to take her seriously, giving her a nod of his head. “I take it you know Melinda well?”
“I do. We’re related. Very distantly.” That was the best way to put it, probably.
He surveyed the room, as if memorizing it, then turned to her. “I need a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”
Bailey nodded and followed Kenneth into the kitchen, uncertain where she stood with this man.
From what she could tell, the layout consisted of a small bedroom, a living room, and the kitchen tucked back on the other side of the dining room. All the period details remained intact, the cherry floors and fireplace gleaming as if they were encased in ice. Along the top of the kitchen cabinets, he’d arranged a dozen colorful cookie jars.
“Your home is lovely,” she said. “It’s obvious you’ve taken good care of it.”
“Unlike Melinda upstairs, who’s dismantling the place, from what I hear each day.”
“She’s not dismantling. Well, maybe she is. But it’s part of a new look.”
Kenneth poured her a cup of coffee and one for himself. “Sugar or cream?”
“Neither. I think I’ll be needing it black today.”
“You will. Look, I know I sound like an old grump, but Melinda’s no different from the rest of the new generation, or most of them, anyway. No respect for the history of the place.”
“I have to say I agree.”
“You’re just a young girl; what do you know about history?”
“I know that they called this the Dakota because it was so far away from the rest of New York at the time.”
“And you would be wrong.” A sly smile appeared on his face.
“That’s not true?”
“Not at all. The owner, Edward Clark, was enamored of the American West and hoped to name everything on the West Side, including the avenues, after territories and states. Luckily, he was overruled, so instead of the ghastly moniker Idaho Place, we have West End Avenue. The story you refer to was mentioned in passing during a press tour on the building’s fiftieth anniversary, as mere speculation, and took on a life of its own.”
His eloquence and knowledge delighted her. “I stand corrected. But I do know that Melinda’s great-grandfather helped design and build this place. I keep wondering what he’d think of her redecorating plans.” She took a sip of coffee—it was strong and delicious. “How long have you lived here?”
“I came to work here back in the late thirties.”
“You worked here?”
“As a butler. Right before the war. After that, they began letting in the artistic types. Lauren Bacall, Leonard Bernstein, Rosemary Clooney. It was a fun place to work, even if the snooty old guard were unhappy with all of us throwing parties, having a gay old time. Literally.”
“It must’ve been wonderful.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t go that far. I may own this apartment, but that doesn’t mean I belong. Oh, three or four of the old housekeepers and nannies were tucked away in studios on the ninth floor after their shelf lives expired. But I lucked out. My dear boss, Oscar—of course everyone knew we were shagging but no one spoke of it—left me this place in his will. All gloriously mine, so I could die in peace, other than Sophia Camden’s disdain whenever we passed in the courtyard. And the fact that my bathroom is now wrecked.”
Bailey could only imagine the outrage Melinda’s mother and some of the other longtime residents had directed Kenneth’s way at the very idea of a servant turning shareholder. Taking over an entire apartment, as if he were their equal.
“I promise you I’ll make it look as good as new. Or as old.” She got a smile out of him at that. The coffee was taking over her brain, making her feel a nice buzz. Honestly, waking up to a strong cup of coffee was a better drug than any of the others she’d dropped over the past decade. “You must have seen so many changes during your stay here.”
“More than you know. This place used to have a tenants’ dining room, down on the main floor, though the food got less interesting after the war, and they eventually closed it down. By then the tailor had moved out, as had the laundry and maid service. No one valued what a special place this was. In the sixties, I remember, before it became a co-op, you could rent a seventeen-room apartment with six bathrooms and eight working fireplaces for six hundred and fifty bucks a month.”
Bailey found her mouth watering at the idea.
A half hour later, the plumber—a stocky guy with a thick Polish accent—arrived. He prodded the ceiling and shook his head. “This’ll take a couple days.”
Kenneth sighed. “I shall wash up in the maid’s bathroom until then.”
Bailey put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for being so understanding. Once it’s fixed, I’ll have my contractor stop by and we’ll discuss the plaster and wallpaper.”
“I trust you to find a replacement wallpaper, if you like.”
“Would you? I’d be happy to do so.” Bailey knew exactly which vendor in the D&D Building, the wholesale resource for every designer in the city, would have a similar pattern.
“In the meantime, I want to see Melinda’s apartment, so I can get a sense of how much history you’re destroying.”
Upstairs, Kenneth ran his fingers over the woodwork like a lover as Bailey led him through each room. “The craftsmanship still blows my mind.”
“Melinda wants a clean look, which means tearing all this down. I have to admit, it kills me to have to do it.”
“You know you can save it.”
He had her full attention. “How?”
“You can put it in storage in the basement. They have the original elevators down there, lots of crown molding and fireplace mantels. You name it. Then, in thirty years when the pendulum swings back to appreciating a traditional look, the new owners will be able to replace what was lost.”
“I’m so happy to hear that. It makes me feel less like a tyrant with a wrecking ball. I’ll talk to the super and arrange that.”
“Yes, you’ll want to talk to Renzo. He’s part of the Dakota mafia as well. His father was super here for practically his entire life, until he passed away.”
“I haven’t met Renzo officially yet. Melinda seems to want to avoid him.”
