The Body in the Boudoir (17 page)

“And in return I promise not to say you're the wind beneath my wings.”

It wouldn't be sung either. Faith had already engaged the string quartet Have Faith used for events. Now all Tom and she had to do was choose the music. Definitely the Pachelbel Canon,
and she was also leaning toward “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring.” Both pieces regularly caused a lump in her throat when she heard them at weddings.

They were in luck and Lawrence Sibley had time after a lunch meeting.

“I never officially asked your father for your hand in marriage,” Tom said as they walked down Central Park South toward Fifth Avenue.

“Too late now,” Faith said, holding up her left hand. The ring caught the light and sent tiny rainbows across her fingers. “But judging from the cheers that came roaring through the phone when I called to tell them, I'd say he would have given you my hand and anything else you wanted—a lock of hair and I think they have the first baby tooth I lost.”

They arrived at Hope's office in the Citicorp Building on 53rd Street between Lexington and Third Avenue a few minutes later. The building was one of Manhattan's tallest, with a dramatic sloped roof that, when it went up in 1977, had originally been intended for solar panels until someone realized the angle was wrong—it wouldn't face the sun. Instead, it became a design element, almost as distinctive now as the venerable Empire State and the Art Deco Chrysler buildings. Tom was suitably impressed.

Hope was finishing a phone call and they waited outside her office. Faith was amused to note that Tom elicited much more attention from Hope's assistant than she had—“May I get you some coffee? Bottled water? Today's paper?” She was still trying when Hope emerged and introduced them.

“Jennifer, you remember my sister, Faith, and this is her fiancé, Reverend Thomas Fairchild.”

Faith could scarcely keep from laughing out loud at the crestfallen look on Jennifer's face. Whether it was the word “fiancé” or the word “reverend” that placed the man off-limits didn't matter, although looking at the striking woman and the provocative smile that quickly returned, Faith doubted any man was off-limits for Jennifer.

Hope liked the swatch—a soft moss color that would make her eyes look even greener and go well with her dark hair.

“Has Mother decided what she's wearing yet?”

“Anything but mauve lace. I don't know where she got the idea that this was a mother-of-the-bride thing, but she has. Oh dear, Tom, I haven't asked
your
mother what she's wearing. It may be mauve lace.”

“I don't even know what that means, but don't worry. It will be some shade of blue, her favorite color. Right now she's not thinking about the wedding, but about this tea your grandmother is giving. She has the idea that everyone there will be dressed to the nines and she'll look like a hick.”

“I'll call her. My grandmother doesn't travel in an Oscar de la Renta crowd.”

Tom looked puzzled. When it came to names and faces, he often had no idea what his beautiful bride was talking about.

“A designer popular with society ladies. Anyway, the Cosmopolitan Club bars jeans, shorts, and athletic apparel. As long as she doesn't jog in wearing any of those, she'll be fine. And your mother could wear a burlap bag and make it look good.” Marian Fairchild was still an extremely attractive woman, tall like the rest of the family. Tom had inherited her velvet brown eyes and her thick hair, now so white it looked platinum. Faith was glad Tom's mother and one of his aunts were coming. She'd arranged for them to stay at the Morrises' as Poppy was away with Emma on their trip. Jason Morris had moved to his club, but the house was still staffed. Marian had confessed to a passion for seeing other people's houses. She'd told Faith she loved house tours and walking by places at night, feeling a bit like a voyeur as she looked into lighted rooms. “Not such a failing considering Dick is in real estate, but I'd be like this if he was a butcher,” she'd said. Faith shared this enthusiasm. Looking at and talking about real estate was not just a pastime in Manhattan but an obsession.

After leaving Hope, they stopped for lunch at the Brasserie in the Seagram Building, also on East 53rd Street.

“I'm definitely getting the architectural tour this time,” Tom had said as they crossed the plaza toward the Mies van der Rohe international-style structure, one of Faith's favorite buildings. Outside it was a sleek bronze box; inside it exploded with light. Erected in the 1950s, it was timeless.

Tom had mussels and frites, addictively crisp fries, and, as usual, shared. Faith opted for the onion soup that was as good as the ones she'd tasted in France, maybe better. Not too salty or too cheesy and plenty of caramelized onions. They skipped dessert. Faith knew there would be coffee at the church offices, and on the way they stopped at an Au Bon Pain, the closest bakery, for her father's favorite
pain au chocolat
as well as some of their
pain raisin,
which was a decent version with yummy almond cream.

The church was a short walk farther and soon she was munching away between the two men she loved most in the world—if only Uncle Sky was there, it would be three. Faith was very happy. It was going to be a beautiful service. And she was basking in the affection the two men already had for each other. There wouldn't be any in-law problems for either the bride or the groom. Lucky. She was a very lucky girl.

Her father's office at the church was lined with glass-fronted bookcases and wooden file cabinets. It was neat, in sharp contrast to his office at home, where the floor was covered with teetering stacks of books and papers that all, save him, were forbidden to touch. “I know where everything is.” During Faith's brief visit to Aleford, she had noted that Tom's public and private offices followed the same pattern. The only difference was a computer in his cluttered workspace compared to Lawrence Sibley's preferred manual typewriter.

The phone on her father's desk rang.

“Will you excuse me?” he said, reaching over to answer it.

They stood, preparing to leave the room so he could talk in private.

He held up a hand and motioned for them to sit back down.

“It's your mother,” he said, and after telling her that Tom and Faith were there, turned his attention to what his wife was saying.

“Very sad,” he said. “That poor family. Oh, no children? Well, a tragedy all the same.”

He listened quietly.

“I'll be home early. No, I don't know what their plans are. I'll ask. I do know that Tom is staying until tomorrow morning.” There was a pause. “I rather think that's your and Faith's department, my dear. But I'll mention it. Good-bye.”

He hung the phone up. “There was a fire at the Todds' and neither Gertrude nor Herbert has survived. A neighbor noticed smoke coming from the house early this morning, and even though the fire department arrived quickly, it was too late. The house was an older one and it's been a battle to keep the flames from spreading to the houses on either side.”

“Do they have any idea what started it?” Tom asked.

“Yes,” Lawrence said. “It was unseasonably cold last night, and they were in the habit of using a propane space heater they'd had for years in their bedroom when the temperature dropped. The same neighbor who reported the fire told the police she had been after them to replace it because her own sister had barely escaped a fire started by one.”

“How did Mother find out?” Faith had a too vivid picture of the couple, lying now forever asleep. Why were those heaters still on the market? All winter there had been headline after headline about tragedies like this one.

“Their car was in a detached garage and the crew pushed it out into the street. The police found directions to The Cliff, including the phone number in the glove compartment, and called Sky.”

Tom put his arm around Faith and she leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said, “but God is not a puppeteer and our wedding is not jinxed. It's a coincidence that the two sisters died so close together and so unfortunately. A coincidence that you knew them. Otherwise the fire would have just been a small item in the paper about a couple you didn't know.”

He was right. “Still, I wish it had been a warmer night.”

“So do I, darling.”

Faith sat up. “What was that last bit about? What did Mother want you to mention?”

Her father smiled. “Wardrobe concerns. She asked me to be sure Tom, his best man, and his brothers are all set.”

“You can tell her to cross that off her list—and yours, Faith. Morning coats it is. I'm only getting married once and plan to do it in style. I have your Uncle Sky to thank for suggesting it. We've all been measured at a very nice rental place and are set. Craig wants to buy his to wear on campus afterward.”

Faith was going to enjoy this brother-in-law.

“We're having dinner at the Russian Tea Room,” she told her father. “I've been giving Tom a taste of all my favorites, a crash course. We'd love you to join us. I can change the reservation. I made it for eight o'clock. But we can eat earlier if you like.”

“I think we'll pass this time, thank you. You enjoy your blinis.” He knew Faith always ordered the same thing: the caviar tasting, three varieties, and warm buckwheat blinis. “It's rare that I can get home early, and I think we'll make it an early night all around.”

“I
could get used to this. Your New York, I mean,” Tom said. “This place is like a set for
The Firebird,
a very opulent one.”

“Exactly right. The restaurant was started in the nineteen twenties by former members of the Russian Imperial Ballet, homesick, obviously, although I doubt they had
this
many golden samovars. With Carnegie Hall next door, it's always been a hangout for musicians, actors, show business people. When I was a little girl, Aunt Chat would take Hope and me here and we always thought it looked like Christmas decorations all year round.”

It was Wednesday and that meant the Russian Tea Room's special Siberian
pelmenis,
the Russian version of kreplach, pot stickers, raviolis—all those wonderfully stuffed doughs, steamed or fried in countries across the world—was on the menu. This version was filled with ground meat and served with peas, sour cream, and dill. Tom ordered the special and Faith stuck to her usual. They were both drinking vodka, and the shimmering red and gold room was beginning to feel very toasty warm, she thought.

“Boston is going to be hard put to come up to any of this.” Tom looked slightly worried.

Faith hastened to reassure him. “ ‘Whither thou goest,' remember? And New England offers plenty of good stuff to eat. Lobster, for one.”

“Which reminds me. Are you sure a clambake is a good idea for the rehearsal dinner?”

Dick Fairchild had come up with the proposal and had even checked with his favorite spot, Woodman's, up in Essex, on Massachusetts's North Shore, to see if they could ship their lobsters, steamers, chowder, and even the bibs. They could and would. Faith thought it was a wonderful idea. The last thing she wanted was a stuffy country club–like dinner the night before the wedding. It would just be the family and the wedding party. An informal gathering would give everyone a chance to get to know one another best.

“It's perfect, and the only thing I have to do before we nail it all down is talk to Uncle Sky. Having it on the beach sounds romantic, but means sand and maybe sand fleas. Yet having it indoors is too formal. I'm hoping we can use the barn.”

“Barn?”

“My great-grandfather liked the idea of having milk close at hand, so in addition to the stables he put up a barn for a small herd of Guernseys. The next generation discontinued the practice and the barn stood empty. When Sky inherited, he converted it into a kind of playhouse for grown-ups, with billiards, Ping-Pong, a large room with a bar and fireplace where the stalls had been. There's even a small kitchen and bath. It hasn't been used in a while, though, so I don't know whether he wants the bother of opening it up.”

After sharing the Russian Tea Room's famous cheese-and-cherry blintzes for dessert, they continued to discuss wedding plans over coffee, reluctant to leave the restaurant's fairy-tale setting.

“Since Phil's heading off to Africa with the Peace Corps, I think cuff links or a money clip are out as a gift. I found a watch that does everything except make a phone call—waterproof, shockproof, worldwide time zones. I'm trying to think of something appropriate to have engraved on back. What do you say to the man who just happened to cause the best thing that ever happened to you?”

“You'll think of something. As I recall, you're very good at thinking of things to say on the backs of watches.” They were holding hands across the table and hers was in plain sight. Tom smiled.

“Cuff links for Robert and Craig, I thought. And I don't want Bets to feel left out, so I'm getting her the same ones as earrings—they're silver knots. Mom spotted them at Shreve's.”

Bets. Betsey. No, we don't want her to feel left out—or anything that might produce any harder feelings. The only thing that would make her future sister-in-law truly happy, Faith had realized weeks ago, was if Tom married Sydney, and she was definitely not prepared to go that far to ensure Betsey Fairchild Parker's well-being, real or imagined.

T
om left early the next morning. Ever since her father had told her about the Todds, the juxtaposition of the deaths in that family kept pushing its way into her thoughts and Faith was very glad that Tom had been able to stay—and very glad that whatever sad news might arrive in the future, he'd be by her side permanently.

There were still several events before she closed Have Faith's doors for good. Thinking of the
pelmeni
at the Russian Tea Room, she and Francesca made and froze several varieties of ravioli and tortellini. Her favorite filling was the simplest: finely chopped fresh spinach, lemon zest, ricotta, and a pinch of nutmeg. While Francesca finished the ones she was making, Faith called The Cliff. The woman who'd been working Tuesday, and had either been hired or was still filling in, answered the phone and soon Sky picked up.