The Body in the Boudoir (8 page)

Hope had been pushing her to do a prenup, but not pushing hard. She knew her sister. Faith had told her, with a smile, that it was out of the question. What she was about to embark on was for keeps, not about keeping.

The place was filling up, but there were still spaces at the counter. She wanted to sit a little longer, reveling in the luxury of being in a spot where she didn't have to talk, listen, or do. Her back was to the tables, and hearing chairs moving across the floor, she was aware that people had sat down at the empty table just behind her. There was a swirl of conversation. She heard a man ask for coffee, then as she began to tune back into her own thoughts, she realized that the other voice was Francesca's. She swiveled partway on the stool to greet her. Francesca's back was toward Faith, but there was no mistaking her glossy dark hair and the fawn-colored Searle shearling coat that she said she had found in a thrift store, brand-new, still with the tags. As Faith was about to reach out to tap her on the shoulder, she heard Francesca's words more clearly, as well as her tone of voice. Have Faith's newest employee was angry, extremely angry.

“You know what I'm paying you for! Here's half the money, and you'll get the rest when I get what I want.
Presto!
” she said.

Faith quickly turned away and motioned to Demetrious.

“You changed your mind about the muffin,” he said. “I knew you would. Good for a cold day like today.”

She nodded. There was no way she could leave the shop without going past Francesca, and she couldn't sit at the counter drinking more coffee. She'd already had two cups. Whatever was going on, and whoever the man was, one thing was clear. It wasn't a meeting Faith felt comfortable barging in on. She stole another look at the couple. Francesca was leaning across the table, saying something more. Faith could only overhear a few of the words—“no one,” “know,” and then a longer string, “back here Monday.”

The man was older than Francesca. Midthirties, maybe a bit more. He looked like a fellow countryman, dark hair and eyes. He was wearing a heavy black wool overcoat. He hadn't unbuttoned it yet or taken off the muffler wound around his neck. The waitress put down two cups of coffee in front of them and the man started to order something else, reaching to remove his scarf.

“You have time to eat?” Francesca asked sarcastically. She leaned back in her chair again and Faith could hear everything now.

The man mumbled something and reached out to take the check.

Francesca was already on her feet and moving toward the door. Faith hunched over the counter. The girl hadn't seen her and Faith wanted to keep it that way.

“
Ciao.
Don't forget what I said—or you know what will happen.”

The man threw some money on the table and followed her.

Demetrious put Faith's muffin down in front of her. It would be a shame to waste it, she told herself, taking a bite. Heavenly. And the scene that had just unfolded had successfully driven all other thoughts from her mind except for one. What was Francesca Rossi up to and how was she, Faith, going to find out?

F
aith let herself in, contemplating the time in the not too distant future when she wouldn't be coming to work, her work. She was surprised to see that Francesca was there, although she was supposed to be. Somehow the scene Faith had just witnessed in the coffee shop had placed the girl far away from ordinary routines.

March had come in like a lion and was staying like one, one with an extremely heavy pelt. It had been cold and rainy. No sign of any lambs. Come the end of the month, though, Josie would be gone for good. Josie's wouldn't open until the second week in May, and then on a limited schedule, but her time with Faith would be over. Josie had asked to meet to go over the jobs for April and May, still feeling responsible for what her absence might mean.

Francesca had the large booking file open.

“Josie will be here soon. She just called. I've been making a list of some dishes we can add to some of these menus. The dinner April sixth.
Asparagi
will be in season, yes? We can use it in risottos and tortas, but it is so good by itself. I like to make a little butter-and-egg-yolk sauce for it with ground walnuts and orange peel like they have in Venezia. It's a change from
limone
.”

“Sounds delicious. And I want to make that Campari granita you mentioned. We can serve it as a dessert or between courses as a palate cleanser.”

The girl was flushed, and as Faith took what she knew was a list prepared in advance, she felt the girl's hand. It was still cold. She hadn't been wearing gloves.

“Did you just get here?” Faith asked.

“Oh no, I've been here awhile going over the, how do you say it, possibilities?”

“Yes, ‘possibilities.' That's exactly how we say it.”

Francesca's English had flowed effortlessly in the restaurant, as well as other times, Faith recalled. Now she was suddenly searching for words? Josie was right. The girl was a mystery.

Josie rushed in. “Sorry I'm late, but I stopped to pick up the latest pictures. I want you to see the kitchen, and the main dining room is almost done, but first, did you get your dress? Tell all.”

Faith described it, and the entire experience—omitting the scene in the coffee shop, however.

“No tacky bridal stuff here,” Josie said. “My cousin's wedding last fall. All of us bridesmaids in apricot chiffon bustiers with turquoise satin ballerina skirts. Kind of a Howard Johnson thang. Do not want to even go there. I'm sure everything you Sibley ladies decide will be fine.”

“I've seen Nana's wedding photo, and I'm so glad the saleswoman thought of using the lace. Hope saw some shoes at Bonwit's, Valentino, pale gold lace, that would match. I don't know, though. I'll be outside, so maybe something more practical.”

The three discussed alternatives and Francesca suddenly blurted out, “My
nonna,
my grandmother, made her dress from parachute silk. She got it . . . from someone. The war, you know.”

Faith nodded. “It must have been beautiful. American soldiers brought the parachutes home for their sweethearts or the brides in their families. The air force used a hundred percent silk, not nylon, in those days. Did your grandmother save it?”

“I don't know,” Francesca said quickly. “Can we see your photos now, Josie?”

While they were exclaiming over the amazing changes Josie had accomplished in such a short time—the large front parlor, now the dining room, retained the charm of its origins without being a period piece. Josie had painted the walls soft lemon, like a lemon square, and hung summer-squash yellow valences over the windows to let in plenty of light and make the room feel larger. The kitchen was state of the art, yet she had kept her grandmother's wood cookstove, where each night she could set out her desserts within easy reach. Faith knew she was making all the appropriate noises, as was Francesca, but Faith's mind was back on what she had just overheard in the coffee shop, not whether Josie should use another yellow tone in the restroom or go for a different hue.

“When I get what I want,” the girl had said just a little while ago. Which could mean any number of things. Francesca was on a student visa—she was attending classes part-time at the City University of New York—and the visa would run out at the end of August. Did she want to stay longer? Was she trying to get a green card under the table? What else could Francesca want? Faith looked up at the girl, who was perusing Josie's photos with an appearance of intense interest. Where were
her
thoughts?

Drugs. That had been the first unbidden idea Faith had had as she left the coffee shop. Francesca had never appeared to be using, but a functioning addict was sadly all too common. Or she could be selling them, the man her supplier? Faith was tempted to grab the girl's shoulder, look her in the eye, and demand the truth. Then again, she could return to the coffee shop at the same time on Monday, sit in the last booth, out of sight but able to see the door, and watch. “Back here Monday.” She'd take the words at face value—and then what?

It didn't take long to go over the jobs. Francesca said good-bye and was off, seemingly her usual affectionate self—always a kiss on both cheeks and a friendly “
Ciao, bellas!
” to Faith and Josie.

“I'm off, too, but I don't want to go,” Josie said.

“Aren't you meeting your friends from the New School? I thought you wanted to go.”

“Tonight, yes, but I don't want to go to Virginia! I must have been nuts to think I could take on a restaurant pretty much by myself. And leave New York! I love it here and I love working with you.”

Change a few words and this was the refrain Faith had been singing, too.

“Josie's is going to be a big success. You
love
Richmond. It's your home. If all this had happened last fall, I could have added that you could come back anytime, but . . .” She looked pointedly around the room, already envisioning someone else presiding over her domain. “But,” she finished, “I'll be far away in the land of the bean and the cod.”

Josie made a face. “Oh, Faith, what the hell are we doing?”

T
om had been down to the city several times. He'd met Faith's family and had been heartily approved. There was just a tad too much relief on her parents' faces, Faith noted—were they
so
anxious to marry her off, or was it concern about some of her earlier objects of affection? In any case, Tom Fairchild was the answer to a whole lot of Sibley prayers. She'd continued to show him the city, her city, taking him to the last remaining Automat at Third Avenue and 42nd Street, all the while explaining that it wasn't a “real” one, taking tokens instead of coins. But the dolphin-headed beverage dispensers were still evident, maybe not as brightly polished, and the macaroni and cheese was still her favorite version of the dish, ambience being everything. The same for the chicken pot pie. They went to a few shows, more museums, and walked and walked and walked. Weekends were out, Sunday requiring Tom's presence in the pulpit, and they'd been out for her as well with Have Faith's last hurrahs. Yet as March drew to a close, there was no postponing the inevitable. It was time for Faith to go north.

To Aleford.

Chapter 4

A
woman noted for her calm, Marian Fairchild was a nervous wreck. It was an odd sensation. The crisis was not medical or financial. And really, it wasn't a crisis. How could meeting your future daughter-in-law be called a crisis? When said woman was arriving in a few hours for dinner and an overnight at your house and said woman was a professional chef and sophisticated New Yorker, that's how.

Tom had always been the most reliable of her children, the least likely to present her with any surprises. Craig, the youngest, was having a rocky start at college and Robert, the next in line, frankly puzzled her these days. Handsome, a good job, why didn't he seem happy? She was picking up a kind of sadness in him, a distancing that rang an alarm bell since he'd always been the one who was closest to his parents. And Betsey! A new mother, married to her longtime beau, why was she so angry all the time? Marian did have to admit that this wasn't a big change in her eldest. Betsey had emerged from the womb complaining vociferously and had never stopped.

But Tom. Even tempered, steady. When he'd come home from Brown his junior year to tell them about his decision to enter the ministry, she had actually been a bit in awe of him. To be so sure about one's life—in awe, and perhaps a little jealous. It wasn't that Marian didn't like her life. She loved her husband as much as the day she had married him, more, and she'd never regretted skipping her senior year in college to do so. Nor did she regret moving to his people in Norwell, away from hers in Connecticut. And the children. Motherhood, like old age, was not for sissies, but she'd coped very well with it, starting with those dreadful bouts of morning sickness, through years of skinned knees and the occasional broken arm—the Fairchild kids lived outdoors even in the coldest weather—and on through the turbulent teens, although Tom and Robert had both been eyes in the storm. No regrets, but she did sometimes wonder about roads not taken.

Tom! When he'd called Monday morning after that weekend in New York City, she'd expected to hear details about his college roommate Phil's wedding, not details about the fantastic woman who had catered the event. And then less than a month later he announced he'd proposed to this Faith Sibley and she'd accepted! Marian had tried to explain her reaction—“It's so fast, and we don't know her” to Dick, who annoyed her by saying it was time Tom got married, otherwise his parishioners would be trying to pair him off with every eligible female in Aleford if they hadn't already started, and they'd get to know the girl plenty in the years to come. He reminded her that Tom had always known what he wanted and had gone for it, whether it be the state basketball finals or God.

Marian had been upset that she wasn't able to attend the shower, although Dick's brother's fiftieth birthday in a private room at the Union Oyster House had been lovely—especially since that was where Dick had proposed to
her
and the place where they went to celebrate anniversaries and their own birthdays. It was, in fact, the only place in Boston where Dick would eat, and at his brother's party he was able to enjoy the same dishes he ordered every time—Wellfleet oysters on the half shell, a bowl of clam chowder, broiled scrod with a baked potato, and Boston cream pie for dessert. There had been other selections possible at the party—scallops wrapped in bacon, Yankee pot roast, even lobster scampi—but Dick Fairchild knew what he liked and stuck with it. Marian had the scampi and it was a little too garlicky.

Returning on Monday, Betsey had called her mother, reporting first of all that the baby had weathered their separation well and then launching into a description of the house where the shower had been held (“A little over the top for my taste”), the gifts (“Not very practical. I got much better ones”), and finally Faith herself (“Pretty, I suppose, but very New York. Not an outfit we'd choose, very tight black skirt, hard to sit in, I'd have thought, and turquoise blouse, very sheer over a camisole, but that could have been her underwear”). Sydney had called as well and reported much the same, in less detail, but was sure Marian would like Miss Sibley. She'd said this last in a slightly doubtful tone and Marian hung up wondering whether the comment referred to Miss Sibley as a bride for Tom or Miss Sibley recovering from her mysterious illness at the gathering. Betsey had told her about it, but had no opinion as to the cause, tossing out a few hints, however—“heavy-drinking crowd,” “binge dieting”—which served to propel Marian's imagination into overdrive.

And why did both Sydney and Betsey refer to the girl so often as “Miss Sibley” rather than Faith? Was she that intimidating?

Marian had been up since dawn, her usual time, but today had spent the hours preparing for the visit. That sounded rather like one from a royal—“the visit.” No time for that second cup of coffee and a leisurely perusal of the
Boston Globe
. What would this girl—Tom's fiancée!—make of the Fairchilds' house? It was one of the oldest houses in Norwell, and the original clapboard dwelling had been added to and pushed up by successive generations, creating an architectural hodgepodge. The Fairchilds' décor was a hodgepodge, too, family pieces, some Ethan Allen—purchased when they'd gotten married—and the recent addition of a La-Z-Boy in the small den where Dick watched games on TV. The overstuffed armchair he adored had collapsed during the Super Bowl and he'd come home the following Saturday with what Marian was sure Faith would think was a decorating nightmare; it was what Marian herself thought. Perhaps she could throw something over it to disguise the Naugahyde; one of Great-great-grandmother's paisley shawls?

And the food. Marian was a good, plain cook. Better than that, according to her family. For tonight, though, she'd turned to Julia, a member of Marian's kitchen trinity that also included Irma and Fannie. Marian had made
The French Chef
's boeuf bourguignon for dinner parties before, and she'd made it a day ahead to enhance the flavors. Served with egg noodles, it was the main course. March wasn't a good month for fresh vegetables, and she was sure her freezer friend the Jolly Green Giant wouldn't do tonight. Deciding to forego a green vegetable entirely, she'd made her butternut squash soup as a first course, supplemented with a loaf of French bread. The bread was from Stop & Shop, but Marian wasn't about to try her hand at the real thing, which took up twenty-one pages in
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
. If she didn't have bread, the men in her family would ask where it was, and that could be embarrassing, as in “Where is the bread, Mom? We
always
have bread at dinner.” She'd have to remember to get some unsalted butter for the table, although from the sound of her, Miss Sibley didn't do fats. She probably didn't do carbs either. Dessert had been a challenge, and she'd gone with apple pie in the end. She knew she made a good crust—lard was the only way to get a truly flaky one—and she still had apples in the cellar. Cheese. She made a note to add a big wedge of sharp cheddar to her list. Otherwise she'd hear, “Where's the cheese, Mom?” She should have done something like Julia's soufflé Grand Marnier, but one of the boys was bound to come stomping through the door at the critical moment, and in any case, the timing defeated her.

She looked at the clock. Barely an hour to shower and change. Tom had said they'd get here between four and five. She had called everyone, reminding them that dinner would be at seven o'clock sharp, but to come as early as possible for drinks. She eyed the decanter of sherry she had filled. It was a good dry sherry. Faith probably only drank martinis or Manhattans. Marian couldn't remember at the moment what Manhattans were. Rye? They might have a bottle, but what else went into the drink? Tom said he'd bring wine for dinner, so that was a relief. She'd picked up some Brie, not very imaginative, but she didn't think it was a WisPride with Triscuits occasion, Dick's cocktail hour favorites. She did get two kinds of Pepperidge Farm Goldfish for him to nibble on. She wanted him to be in the best possible mood, although he'd left the house this morning beaming at the thought of meeting his son's bride-to-be and Marian knew that unless Faith Sibley declared she was an ax murdereress, Dick would engulf her in a bear hug and start the toasts. And even if she did wield an ax, he'd probably just get her to replenish the woodpile. His son was getting married and Dick Fairchild was tickled pink, his words.

Marian went down her mental checklist. There wasn't anything more she could do. The guest room was all set. Tom's room was always ready for him. And no, she hadn't been modern enough to put them together. Her son was a man of the cloth, after all, and this girl had better get used to keeping up appearances, although she should be, given her background. But she didn't sound like any preacher's kid Marian had known.

Tom was an early riser. Marian would be able to have some time alone with him. He'd been so busy in Aleford, plus running down to New York, that they hadn't seen him for weeks. Faith would sleep in. They did that in New York, Marian had heard. Brunch, not breakfast. She hadn't felt comfortable asking him about Faith's illness at the shower. It was odd, though. Quite a mystery. Betsey had said Faith was the only one who got ill, although the food was “very rich.” Surely it couldn't be . . . they had only met in January! Yes, a mystery.

Shower. A long, hot, steaming shower. That's what she needed.

Oh dear, she'd have to tell Robert and Craig not to shower in the morning. The hot water was sure to give out.

I
t had been a beautiful train ride and Faith had found herself looking out the window as Connecticut and then Rhode Island sped by, thinking that Tom had gazed at these very scenes on his way back after they'd first met. She was feeling very sappy. She supposed she should be feeling nervous, too. She was about to meet his entire family and there certainly seemed to be quite a number of them. She'd met Betsey, so that was over, and his parents had sounded lovely on the phone. Warm and welcoming. He'd described his brothers in detail—Robert, serious and “just one of the best people I've ever known”; Craig, the baby, funny, a born athlete (as all the Fairchilds seemed to be, Faith thought with a twinge of dismay), and a tad irresponsible. She was looking forward to her time in Norwell. What she wasn't looking forward to was Aleford. This was what had made her reluctant about coming north. She knew herself well. If Tom had been in any other profession, she'd have been on this train weeks ago. No, she knew that once she stepped into the parsonage, it would be all too real. She wasn't backing out; she just wasn't ready to back in.

Tom's description of the house, facing Aleford's green, had been sketchy at best. Faith was prepared for extremely quaint and extremely uncomfortable. She'd be cold and the kitchen wouldn't have enough counter space.

The plan was to spend tonight in Norwell with his parents and then drive up to Aleford, which was west of Boston, tomorrow. She'd spend the night chastely with parishioners who lived next door—no need to shock the congregation so early in the game—and she'd take the train back to the city late Sunday afternoon.

Her stop was next. South Station. She'd been fortunate to get a spot in one of Amtrak's quiet cars, and the whole trip had been a bit like being in a cocoon. She got her suitcase and rolled it toward the door, looking out the window at the platform as the train slowed, shuddered, and came to a halt. The door opened, and before the conductor could help her off with her bag, Tom was there. They were in each other's arms. They were together again and Faith suddenly didn't care what color the linoleum was in the parsonage kitchen.

“W
here's Scotty?” Marian asked her daughter. Betsey and her husband, Dennis, had been the last to arrive for dinner.

“Where's Sydney?” Betsey said. “She's never late.”

“It's just family tonight, dear,” Marian said.

“Sydney
is
family, or should be.” Betsey lowered her voice slightly at the end of the sentence, but not by much.

Her mother ignored her and repeated her question.

“I got a sitter. We had to wait for her. That's what held us up.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Faith said. “I was looking forward to meeting Scotty.”

Betsey raised her eyebrows. “Really? I didn't get the impression at the shower that you liked children much.”

Faith was determined to avoid the trap. She had no idea what remark she, or someone else, might have made that Betsey could blow up to an aversion to offspring, but she knew what was going on now.

“My sister isn't married yet, but our older cousins have provided us with plenty of little ones to cuddle, including my godchild, Diana, who is going to be in the wedding.”

Before Betsey had brought her breath of cold air, they'd been discussing wedding plans. Marian Fairchild was in a happy daze not attributable to the second glass of sherry she'd imbibed.
Of course
Tom had fallen in love with Faith. She was in love with her herself and had been almost from the moment Faith arrived. The first thing she'd said when Marian was showing her the guest room was, “Now let's get the ‘what shall I call you' thing out of the way. ‘Mrs. Fairchild' is fine for now and we can move to ‘Marian' perhaps at a later date. I already have a mother, so would prefer not to call you anything that involves that. Besides, ‘Mother Fairchild' sounds like one of those Lydia Pinkham patent medicines—‘Mother Fairchild's Improving Tonic.' ”

Since Faith had already remarked on the delicious smells coming from the kitchen—“Could it be boeuf bourguignon?”—the house's décor—“I love this sideboard. Is it Shaker?”—and the house itself—“You have to tell me all about it. Which part was added when”—it took Marian only a few seconds to declare that they should move straight to first names and she was sure her husband would feel the same way.