The Body In The Big Apple (23 page)

Richard was sitting across from Faith, sipping a very dry martini. He was ebullient, and the small amount of alcohol he'd imbibed didn't account for the one-hundred-kilowatt glow suffusing his face.

“Major milestones call for drama, and what could be more ostentatiously dramatic than this place? The steaks are the size of a turkey platter and we're surrounded by power brokers, movers and shakers—fitting for an incipient best-selling author. Here's to you—and the book.” Faith held her glass aloft. She was drinking a kir royale and planned to have at least one more. Then maybe she'd be able to concentrate on Richard and not keep seeing headlights bearing down upon her. “What's the title—or can't you tell yet?”

“My agent wants to keep it all very hush-hush. Make a big splash by teasing the public with ads in the weeks before it comes out. Who is so-and-so? What southern town will never be the same again? That sort of thing.” He was clearly enjoying himself. “But what I can tell you is it's a story of good and evil. Of being tempted—and yielding to temptation.”

“Sounds very Faustian—or biblical. Maybe you can work Eve into the title—or the apple.”

“Or the serpent.” Richard laughed. “Plenty of snakes down in that neck of the woods. Not too many apples. Not like here. Not like the Big Apple. The biggest, reddest temptation known to man or woman. If you can't fall here, you can't fall anywhere.” The martini was loosening his thoughts—and tongue.

“I couldn't wait to get back and tell you, Faith. When I've finished the manuscript, will you read it?”

“Of course. I'd be honored.” And she was. She had a sudden vision of herself married to a great author. Shielding him from his adoring public so he could write undisturbed. Making his favorite foods, coaxing him from the black despair of writer's block. She drained her glass and caught the waiter's eye for another.

Wait just a minute! a voice inside her head cried out. Handmaidens to great men! Think of poor Sophia Tolstoy. Dorothy Wordsworth. Lorraine Fuchs.

“Want to order?” Richard asked. “I'm starved.”

Faith wasn't very hungry, but she wanted to stretch the meal out. The Stansteads were nowhere in sight, but it was only quarter after nine. Richard and Faith were not in Siberia, but not at an A-list table, either. Still, it commanded a good view.

“Mixed grill—rare; baked potato—butter on the
side; and Caesar salad—do you want to share one?” Faith asked Richard.

“Sure, I love anchovies. Let's see. Think I'll go for the prime rib—make that medium rare—sorry, Faith, I know that's overdone—and baked potato with butter and sour cream—not on the side. How about shrimp cocktails first? We're celebrating, remember. Plus, we might as well go the whole nine yards if we're going to have this kind of meal. I plan to have cheesecake for dessert, if I can manage it.”

Faith agreed. She hadn't had a shrimp cocktail in years. It had been Hope's favorite as a child and the only thing she would ever eat when the family went out.

“And the wine list, please,” Richard added.

When it arrived, he turned it over to Faith. “You pick. Until recently, springing for a bottle of Blue Nun meant I had a serious date. I tend to stick to beer—sometimes even imported ones.”

“Have a beer, then, and I'll have something by the glass.”

“No, pick something. Something French. Something red. I know that much.”

Faith ordered a Gigondas—it was big and oaky enough to stand up to the food—and sat back. The Stansteads had just walked in and were being shown to their table. It wasn't close enough for Faith to overhear anything, but when they were seated, she could see Emma's back and Michael's face, so long as the people at the tables in between didn't lean the wrong way. The Stansteads didn't see her and Richard was facing away from their table. Would Emma plunge right in, or wait for postprandial complacency?

The shrimp were enormous—and tasty. Richard was
regaling Faith with tales of different assignments. It should have been a great evening.

By the time their main courses arrived, Faith could see that Michael was holding Emma's hand. His arm was stretched across the table, snaking around the bread basket, and he was looking at her with a complicated expression of love and sadness. Obviously, Emma was letting the cat out of the bag—or a few whiskers. Faith couldn't see Emma's plate, but Michael's food was getting cold. A waiter appeared to pour more wine and Michael motioned him away. He was looking at his wife intently. Faith stopped chewing. Michael put his other hand over Emma's. It was hard to tell at this distance, yet Faith was pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.

“So then I asked Prime Minister Kaifu—Faith, are you okay?”

“What? Yes, sorry. I got a little preoccupied there for a moment. Tell me about the Japanese prime minister,” she said, resuming normal functions, savoring the really excellent meat, done perfectly. It wasn't going to be hard to prolong the meal. She was taking very small bites.

Faith liked to have her salad after her main course, European style, but in deference to the setting, she hadn't said anything, and it arrived with much aplomb. Like the rest of the city, the restaurant was bedecked for the season and the comfort of yet more pine boughs and lots of red and green was turning Faith's thoughts away from her near-death experience and toward her companion. The wine was helping to quell her feelings of dislocation. After all, 'tis the season to be jolly, she admonished herself. And Richard was fascinating. And damn good-looking. Nothing like the aura of success
to enhance a man—or woman. She looked around her. The room was crammed with perfect examples.

“We go up to Westchester to my sister's for Christmas Day. Watch her kids play with the wrapping paper. I keep telling her not to bother with presents, just wrap empty boxes, but she seems to think that puts me in a league with Ebenezer Scrooge. She's got twins, eighteen months old. And believe me, they could care less.”

This whole kid thing was more complicated than Faith realized. She thought of the weary mother at the Met whose baby would sleep only when in motion, and now apparently there were little tykes who could be satisfied with crumbling and tearing paper—never mind what the treasure inside might be. She made a mental note to ask her mother about this. Somehow, she couldn't quite picture it. Not care about the present? She knew reasoning developed slowly—echoes of college psych and Piaget reverberated in her head—but what about emotions? What about good taste?

“I don't know anyone with children yet—I mean my friends, people my age. It's probably all going to happen at once. I keep hearing people are ‘trying.'” The irony of it all struck her anew. Before marriage, “trying” meant avoiding; after, it meant the opposite.

“I'd like to have a couple of kids someday—but not for a long time. I'm not around enough to be a decent father.”

What were they doing talking about kids? Faith decided to change the subject. She still had her eye on the Stansteads. A waiter had taken Emma's almost-untouched plate away. Michael had freed his hands and eaten most of his. Now, the sommelier was bringing a bottle of champagne. Michael's hands were back, locked on Emma's. Faith thought of the fervent pleas
from the class secretary for alumnae news. Between the two of them, Emma and she could fill an entire issue simply by recording today's events.

“Have you finished your profile of Michael Stanstead?” The question popped out before Faith had time to think about whether she really wanted to introduce the subject or not. But perhaps Richard had uncovered something—something that would help Faith draw some more lines between all those names, find a connection to explain the nightmare Mrs. Stanstead's life had become. Emma might be telling more than half the story to Michael, if not all, but Faith didn't plan to stop her own investigation. It wasn't just Emma, or Emma's father. It was Lorraine, too.

“No, apparently he's announcing his candidacy for the House sometime in January, and I want to cover that—the beginning of the campaign. The magazine agrees.”

Faith started to tell Richard that she knew exactly when Michael Stanstead would be declaring, but she stopped herself in time. Richard knew Emma and Faith were friends, but this was insider information, and she didn't want him asking any follow-up questions.

“Do you think he has a chance?”

“It's a safe district, and while I wouldn't say he's a shoo-in, he's definitely in the slipper category. Yes, yes, I know it's spelled differently.” Once more, Faith was struck by the way Richard's good fortune was affecting him tonight. The man wasn't simply over the moon; he was orbiting.

“He's attractive, intelligent, knows the right things to say—tough on crime, soft on pets and babies. Opposed to big government and big taxes. Champion of the little guy. An individualist himself. Came from
money but made his own. No, short of some kind of major scandal—like he's secretly been funding Noriega or received tips for bets from Pete Rose—he should win.”

“What do you think of him? What's he like?”

“I thought you knew him? Didn't you tell me you went to school with his wife? Stunning lady, by the way, but she doesn't seem to have much to say. Can't hold a candle to you.”

“Thank you.” Faith wasn't sure whether he was complimenting her powers of speech or appearance, but a compliment was a compliment. “I did go to school with Emma. We're very good friends, but I've never gotten to know Michael.” This was true of a lot of her friends' husbands. They were all still back in junior high, when the boys stayed on one side of the dance floor and the girls on the other. Michael was surrounded by men in suits. There was an occasional woman, women like Lucy, like Faith's own sister, Hope, but the sexes hadn't reached that gender melding Faith supposed was the goal—at least when it came to jobs, positions of power, that kind of thing. Faith intended to hold on to her own idiosyncrasies. Yet, at the parties she attended, the parties she catered, everyone mixed at the beginning, but by the end of the evening, those who weren't in matched pairs—or trying to be—had precipitated out into male and female conversational groups. What would it be like in ten years? At the end of the next decade, the end of the century. The great big millennium? She was not given to predictions or pronouncements, but she was sure that the battle of the sexes would still be going its own intriguing, irritating, and irrational way.

Richard was cutting a large piece of romaine lettuce. Everything about the meal had been slightly oversized, so far. As he ate, he seemed to be phrasing his reply. “I like Michael. He's very straightforward. Nothing coy about his answers, and he hasn't refused to talk about anything; plus, it's all on the record. I told him that at the start and he had no problem with it, he said. Seems to care a great deal about his wife, the rest of his family. But also cares a great deal about Michael Stanstead. He's very ambitious. But it goes with the territory. You wouldn't be running the way he is if you didn't have that drive. He's ruthless, but so far I haven't picked up on any cruelty. If he's stepped on any fingers on the lower rungs of the ladder, I haven't found them yet, but I'm looking. Works like crazy. What else? Smokes god-awful cigars, very expensive, and drinks, but not to excess. Frankly, I thought he'd be a more interesting subject.”

This was a surprise. The one thing Faith hadn't thought was that Emma might be married to someone dull.

“Any hobbies, any passions?”

“Plays tennis and squash. Keeps a sailboat at their summer place in the Hamptons. There is one thing, though.”

“What's that?” Faith sat up straighter.

“He's not like a lot of politicians I know who get off on adoration. They need to have the crowd cheering, and if one person isn't clapping, they take it personally. Stanstead projects an image of someone who is totally sure of himself. Not conceited, but removed. He doesn't need everyone to love him, just vote for him. It's remarkably effective and makes people want to get close to him all the more. It also gives him a slight air
of mystery—and he needs that, because charisma is the name of the game these days.”

Emma and Michael, across the crowded room, which was filled with the noise of holiday cheer, were drinking their champagne. They were both leaning back in their chairs. Faith couldn't see her friend's face, but at some point in the conversation, she'd pulled the clasp from her hair and it hung loose, Titian red, the reflected light turning strands to gold. Every once in a while, someone would stop to speak to them. Earlier, the way they had been sitting signaled, Do not disturb. Now, they were holding court. At least Michael was. He may have manufactured whatever charisma he has, Faith thought, or may not have much to say except about politics or business, but the elixir is working tonight. He looked like a leader.

“They're here, behind you. Michael and Emma,” Faith said, discreetly pointing her finger.

Richard turned around and stared for a moment, then nodded his head, acknowledging Michael's slight wave. Apparently, he couldn't see Faith, or didn't recognize her.

“Yes,” Richard said. “White House material for sure. I might even vote for him myself. And the people joining them now are his wily factotum, Adrian Sutherland, and Lucy Morris, Stanstead's sister-in-law, whom you must know. Every great man needs an Adrian Sutherland. Brainy, part British, not a bit dull, and not quite as scrupulous as his boss, from what I've been able to pick up.”

Faith craned her neck to peer around the very large woman who was still clinging to her sable coat as she lowered herself into a chair between the two parties. Adrian and Lucy again. Coincidence? New York is a
big city, with more restaurants per capita than any other place in the country. And Adrian and Lucy just happen to walk into this joint? Adrian and Lucy. A waiter was bringing more champagne and menus to the Stanstead table. She gave a sudden start as she felt a warm hand cover her own.