The Body in the Boudoir (23 page)

T
wo weeks later she put the keys on the largest of the preparation tables. She'd also put a couple of bottles of champagne in one of the refrigerator units for the new occupants. After one last look, she walked out. Have Faith was officially closed.

From now until her wedding day, it would be smooth sailing. All that remained to do was keep up with the increasing pile of thank-yous.

Piece of cake.

Chapter 10

T
he grand opening of Josie's had the down-home feel of a family reunion, one set in foodie paradise. Even before Josie started to advertise, the word was out about the new restaurant and she'd had to schedule three seatings on the big night. Relatives from near and far, friends, new patrons, and hopefully a few soon-to-be-delighted restaurant reviewers packed the dining room. The hum of people having a good time filled the air, reaching Josie as she stirred her pots and checked the ovens. There was no need for canned music; diners were making their own.

Faith was in the kitchen, Howard at the bar. He'd created a new drink for the occasion—a “Josito”—that replaced the light rum in a traditional mojito with Mount Gay Eclipse. He explained that the golden rum with the slight taste of banana, vanilla, almond, and moka was a natural pairing with Josie's food, especially once he added plenty of lime and mint.

“Your food is fresh and deceptively simple, just like the drink. Besides, Mount Gay introduced it in 1910 at another auspicious time—Halley's Comet was overhead that year and there was also a total solar eclipse.”

Howard gloried in this kind of bibulous lore. He still hadn't decided on which job to take, but at the moment was teaching a course on the History of Drink at the New School. Faith had sampled a Josito and the pleasant buzz was lasting all evening. It was an inspired creation.

One of the waitstaff came into the kitchen with an order for smothered pork chops, collards, sautéed parsnips, and cheese grits and another one for succotash, deep-fried okra, yams, and fried chicken, dark meat only. The kitchen had been steadily filling orders and reorders for Josie's grandmother's treasured, delectable fried chicken recipe—crisp skin with just the right amount of spices and an extra dash of pepper, fragrant steam from the moist meat beneath escaping with the first forkful. There was an endless basket of cornbread on each table, with plenty of butter in small crocks, as well as pitchers of sweet iced tea.

“A woman at a table wants to know if y'all know where the term ‘soul food' comes from.”

Josie was adding shrimp to her shrimp and grits. “The
food
goes way back—Africa, the Caribbean. Thomas Jefferson is supposed to have brought back macaroni and cheese—which, incidentally, we've almost run out of—from Italy, and ‘macaroni pie' was on an 1802 menu in the White House.”

“He was certainly an epicure,” Faith said. “And grew all those yummy vegetables. Could be Sally Hemings nurtured this taste for things like turnip greens and hominy, which was rooted in her tradition.”

“Hmmmm,” Josie said noncommittally. “Anyway, tell the diner that the term ‘soul food' originated during the civil rights era here, sometime around the mid–nineteen sixties. We had soul music, soul sisters, soul brothers, so it was only natural that we'd have soul food, too—sustenance for the body and the spirit. I wouldn't necessarily call my menu a soul food menu, although if someone wants to that's fine by me. It's just Southern country cooking, using what's in season and mostly what's nearby. Oh, and you can add that my inspiration is Virginia's own Miss Lewis.”

Edna Lewis, now in her seventies, had been born northwest of Richmond in Freetown, a farming community founded by freed slaves, including Miss Lewis's grandparents. Her reminiscence of growing up there,
The Taste of Country Cooking,
became a classic the moment it was published in 1976. The book, with recipes arranged by season, predated those by Alice Waters and other proponents of using only the best, local, freshest ingredients. Josie had met Miss Lewis several times and a framed note wishing Josie's great success occupied pride of place in the dining room. Faith thought Howard had described this style of cooking perfectly, “deceptively simple.” For example, like Miss Lewis's, Josie's parsnips were parboiled, sliced in half, and slowly sautéed in sweet creamy butter. The only further addition was salt and pepper. They didn't need anything else.

After each seating, people lingered on the front porch and back patio drinking coffee, sipping iced tea and cordials. It was a perfect spring evening. Josie's grandmother had cultivated an old-fashioned garden, and soft lights illuminated magnolias, peonies, irises, poppies, and roses. There was a large smoke tree on one side of the porch, its fluffy pink blooms adding their own fragrance to the others that seemed to have been ordered just for this special night. Faith had joined some of Josie's cousins and sat down with a cup of coffee and a large wedge of red velvet cake. She'd been lucky to snare it. All the pies, especially the rhubarb that Josie flavored with a dash of nutmeg and her brown-sugar caramel, were gone. As were the several kinds of bread pudding, including a banana one, and her apple cobbler, which would be peach in June once the fruit was in season. Josie's was a resounding success, and when the chef made her appearance, everyone stood up and clapped. She sat down next to Faith.

“I think I'll tell the caterer I want red velvet cake as a wedding cake,” Faith said. “
This
red velvet cake.” She'd practically licked the plate.

“You were wonderful to come—and I don't want to get all sappy, but you know I could never have done this without you. Everything you taught me—and never telling me my dream was foolish, you know the whole ‘Do you know the failure rate for restaurants' thang.”

“It never occurred to me that Josie's wouldn't be a huge success,” Faith said. Maybe they hadn't washed the cobbler pan yet and she could scrape it.

“I just wish Francesca could have been here, too.”

Faith had put the girl on a plane for Rome shortly after the trip to New Jersey.

“I think they're probably having, or have already had, a celebration not unlike this one, except a different menu.” She wished she could have been a fly on the wall when Francesca showed her grandparents and parents the documents Gus Oliver signed.

“It's an amazing story, all going on right under my nose. I knew she was hiding something. Life! A year ago who would have thought we'd be sitting here at my very own restaurant three weeks before your very own wedding. Where were we anyway? I think it was that big bat mitzvah in Westchester.”

Have Faith's jobs were fast receding into the misty past in Faith's mind, occupied as it was focusing on the very near future. She'd made another trip to Aleford, and besides picking out paint colors, presented her plan for remodeling the kitchen. The vestry had given her the go ahead, especially since the church didn't have to spend a penny on the upgrade.

“Well, girlfriend. Time to close up,” Josie said. “Remember, we're open for brunch tomorrow, or I should say today, and I'm beat.”

Faith took a small box from her pants pocket and handed it to Josie. She'd had a jeweler make a large silver pin with Josie's logo engraved on it.

“It's your very own Cordon Bleu, and nobody deserves a blue ribbon more than you.”

Howard appeared with three flutes of champagne.

“Amen—and cheers.”

A
week later Faith stood in the middle of her apartment. It was beginning to look rather barren. Her lease would run out at the end of the month, so she'd move home for a week and then head to Long Island with her mother a few days before the wedding. Nana wanted to come, too, and Hope was actually taking that Thursday and Friday off from work to join them. The Fairchilds were arriving on Thursday. Tammy told Faith to invite even more of the wedding guests if she wanted—Poppy and Emma—“I love a house bursting at the seams,” she'd said. Faith was sticking to the family, though. Tammy might be able to handle a crowd, but she wasn't sure she could. She wasn't nervous now, but two weeks away made her wedding seem like an event somewhat far in the future. In any case, she knew she'd feel responsible for planning things for people to do and it was enough to think about the Fairchilds, who were, fortunately, easy. They'd be satisfied with the beach and The Cliff's acreage for outdoor games.

All her wedding and honeymoon clothes were at her parents'. She was feeling extremely organized. Tom was borrowing a friend's van and was coming on Tuesday for a quick trip to move most of the rest of her clothing, their wedding presents, her books, a few household items, and the furniture Aunt Chat had given Faith—the Noguchi coffee table and the small chest of drawers—up to the parsonage. The glass-topped table might strike an incongruous note compared with the furniture Faith recalled—some wing chairs, a few spindly Windsors, and an enormous hutch—but she couldn't bear to part with the piece. As soon as she was finished sleeping on her sofa bed, it, the IKEA bookcases, and whatever else was left were going to Housing Works. The profits from their great thrift stores benefited AIDS/HIV individuals who were in need of housing and health care.

With such a small place, she hadn't accumulated much, and in any case, when she'd moved in she'd liked the idea of a stripped-down life. She supposed that would change now, but she was determined not to drown in a sea of possessions—they'd already received two bun warmers and three fondue pots, as well as numerous other nonessentials. She'd thought about adding some of these to her Housing Works donation, but knowing the way New Yorkers were drawn to thrift shops hoping to spot a rare piece of Russel Wright ceramics or an overlooked Eames chair, she didn't want any of her gift givers recognizing a
cadeau
by chance. Better wait until she was in Massachusetts to winnow.

The phone rang. It was her mother.

“Faith dear, we have a minor emergency.”

“Minor is good. What is it?”

“The stationer sent the cards for designating table assignments out to Long Island instead of to the calligrapher and she needs them immediately. Apparently, she's leaving for Europe next week and won't be back until after the wedding. And getting another order to her from the stationer will take too long.”

“As you know, my schedule is extremely flexible these days. I can run out there this morning and deliver them to her this afternoon.”

“I'm afraid your father has the car today and has already gone. You'll have to take the train. If you hurry, you can get the nine forty-five.”

“Are we sure they're at The Cliff?”

“Yes, I called the housekeeper and she checked. There have been several package deliveries. The others must be more wedding gifts sent directly there.”

“I'm on my way. I'll call you later.”

Faith grabbed her purse and headed for Grand Central.

K
nowing her uncle and aunt wouldn't be stirring much, Faith took a cab from the station to the house and went directly to the kitchen. Shirley, the housekeeper, was clearing breakfast dishes from a tray. Someone was up.

“Good morning, Miss Sibley. Your package is right over there.”

“Thank you so much, and please call me Faith.”

Upon hiring, the new housekeeper had immediately insisted on being called by her first name, eschewing a “Mrs.”—honorary or otherwise. But Faith had to keep reminding her to use Faith's first name in return.

“Are my aunt and uncle both awake?”

“Just your aunt, and I'm starting a new pot of her coffee right now. You know she likes it fresh. She should be down soon.”

Tammy consumed gallons of the coffee-and-chicory mixture ordered from the Café Du Monde in New Orleans, drinking it
au lait
in oversize cups with large bowls.

“Do you have time to stay and join her? I can make you some breakfast if you like? I'll bet you ran off without eating.”

“Just some of the coffee when it's ready would be fine, although those muffins look tempting.”

There was a tin of golden brown muffins that must have just come out of the oven sitting on the counter.

“They're morning glories, and I added some sesame seeds to give them even more crunch,” Shirley said.

When Faith first heard the recipe for these muffins, she was skeptical. They seemed to have an entire shopping list of ingredients: shredded coconut, raisins, pineapple, grated apple, grated carrots, chopped nuts, cinnamon, and vanilla besides regular muffin ingredients. As soon as she tried one, though, she was a convert. The other glory of the recipe was that it tasted even better the next day, if they lasted that long.

“I know I want one,” Tammy said, walking into the room. “And Sky wants a cheese omelet this morning—Havarti.”

Faith gave her aunt a hug and told her why she was there. “Good to see you anytime, sugar. And a nice surprise for your uncle. Now, I have to dash out and pick up today's
Times
. Sky says the one they delivered is missing the business section and he doesn't want to wait for a replacement copy.”

“Let me go,” Faith offered.

“You're an angel,” Tammy said. “I really didn't feel like going out just yet. Take my car, and after you get back, when you're ready, I'll drive you to the station.”

She left the room and returned with her large pocketbook. Prada. She unearthed her keys—Prada key case—and handed them to her niece.

“Keep my coffee warm. I won't be a minute.”

Sky and Tammy were doing so much for her that Faith was happy to do anything, however small, in return.

“Do you have sunglasses? The glare off the water is fierce now that the good weather's here,” Tammy said.

“No, but I'll be all right.”

She opened her pocketbook again and pulled out a glasses case. Prada again.

“Take mine. They'll fit anyone.” She laughed.

They were enormous, Jackie O types. The kind stars wore to avoid the paparazzi. Francesca's description rang in Faith's ears. She could almost hear the subway train again. For a brief moment her whole body felt numb. Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. Even if she did want to do away with somebody, Tammy would never go down to the subway.