The Body in the Gazebo (14 page)

And Stephen.

The fly in the ointment.

He had not indicated by even the merest flicker of an eye that he recalled Miss Rowe. Maybe Faith was right. Maybe it was a guy thing. She hadn’t told Faith that Sam never forgot a name or face, but he was a lawyer. Different wiring?

The music from the party drifted out. The Cohens had hired a DJ and he was playing everything from the Beatles to Black Eyed Peas.

“Having a good time, Mom?”

It was the groom. She gave him a hug.

“Heavenly, darling. You picked a wonderful girl and a wonderful family.”

“Don’t I know it—and she thinks the same about us.”

Pix grabbed the moment. “Dr. Cohen, I mean Stephen, looks so familiar. Could we have met him before, do you think? Has he said anything?”

Pix blushed. This was not prodding. This was stepping in it.

“Met you and Dad before? I think he would have said something, and I don’t know where. They go to New York City once or twice a year for the museums and opera, but unless you sat next to them at a performance, I wouldn’t think your paths have crossed.”

There it was.

“Your father doesn’t like opera.”

“You don’t, either, you just think you should,” Mark teased her.

She decided to change the subject.

“I’ll be making all the final arrangements for the rehearsal dinner when I get to Charleston. I know the groom doesn’t have much to do, but are you all set?”

“Done and done. Picking up the rings next week, and I’ve ordered silver penknives engraved with each of their initials for the ushers. I got Dan a Swiss Army watch that does a ton of things, including the ability to set multiple alarms—wish I’d had that in college. I’m having something engraved on the back of that, too.”

Much to Pix’s delight, Mark had selected his young brother as his best man.

“He’ll love it.”

“Let’s see what else? I set up spreadsheets so the Cohens could keep track of the RSVPs and separate ones for Becca and me for thank-you notes. My bride says electronic ones are out and is writing them by hand. Plus you’ve seen the Web site, right?”

It was all a little much—spreadsheets? Were the vows going to be in the form of a PowerPoint presentation? Pix was glad Rebecca was old-fashioned enough to nix e-thank-yous.

“You haven’t, have you? Oh Mom, you are such a Luddite! Anyway, it’s not too cutesy. Just one picture of us and the rest info.”

Sam came up on Pix’s other side. He was chewing.

“You have got to go inside and have some of this food. I thought nothing could top last night, but this is something else again!”

The night before, acting on Faith’s advice and with the resort’s help, the Millers had hosted a Low Country boil on the beach for their soon-to-be in-laws. Pix had been dubious—a pot full of what sounded like wildly disparate ingredients: shrimp in their shells, smoked sausage, new potatoes, small rounds of corn on the cob, whole onions, and Old Bay seasoning plus water—but it had been fantastic. Faith had told her it was also called “Frogmore stew,” a South Carolina staple named after the place where it originated, no frogs involved.

“I’m supposed to make notes for Faith about what’s being served. She wants to add a Southern station to her catering offerings.”

“Take my iPhone, Mom. You can snap some pictures and text her the descriptions,” Mark said.

The twenty-first century. Not too shabby. She realized she was echoing her kids’ highest words of praise.

“Give me that thing and show me what to push.”

Mark laughed. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, sweetie.”

Soon Pix had captured, and sampled, the buffet: a bountiful raw bar; Charleston crab cakes; shrimp with cheese grits—Boursin, the server told her and she dutifully noted it for Faith—slices of roast pork with apples and dates; wild rice; biscuits with shavings of country ham; salad dressed with Vidalia onion vinaigrette; and the desserts! Pecan pie and Key lime pie, red velvet cupcakes, flourless chocolate cake with praline sauce, pineapple upside-down cake with rum sauce—Pix had resolutely stuck with champagne, but rum seemed to be flowing not just in the food, but in the mojitos—and an ambrosial layer cake new to Pix, hummingbird cake. Cissy Cohen urged a piece on her as she was taking the photo. “Nobody knows who invented it or where the name came from. It just appeared in the late nineteen sixties, and since then, you can’t have a dessert table without it. My mother says it’s called ‘hummingbird cake’ because it’s as sweet as the nectar the birds like to drink, but I’ve also heard that it’s called this since it makes you ‘hum with delight.’ Take a bite.”

Pix did, and the combination of crushed pineapple, chopped ripe bananas, and chopped pecans—were they the official nut of South Carolina?—in the rich cake topped and layered with cream cheese frosting didn’t make her want to hum. It made her want to sing out loud. Dessert was Pix’s favorite form of food. She had the
LIFE IS SHORT; EAT DESSERT FIRST
pillow to prove it.

“You need some more champagne.” Stephen Cohen was carrying a bottle of Mumm’s.

“ ‘Need’ may not be the correct word, but it is lovely. Thank you so much for tonight—and the whole time here. It’s been perfect.”

“Well, we plan on having many more of these good times,” he said, looking into her eyes.

Recklessly Pix grabbed a fork and tapped the side of her glass. People had been making toasts all evening. She raised her glass as the room grew quiet.

“Many thanks to Stephen and Cissy, our hosts, and”—she faced Mark and Rebecca—“to you especially, but to everyone, ‘May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future.’ ”

Past?
What had she said? Had she gotten the quote right? She knew it was something about the past and future. She’d left out the middle about the present, though. Or maybe there wasn’t a middle part. Stephen poured her some more champagne and kissed her cheek. Cissy patted her arm and said they were going to have so much fun in Charleston.

“Hear, hear!” someone cried out, and everyone clapped.

Sam appeared at her side.

“Very nice, dear.”

Samantha appeared on her other side with a plate.

“I think you need to eat something, Mom,” she said, laughing.

F
aith brought the last of Niki’s book cookies out and refilled the platters. They had been a big hit. Tom had arrived just after the talk and now he was speaking with the library director, making his apologies for being late. Faith could tell what he was saying by the look on his face. His face was an open book, appropriately enough for the evening’s venue. Always had been and she hoped always would be. It was impossible for him to dissemble. Tonight, however, she wished he looked less like he’d lost his best friend and more like a man without a care in the world. No, maybe a little care, as befits a man of the cloth, but definitely a man without anything on his conscience—or money stashed in an offshore account.

He came over to her and picked up a cookie,
Crime and Punishment
. She snatched it back. “Try this one with the chocolate frosting,” she said, handing him
The Hound of the Baskervilles
after skipping over
Gone with the Wind
. “Everything okay?” It wasn’t like Tom to be late. Yankee that he was, if they were invited for seven o’clock, he’d stand on the doorstep a minute before and push the doorbell on the dot. New Yorker that Faith was, she’d first of all never invite guests that early, and next, plan on the earliest arriving thirty minutes late.

“Sam called. He was on his way to a big do the Cohens are throwing, but he wanted to caution me not to talk to anyone, not the vestry, no one, about any of this until he’s back and can be present.”

“That sounds like a very sensible idea,” Faith said, knowing full well that her husband didn’t view it that way at all. To him, it was an admission that he had something to hide that he could speak only with a lawyer present.

“I suppose.”

“Anyway, you can talk to me. A wife can’t testify against her husband, or for,” she added hastily, as a look of alarm crossed Tom’s so very expressive face. “I’m sure it won’t come to any sort of court action,” she bumbled on, cursing her runaway mouth.

“I’d better find out when we’re supposed to make the pitch. Soon, I’d imagine, before people start to leave,” Tom said, ashen- faced after his wife’s remark.

The library board of trustees was composed of some town elected members plus all the “standing clergy.” For Faith the phrase always conjured up images of some people sitting surrounded by others in robes standing over them. Weeks ago, the library director had asked Tom and Father Hayes to speak about the current, and omnipresent, fiscal crisis and hopefully coax a few checkbooks from pockets.

Court action, wives immune from testimony—what was she thinking of! Tom disappeared into the crowd and Faith saw Sherman Munroe give him one of his smarmy looks. She was sure this was a man whose face never betrayed him, just assumed whatever nasty pose he wished. It was all she could do to keep herself from seizing the bowl and dumping gunpowder punch over his head.

“Another success, boss. Looks like there won’t be a single crumb left. Tricia will be disappointed.” Scott began to clear away the serving platters that were empty.

“I made up a plate of goodies for you to take home.”

“Thanks—and hey, I hope Niki gets one. Now that she’s eating for two.”

“Did she tell you she was pregnant?” Faith was surprised.

“Nah, but I’ve been through it twice, and remember, I’m one of five; Trish is one of seven, so somebody’s always got a bun in the oven. I guess by now I’ve got some kind of babydar.”

“Well, she isn’t telling anyone, not even Phil—he lost his job, in case you didn’t hear—so whatever you do,
don’t
let her know that you know.”

Scott shook his head. “Might not be a good time, but secrets from your old man? A big no-no. Trish pulled that, I’d be madder than hell.”

Niki picked that moment to appear.

“Could you empty the coffee urn, Scott? I, well, I—”

Faith broke in. “I need you to help me scout the library for anything left around. I wouldn’t want the librarians to find a dirty coffee cup shelved with New Books.”

She wanted to help Niki out. She also didn’t want the smell of the coffee to provoke sudden, uncontrolled evening sickness—much worse to discover on the shelves than a cup.

Scott winked at her.

Secrets. Too many secrets.

H
ave Faith’s next event was less than twenty-four hours later, but the scene was markedly different. Occupants of the White House came and went. Hemlines rose and fell. Tides ebbed and flowed. Moons waxed and waned. But the Tiller Club remained unchanged. The Tillies, as they always referred to themselves, had first seen the light of day as a group of sixteen sailing buddies who’d grown up in places like Pride’s Crossing, Hamilton, and Manchester-by-the-Sea on the Massachusetts North Shore. Despite boarding school and later college, they always managed to be home during the summer and spend every waking moment on the water. At age sixteen, they’d decided to formalize the bond with the club, adopting a crest with crossed tillers rampant on an azure shield topped by the prow of a ship emblazoned with “Carpe Tela”—“Seize the Tiller”—their boyish motto. The first of the club’s bylaws defined the process for adding new members. One carefully vetted Tillie of their same age would be added each year. Niki, then Ms. Constantine, had been with Faith at the first Tillie dinner, and throughout the evening it was this bit of Tillie trivia Niki kept coming back to in astonishment. “So,” she’d kept saying, “when they’re all ninety-nine—and these WASP sailing types live forever—they’re going to have to beat the bushes, or rather troll the briny deep, for someone named Chandler or Phelps who’s still capable of steering straight at that age?” It had boggled Faith’s mind, as well. So far—the Tillies were now forty—there had been no problem finding suitable candidates.

The Tillies took their social gatherings almost as seriously as their sailing. Most, in fact, combined the two, with cruises up the Maine coast to Northeast Harbor in the summer and to the Bahamas in the winter, during which there was much traveling between yachts for a “gam,” which mimicked earlier whaling-ship visits back and forth solely in the amount of alcohol consumed by the captains. Ahab would not have had the Wheat Thins with WisPride and Goldfish crackers thoughtfully provided by the wives, although there may have been hardtack to go with the grog.

Tonight’s Spring Fling, the Tillies’ concession to the club’s slightly diminished funds, was a mere blip, the chairman assured Faith. A year hence, at most two, would find the traditional fall game dinners and summer clambakes firmly reinstated.

Faith was familiar with the yacht club in Marblehead. It was where the fall dinner had been held each year. The club didn’t provide meals in the off-season, which was why the Tillies had needed a caterer, but it was possible to hire the club’s waitstaff and Faith had always done so. Tonight she had pared that down, bringing both Scott and Tricia, whom she could depend on. Besides, the Phelans needed all the extra hours they could get with business at the body shop off. Scott was already busy tending bar—the Tillies may have opted for chicken instead of beef, but they weren’t about to stint on alcohol. No silly drinks like Cosmos or Blue Martinis were bringing a more pronounced flush to cheeks ruddy from days squinting at the sun. It was strictly a scotch, bourbon, and possibly gin and tonic crowd with good clarets at dinner.

Servers were passing hors d’oeuvres: tiny duck beggar’s purses, blood-orange-glazed shrimp on bamboo skewers, mini Cuban sandwiches, goat cheese gougères, and tuna tartare on potato crisps. No lobster, no smoked oysters or caviar, but she’d also set out platters with an assortment of roasted peppers, sausage slices, stuffed grape leaves, cubes of smoked gouda and jalapeño jack cheese, with plenty of bread sticks and crackers. She’d learned early on that the Tillies might have obediently eaten their veggies in the nursery, hence all those strong bones and good teeth, yet they didn’t want to see anything resembling a crudité now. She’d mentioned Brussels sprouts sautéed in walnut oil and topped with toasted walnuts as an accompaniment for one of the game dinners, and the then chairman had looked as horrified as if she’d worn high heels on the teak deck of his Herreshoff.