The Body in the Ivy (10 page)

“I'll write it myself,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Suit yourself,” Prin said, getting out of the chair, “but get going. You wouldn't want Phoebe to walk in and read over your shoulder now, would you?”

Bobbi started typing. Prin had looked at her with such contempt, as if Bobbi weren't a person but something
unpleasant to be avoided on a sidewalk. During orientation, Bobbi had been in one of the stalls in the bathroom and overheard Prin and an upperclassman talking. It was a conversation she had promptly forced out of her mind, but it came back now. “Bobbi Dolan, you mean? Her father is a truck driver or something like that who found a golden goose,” Prin had said. The other girl had commented, “I'm surprised at the admissions department. Next thing you know they'll be letting in garbage collectors' daughters.” Prin had joined in her laughter, saying, “Tacky, very tacky.” Bobbi had waited until they left before emerging and then washed her hands several times.

When she finished typing the confession, it was all she could do to keep her fingers from the keys, adding the words screaming in her head: “I hate you, Prin. I hate you, Prin. I hate you, Prin, I hate you and I wish you were dead.”

“Has everyone been getting something to eat and drink? Mrs. Fairchild is famous. I'm sure you've heard of her Have Faith products. I'm quite addicted to the spiced green tomato chutney myself.”

Elaine Prince was playing the role of perfect hostess.

“So lovely to see you all. Do sit down and get comfortable. And please don't start again, Lucy.” The lady in question had opened her mouth to speak. “I'll explain everything. You're here to have fun and relax. Starting now. Mrs. Fairchild, be a dear, won't you, and pour me some champagne?”

Faith had been cleaning up the shards from the flute that Margaret Howard had dropped. She finished quickly, replaced and refilled the college president's glass, handing another to the author.

“Would you like me to prepare a plate of food for you?”

“How kind, but I'll wait a bit, thank you.”

Bishop sat in one of the large armchairs with her back to the fireplace, commanding a view of the room and its occupants.

“Do admit, if I had told you that this was going to be a reunion, most of you probably wouldn't have come. And it's high time we had one—our little group, that is.”

Still apparently fixated on the possible loss of income, Bobbi Dolan said, “So, what that man said—your assistant, Owen—none of that was true?”

“Oh no, Bobbi—and gracious, you have changed, love the hair—I would never ask him to lie for me. We'll have massages, listen to Rachel play, glean some advice from Gwen, and learn about some fabulous gardens from Chris—I do want her to tell me what to do with mine. Who else? Well, Phoebe, you, Lucy, Maggie, and I will be the audience. And Mrs. Fairchild, of course, when she's not whipping up something in the kitchen to tempt us from our diets. The island is enchanting; we can take walks in the woods, have a picnic on a different beach each day.”

She looked about the room with the satisfied air of a veteran camp director. Faith half expected her to announce water sports at two o'clock; bonfire and group sing at nine.

“Maybe everyone else has a week's time to spare, but I don't,” Gwen said angrily. “If it's all the same to you, I'll be leaving in the morning.”

Faith had been watching the women's faces and
Gwen's was the easiest to read. The others looked bewildered and in some cases, oddly enough, frightened. As soon as Barbara, no wait, she was Elaine, announced that all the promises would be fulfilled, Bobbi Dolan had visibly relaxed.

Elaine leaned back in the chair. “I'm afraid that won't be possible. I thought you might react this way and I wanted us all to have at least
one
day together, so I told Tony Marston, the man who runs the boat, not to come tomorrow. And the boat is the only way off the island. If you still want to leave on the day after tomorrow, then fine.”

“No, not fine!” Gwen exploded. She was extremely angry. “Get on the phone or whatever you have here and get in touch with him immediately.
I'm
leaving in the morning.”

Obviously a woman who was used to being in control of situations, Faith thought.

“I'd like to leave, as well,” Rachel Gold said. “And you can keep the fee. You're right. I wouldn't have come if I had known what you intended, and now that I do know, I'm not comfortable staying.”

Before anyone else could speak, Elaine stood up. In her flowing robe, she looked like a deity—or a 1940s movie star.

“You're going to have to make the best of it. This is where I do most of my work and I have intentionally made it impossible for anyone to reach me. No phone, not even a satellite one; no radio, nothing. The boat comes twice a day and that is how I communicate with the outside world.”

Gwen's jaw dropped, then she snapped it shut.

“I don't believe you. Someone in your position wouldn't be here without any means of communication. What about emergencies?”

“Brent flies the flag upside down; it's only happened once. A guest broke an ankle after the boat left for the day and we didn't want the poor woman to suffer through the night. A fisherman picked her up. And as for not believing me, you're welcome to search the premises, but can't you simply accept the situation and get to know your friends again? Wall Street isn't going anywhere.”

Before Gwen could respond, Lucy spoke up. “I've been around boats all my life; I'll take anyone who wants to leave to the mainland tomorrow. You must have a flotilla in that huge boathouse.”

“A relic from the island's former owner, which I restored for purely aesthetic reasons. We had a rowboat of some sort, but I believe it sank. You can ask Brent. Boats don't interest me. I haven't even sailed since our days together at the club, Luce, and you may remember how bad I was at it.”

Lucy opened her mouth to say something, then abruptly closed it.

No matter how competent the sailor, a trip by canoe or rowboat back to the mainland would be impossible even if there were one, Faith thought, remembering how long it had taken to get out to the island.

“Now, please, let's not waste this lovely food, and I'm sure there's something special for dessert,” Elaine urged.

Rachel Gold got up and quietly left the room. Gwen followed her—not so quietly.

“If you get hungry later, come down and raid the refrigerator. There's also bottled water, other drinks, and snacks on the landing,” their hostess called after them as if their departure was nothing out of the ordinary.

Lucy Stapleton sighed audibly. “Well, you may have changed your appearance, Elaine, but not your personality. You never would admit there was anything wrong in the garden and you still don't. I'm going to have more to eat, go to bed, and yes, tomorrow I'd love a massage and maybe Chris can tell me how to grow Asiatic lilies without red bug.”

Before long, the others followed suit, and Faith was kept busy serving, but not too busy to watch Phoebe James. She had moved next to Elaine, wordless at first, gazing at her hostess.

“You
do
look exactly like her,” she said.

She reached out and lightly touched the purple silk caftan, then drew her hand back, but Elaine caught it, holding it in hers for an instant before releasing it.

“You're so beautiful, just like she would have been,” Phoebe said.

“Oh no, Prin would have been much prettier. She always was. But we'll never know, will we?”

 

The plates of food Faith had left for Brent Justice—dinner plus two desserts—had disappeared. When she went to fill the dishwasher, she'd found his plates rinsed and stacked. Maybe in the future he would give her a hand with cleaning up. She didn't feel like tracking him down now. He'd left several quarts of strawberries and some rhubarb on the counter.

She pushed the button to start the dishwasher, marveling at how you could still have all the modern conveniences far away from a power company—not to mention luxuries like the pool—if you had enough money. And there was no question that Barbara Bailey Bishop/ Elaine Prince had enough money.

Before she'd gone up to bed herself, the last one, Prince had told Faith that she should have coffee, fruit, and some baked goods ready in the kitchen at 7:00 a.m. for any early risers, then take orders for full breakfasts at 9:00 a.m. “Let's keep it all casual. Oh, and think about a nice picnic lunch. There are hampers in one of the storage closets next to the wine cellar. Brent will load the cart and leave it at the spot I've picked. Could you have it ready at noon for him?” she'd said.

Faith went to check and the hampers were, as she suspected, the British type fitted with china, glassware, cutlery, thermoses, boxes for sandwiches and other fare. They would have been more at home at Ascot than on this rocky island. There were insulated bags for wine and other drinks. Cucumber sandwiches? Chutney and cheese? She felt as if she'd stepped into a Merchant-Ivory film.

At last she turned out the kitchen lights and went upstairs. It was only 11:00 p.m. but it felt much later. It had been a long day. There were voices on the landing. Faith stopped and devoted herself to unabashed eavesdropping. It was Christine Barker and Phoebe James.

“I'm sorry I didn't stay in touch, but well—you know,” Phoebe said.

“We couldn't get away from Pelham and each other fast enough,” Chris said.

“Oh no, not you. I always liked you, Chris. It was just that everything was so confused, so horrible. I don't even really remember it all. I know my mother was mad at me for moping around that summer. That's what she called it—‘moping'—and then I met my husband. I mean, he wasn't my husband then, but we got married the following June, so I didn't go to Columbia. My parents didn't see the point and my mother said we needed the time to plan the wedding.”

“But Phoebe, wasn't your senior thesis published in some journal? I always pictured you teaching at some university and getting one of those genius awards.”

Phoebe laughed. It ended in what sounded like a sob to Faith.

“Wesley didn't—doesn't—want to be married to a bluestocking. Then there were the kids.”

“Aren't your daughters only sixteen and your son thirteen? What did you do all those years before they were born? Forget that. It's really none of my business. I'm sorry.”

“No, it's nice to talk. I don't have friends the way a lot of women do. Maybe if I did, I wouldn't need a shrink.” There was that laugh again. “We lived in the city, New York, on the East Side. I gave the right kind of parties for Wes's career and tried to get pregnant. It took a while. Wes was so sure it was me—never any problems in that department on the James side—that he didn't get tested until one of the specialists said he wouldn't work with us unless he did. It turned out that his swimmers weren't quite the champions he thought they were.”

The two women laughed together. It was hard for Faith to keep herself from joining in. Ah, men.

“I should never have given in so easily; I desperately wanted to go to Columbia.” Phoebe's tone of voice switched abruptly to deep regret. “I
was
smart, wasn't I? But girls weren't supposed to be in those days. Maybe not now, either. My daughters are smart, but it's the old ‘Never let them see you sweat.' All those
A
's look effortless. And looks! They're gorgeous. Wes is so proud of them. When we go out to eat, he has one of them on each arm. Trophy daughters. Josh and I bring up the rear. My girls gave up on my appearance long ago. They used to make suggestions; now they don't bother. Just stare right through me. I'm furniture. For Wes, too. At least Josh notices me—even if it's in a negative way, it's something. I'm the enforcer. The giver of curfews. He tries to fight with his father, but Wes doesn't fight. It's one of his least endearing qualities. He's provided me with everything a woman could want—a big house in a select suburb, trips all over the world, jewelry I never wear…” Her voice trailed off. “I do have two darling dogs—Irish terriers—Molly and Piper. Molly and Piper don't care what I look like and they like to hear what I have to say.” She stopped abruptly. “I've been talking too much. What about you, Chris? You never filled out anything for the reunion record books, but you're married, right? Kids?”

“No, I'm not married and I never, that is, I don't have any kids.”

That odd pause after
never
jumped out at Faith. She wondered whether Phoebe picked up on it, too.

“That's too bad,” Phoebe said in what seemed to Faith a slightly envious voice. Her next words con
firmed it. “So, you've always been free to do whatever you wanted, go wherever you wished.” It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact.

Chris said, “Not exactly. I've had to make my living and for a while I was supporting my mother, too. When my father died, his pension died with him and Social Security wasn't enough. My mother didn't want to lose the house. I moved in and helped out. My brother has a large family, and well, I was, as you said, free.”

There was a moment of silence.

“I meant it when I said I love your columns. I have that book, the collection of them. I'm looking forward to tomorrow—and the rest of the week. I want to stay,” Phoebe said.

“I'm not sure I will,” Chris said slowly. “Phoebe, why do you think Elaine gathered us here?”

“For a reunion. We
did
use to be close. We lived together all those years. It can't be anything else. I mean, what else could it be?”

“A trial?” Chris said, but before she could add anything to her words, Elaine's voice came from one end of the hall.

“See, I knew it would work out. Here you are having the same kind of girl-talk gabfest we used to have back at Pelham! Don't let me interrupt you. I want to leave a note for my handyman on the kitchen table. You can't imagine how early he gets up in the morning.”

Before her employer could discover her on the stairs, Faith thought it prudent to ascend.

“Everything was delicious, Mrs. Fairchild,” Phoebe said. She had stood up and Chris was following her; apparently the gabfest was at an end. “And I do know
your products. They have them at the Williams Sonoma in the mall near my home. I like the chutneys too, but your Peach Melba jam is my favorite.”

“Thank you,” said Faith. “I'm glad I tucked that into the selection I brought—and please, everyone, do call me Faith. See you in the morning. Good night.”

The group split up with more
good nights
. Faith closed her door.

A trial?

 

Faith was up early, but when she went into the kitchen it was apparent that Brent Justice had come and gone. Bless the man, he'd made coffee. The large urn was sending a fragrant message her way—“drink me”—and she got herself a cup. Perhaps he was in the garden. She wanted to pick lettuce for salad and see what else was coming in. The strawberries he had left glistened in the early morning light. It was impossible to overdose on strawberries in season and she'd make them a running culinary theme throughout the week. Freshly picked ones as a breakfast choice each day. And the rhubarb was begging to be made into strawberry-rhubarb pie. She'd also do an old-fashioned rhubarb crumble with some strawberries to balance the tartness (see recipe, p. 321). She set her cup in the sink and picked up two of the trugs and a small basket. There should be enough wild strawberries to make the coulis she'd envisioned yesterday for tonight's panna cotta with some saved for a liberal garnish. As she went out the door, the clear morning air with the smell of the sea and growing things intoxicated her. She'd toss strawberries with fig vinegar, a change from balsamic, roast them with a smidgeon of butter, make
shortcake—the real kind with biscuits, not sponge cake—offer sorbets of the various varieties, do cold fruit soup—the list was endless.