The Body in the Boudoir (3 page)

He lowered his voice. “I'm only in town until tomorrow, or rather, today, and you're probably very tired, but if not, would you want to spend some time showing me around? I was here in my senior year in high school and once in college. Been to the top of the Empire State Building and out to the Statue of Liberty, but that's pretty much it.”

Her staff had sharp ears.

“The poor man needs to be educated, Faith. It's your duty as a New Yorker,” Howard said.

“Only been to our great city two times, huh, huh, huh!” Josie weighed in.

So much for privacy.

“Well, I guess—”

“Great! I'll get my coat.”

“Reminds me a little of an Irish setter I had as a kid,” Howard said once Tom was in the cloakroom. “Same eyes and always wanted to play, day or night.”

Faith gave him a look.

“I'll take him to Michael's Pub for some jazz. Maybe Woody Allen will be on clarinet even though it's not a Monday. That's pretty quintessentially New York, right?”

“Faith, honey, you could take the man to the Port Authority Bus Terminal and he'd be happy. Now, get going,” Josie said.

“H
umor me. I've always wanted to do this. Could you pull over, please?” Tom, Faith had learned his last name was Fairchild, said, addressing her, then the cabdriver. She was startled. They were at Columbus Circle, the New York Coliseum looming on one side, the entrance to the park on the other. No significant landmarks unless you counted Gaetano Russo's seventy-foot monument with the Italian voyager atop the granite column. And they'd already detoured to see another notable site before heading straight down Broadway. Tom had requested a quick detour to Grant's Tomb after they left the church. He hadn't told a joke of any nature or even the mythical Lincoln anecdote about Grant's drinking: “If I knew what brand he used, I'd send every general a barrel.” Instead Tom had seemed awed by the impressive structure and talked about Grant's genius—also his heartrending last days trying to hold off death in order to complete his autobiography, hoping that with Mark Twain as his publisher the book would make enough money to pay off his debts and support his family when he was gone, which it did.

Tom was pointing away from Columbus Circle, toward the line of horse-drawn carriages on Central Park South, short at this time of night.

“How about it?”

How about it? Faith thought. She had never set foot in one of the touristy rip-offs, but Tom was already paying the cabbie and she found herself choosing between a spirited-looking white horse drawing a black carriage and the reverse. Tom helped her into the first and after firmly rejecting the blanket that had covered God knows how many knees, Faith settled back against the admittedly comfortable arm of her escort and decided to relax and enjoy the ride.

The park was beautiful. Even more so as the carriage wended its slow way across town, past the lights of Tavern on the Green. The clip-clop of the horse's hooves was the only sound Faith could hear. She found herself resting her head on Tom's shoulder. The driver was blessedly silent, and miraculously, she could even see stars above despite the city's notorious light pollution.

“Thank you,” Tom murmured, his lips lightly touching the top of her head. “I'm sure you must do this all the time, but it's something I've always associated with New York City and had to experience.”

Faith sat up. She'd heard of a lot of things associated with the city: Broadway shows, skyscrapers, crime, egg creams, but never the horse and carriage. Well, why not? And why had she never succumbed before? The vehicle, with its echoes of a bygone, much slower city, was the perfect way to see the park.

The ride was over too soon and they stood facing the Plaza Hotel. Even Eloise had to have been in bed by now, Faith thought.

“Tired?” Tom asked. He had never taken his arm away.

“We could still go to Michael's. It's not far. Down on Fifty-fifth.”

They arrived just before the last set. Woody wasn't there, but Tom declared himself very happy with the place, noting the “Ye Olde” décor as a nice contrast to the Gothic flavor of the wedding locale. Drinks arrived, and Faith led up to the question that had been nagging at her for the last few hours.

“I've heard all about the rafts, tree houses, and mischief you and your little buddies made in Norwell, which sounds more like it should have been a town on the Mississippi than the—what was it—North River? And you have an older sister and two younger brothers. The groom was your roommate at Brown and he met his bride your freshman year in a poli sci class. They're going into the Peace Corps and want to enter the Foreign Service. You played basketball in high school and came to the city with the Model UN club. In return, you've quizzed me about virtually everything except my grandmother's maiden name, and I'm sure that will come, but I still don't know what you do! How, Mr. Fairchild, do you earn your keep up there in Massachusetts?”

Tom looked surprised.

“I thought you knew. I was the co-officiant today, or rather, yesterday.”

“Co-officiant? You mean . . . ?”

“Yup. Parson, cleric, sky pilot, possibly devil dodger. It hasn't been Mr. Fairchild for a while, it's Reverend.”

Faith had ordered Irish coffee. She took a big swig.

“So, up there in New England, you have . . . ?”

“A church? Yes. As of last fall, First Parish, Aleford, Massachusetts.”

Faith was familiar with the historic place. All that 1775 famous-time-and-year stuff. Before Tom continued she had already pictured the scene from countless calendars.

“The church is one of the oldest in the state. Your basic white clapboard, steeple, and very hard pews facing the green.”

She was clutching the mug, trying hard to process what he was saying. How could this incredibly attractive, incredibly charming man be everything she had sworn to avoid?

She gave it one more try.

“But you're not wearing a collar.”

He reached over and took her hand. “I was—robe, too—but I'm allowed to get out of my work clothes for parties, and other things, so I changed.”

As the music started up with Ellington's “Take the A Train,” in a spur-of-the-moment decision that she hoped she wouldn't regret, she said, “All those rafts. And I'll bet you're a sailor. Do you want to take a boat ride? There's a ferry you might like.”

The Staten Island Ferry—a bargain, even though the fare was now fifty cents. The boat had barely left the Battery when Faith realized she was on the ride of her life. Between the two of them they were able to recall most of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poem “Recuerdo”—“We were very tired, we were very merry”—although they did not intend to go “back and forth all night” on the ferry as Millay and her lover had. They did see the sun come up over Staten Island on the return trip, though, a “bucketful of gold.”

Tom kissed her then. It was a great kiss. Not too practiced, but just practiced enough.

“When can I see you again?” he asked.

“When do you want to see me?” Her head was spinning.

He kissed her again.

“Now.”

Chapter 2

T
om Fairchild was an old-fashioned suitor. He sent flowers—a bridal nosegay the first time with a card saying “You can hold on to this one”; Millay's
A Few Figs from Thistles
with a bookmark at “Recuerdo”; even chocolates from Faith's favorite store in the city, L.A. Burdick ( Josie confessed to spilling the cocoa beans on this one)—and he called.

His first call was from Penn Station just before boarding the train. She'd wanted to see him off at the station, but he'd insisted she go straight home to get some sleep. He'd conk out on the train, he said, so they'd parted on the sidewalk beneath the Brooklyn Bridge and her mind was crowded with all the things they didn't get to do, including walk across the bridge to Brooklyn Heights, the place where she had often fantasized about living in the future, when she was a grown-up with a family.

“I'm not saying good-bye, just wanted to tell you I had a great time. No, make that the best time I've ever had. Now close your eyes and dream of me,” Tom said.

They had both been ravenous when they got off the ferry and she'd offered him a choice of a Chinatown or a diner breakfast. The Empire Diner in nearby Chelsea was open twenty-four/seven and a great people-watching place, frequented by a colorful mix of actors, cops, musicians, gangsters, athletes, club hoppers, insomniacs, and young lovers. But when he opted for Chinatown, even closer, she was pleased. New England cuisine (what was with those boiled dinners?) left much to be desired, but she assumed they could do bacon and eggs. They couldn't do Chinese food. A friend had told her once about venturing into a Chinese restaurant in Cambridge and walking out when a bread basket, complete with foil butter pats, was brought to the table.

She'd taken Tom to a little hole-in-the-wall place, Hong Fat, on Mott Street and ordered steaming bowls of hot-and-sour soup to warm them up, followed by beef chow fun, extra smoky. He ate the flat, wide rice noodles with a fork, but the man had to have some flaws. Places were starting to open and they stopped for dim sum at HSF to fill in the cracks. Faith insisted Tom take some pork buns and spring rolls to eat on the train rather than suffer the cardboard sandwiches offered at exorbitant prices in the so-called dining car, a far cry from the kind of train travel pictured in her favorite movie,
North by Northwest
. Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint had dined on brook trout, the table set with fine linen and cutlery. She'd made sure Tom had plenty of paper napkins and a plastic knife and fork, assuring him he would be the envy of all the other travelers. With a reluctance to leave him that both bothered and surprised her by its intensity, she'd grabbed an uptown bus. What was she thinking? He was absolutely, totally wrong for her.

Yet, when the phone had rung again late in the afternoon, waking her, she'd eagerly grabbed it before realizing Tom couldn't possibly be in Boston so soon. It was Hope.

“I think I may have overreacted.”

“Un-huh,” Faith said. Her eyelids were closing again.

“Who knows what's going on in the guy's life? Pressure from someone. A family member or business associate forcing him to switch his account to their person.”

“True, true.”

“Are you okay? You sound funny. Funny peculiar, not ha-ha.”

“Tired, very tired. Talk tomorrow?”

“I'll be at work, so call there.” Hope didn't take holidays.

And Tom Fairchild did call that night. And the next, and the next . . .

“I
have bad news, good news, and bad news,” Josie said. They were freezing various cookie doughs and puff pastry for the Valentine's Day luncheons they were doing on and before the fourteenth. January was creeping out in a slothlike manner with only a few jobs on the books. Howard was in Belize with his friend Michael, snorkeling and coming up with ideas for all sorts of Caribbean-inspired drinks, according to the postcard he'd sent. Faith was going to have to put in an order for extra guavas, passion fruit, pineapples, and coconuts when he returned, but she drew the line at paper parasols, although she'd heard that tiki was making a kitschy comeback.

“Tell me in order,” Faith said anxiously. “Nothing too bad, I hope.”

“Let me get some coffee. You?”

“Okay.” The news was coffee bad, not shot-of-brandy bad, she thought, relieved.

They sat at the counter with their steaming mugs.

“My grandmother passed. I got a call from one of my cousins this morning.”

“Oh, Josie, I'm so sorry,” Faith said, reaching to give her friend a hug.

Josie took out a packet of tissues and dabbed at her eyes.

“I knew this was coming. When I saw her at Christmas, she told me it was a final good-bye and that she was ready for the Lord. I teased her, ‘Is the Lord ready for
you,'
and that got a laugh. I wish you could have met her. She was an amazing woman.”

“I wish I had, too. Even though we only spoke on the phone a few times I could tell she was a very special person.”

“I owe her my life. She's the one who insisted I finish high school and found the money for me to go to college. I was five when my parents died, and she's the only parent I had. My mother was her youngest and it was a lot for my grandmother to take me on at her age.”

The tears started again.

“When is the funeral?” Faith asked. “You should probably leave today.”

Josie nodded. “Wish you could come—and my cousin said the house was already filling up with food.”

Faith wished she could, too. Aside from being there for her friend, she was picturing the platters of fried chicken, country ham, bowls of macaroni and cheese, collard greens, potato salad, succotash, deviled eggs, and sweets—banana pudding, pies, layer cakes. The Southern way of death was infinitely better than the triangles of bread sandwiching a millimeter of fillings like anchovy paste and perhaps a thimbleful of sherry that characterized Northern obsequies.

“My cousin also told me something else. It's the good news. Faith, she left me her house! And all her savings.”

“I'm so glad for you,” Faith said. If anyone deserved this, it was Josie. Her grandmother may have raised her, but Josie was devoted to the woman in turn, spending her vacation time in Richmond and calling every day. Faith had seen photographs of the turn-of-the-twentieth-century brick house that Mrs. Wells had purchased with her husband in the 1930s and lovingly restored.

“The location is perfect, between downtown and the historic Fan District. And it has a wide front porch, a veranda in back, and a big garden. She loved her garden.”

Faith got up to pour some more coffee, but Josie put her arm out and stopped her.

“She wanted me to use the house to open Josie's.”

Faith sat back down. Richmond, Virginia, was not within commuting distance of Have Faith's kitchens, and in any case, Josie would be fully occupied. Faith had known this day would come, just not so soon. This was the “bad news” part, but it wasn't. She'd miss Josie like crazy, but it was a dream come true.

“I'll be there for the opening. We have to start thinking of the menu right away. You should be able to open by the summer and serve on both porches. Dig out those photos and let's start making lists.”

It was Josie's turn to hug Faith. “I love you, boss,” she said.

“I love you, too, but it's time to drop ‘boss.' You're on your own now, missy.”

“The estate won't be settled for a while. I'll be back after the funeral, and if you agree, I can train Francesca to take my place. She grew up cooking—she told me the women in her family are famous in her village for their culinary skills—and I know she'd be happy to quit her job at the health club. She's at the reception desk and gets all the complaints—so-and-so left sweat on the stationary bike seat, or is hogging the elliptical, or is, well, fill in the blank.” Josie was beaming now.

“She does seem to know her way around a kitchen, and maybe we can add some of her family's Tuscan specialties. Let me think about it.”

“And, boss, pardon me, Faith—you can figure out what she's hiding, our
bella donna
.”

“Hiding? What do you mean?”

“Nothing sinister. Just a little puzzling. Last week I came back to the apartment unexpectedly—I'd forgotten an umbrella and I've bought so many from those guys selling them on the street when it rains that I can set up my own business next downpour. Anyway, Francesca was sitting at the kitchen table writing a postcard. She had a stack of them next to her. When I came in, she quickly tucked the one she'd been writing into a manila envelope and when she did, she knocked the other cards to the floor. Of course I started to help her pick them up, but she told me it was no problem and not to bother. But, Faith, the odd thing was that before she scooped them up, I saw that they weren't postcards of New York City, but of London. No Empire State Building, World Trade Center, Saint Patrick's Cathedral, Statue of Liberty. Nada. Instead I spied the Tower of London and Trafalgar Square. And there were no stamps on the cards even though they were all addressed.”

“Did you see any of the addresses?”

“The ones I saw were all addressed to Signora Rossi, presumably Francesca's mother, or maybe grandmother. And the big envelope she was stuffing them into was addressed to someone in London. The only thing I can come up with is that Francesca wants her family to think she is in England, not the United States. The question is, why?”

Always a silver lining, Faith thought happily. Nothing cheered her up like solving a mystery.

I
t was close to five o'clock on Valentine's Day when Faith turned the key of her apartment door. Both of today's luncheons had gone off well, but she could wait a year before seeing any heart-shaped food again after this week. All her clients had insisted on a traditional theme, not simply everything red, white, or pink, but hearts, flowers, and Cupid. Today the menu she'd suggested for the day itself had met with both women's approval—these were ladies' luncheons. It started with Kir Royale, and moved on to borscht with a piped sour cream heart, heart-shaped patty shells with lobster Newburg, endive spears with a pomegranate-seed-studded vinaigrette, finishing with
coeur de crème
in a raspberry coulis. Mädderlake supplied the centerpieces, using rococo white porcelain containers overflowing with roses straight from a Fragonard for one and for the other selecting a long, low glass heart shape filled to the brim with perfect red, deep purple, and rose anemones. Faith had scattered on the tables candy hearts with those mottos that always suggested to her that someone should be doing the Charleston—“I Go 4 U,” “U Send Me, Kiddo”—and red-foil-wrapped chocolates as well.

She'd picked up her mail on the way to the elevator and was disappointed not to have a card from Tom. He'd been sending her a series of funny postcards, including one of an oversize bean pot. On the back, he'd written: “We do, too, have good eats in Boston!”

As usual, there was a card from her grandmother with a crisp ten-dollar bill tucked inside. It had started at a dollar when Faith was a child and it had bought a sundae at Rumplemeyer's. She still loved the place, and the ten might stretch to two sundaes. Tom and she could go to the Central Park Zoo first. She shook her head.

It wasn't that Tom hadn't sent a card. In a way she was relieved. No card might mean he was losing interest, didn't want a long-distance romance. She certainly didn't—or did she? Since she'd met the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, she'd gone back and forth on the relationship. Forget the whole church thing—although that was hard to do—he was a New Englander born and bred. Aside from the fact that he'd accepted the call to First Parish in Aleford and had to honor it for the foreseeable future, he'd never leave the Bay State for the Empire State. And she had no desire to live anywhere north of the Cloisters—and even that was too far from Midtown—no matter how great the baked beans were. She'd avoided discussing any of this with either Josie or Hope. Out of voice, out of mind?

Hope was going out with Phelps. He'd snagged a table at the Sign of the Dove, in the Conservatory Dining Room, one of the most romantic spots in the city, especially in the summer when they opened the glass cupola that covered the ceiling. Phelps must be making many pretty pennies these days—they wouldn't be going Dutch on Valentine's Day. She'd have to make a concerted effort to get to know, and like, him better, Faith resolved. He was a fixture in her sister's life and there might be some bouquet tossing in the future, although with their schedules, the wedding might have to be on a federal holiday when the New York Stock Exchange was closed, forcing these two workaholics to leave their respective offices. Or not. People were getting married while skydiving; on Rollerbades; spelunking, dressed as Trekkies—why not in an office? Faith could see the notice in the
Times
: “The bride wore a white Armani pants suit, and instead of rice, the guests threw paper from the couple's shredders.”

She was meeting Josie and Francesca for a girls' night out at Sylvia's Soul Food restaurant in Harlem. Comfort food: it was Wednesday, so that meant the meat loaf special, maybe some garlic mashed potatoes, green beans, and definitely peach cobbler. The secret to the meat loaf, Josie had learned, was barbecue sauce both in and on the meat. They were going for the food, but more because Sylvia Woods was Josie's inspiration. Herbert and Sylvia Woods started the successful restaurant in 1962 and it had been serving satisfied customers with food prepared with care—and in Sylvia's words, “Along with the seasonings, I stir in love”—ever since.

Josie would be leaving the city for good at the end of March; things were moving rapidly. She'd been going back and forth to Richmond to oversee renovations, and Faith had hired Francesca full-time. She was proving to be a great choice. Hardworking, delightful, she'd already added two dishes to their menu:
ribollita,
a Tuscan vegetable bread soup, Francesca's version heavy on fresh thyme, and a dessert—
torta della nonna,
grandmother's cake, a heavenly ricotta cheesecake concoction covered with almonds and a dusting of confectioners' sugar.