The Body in the Boudoir (9 page)

“We'll see Scotty tomorrow, sis,” Tom said. “You're coming by in the morning before we leave, right? Mom's making pumpkin pancakes. Now, what can I get you? Sherry—or maybe Dad will break out some of his Chivas for you. Dennis, there's a Sam Adams in the fridge with your name on it.”

“So your godchild is going to be the flower girl?” Betsey tended to stick like Krazy Glue once she'd introduced a topic.

“Not as such. We were just talking about this. Four of my cousins' children will be my attendants, strewing rose petals, or we hope they will. I was at a wedding last summer where the kids got carried away and pelted people with them.”

“No adults in the wedding party?”

Tom shoved a tumbler of scotch and soda into his sister's hand and threw an arm around her.

I am definitely marrying the right guy, Faith thought, watching him with Betsey. He was smoothing feathers that Faith had the feeling were perennially ruffled, feathers he'd smoothed before. Betsey's husband had made a beeline for the fridge and was off in a corner talking about the Celtics with Robert, who worked for a sports equipment manufacturer.

Faith was tempted to answer Betsey by saying that she and Tom were definitely adults, but that would be too self-indulgent. Betsey was a very easy target. Faith counted herself lucky. She'd known she'd like the rest of Tom's family and she was right. So one thorn in the side wasn't too bad. And it was a thorn she'd known would be there after meeting her sister-in-law at Poppy's. Faith was an expert at snap judgments.

She'd selected her wardrobe for much of the weekend with Betsey's and Sydney's outfits at the shower in mind, not that she was about to appear as their clone, but she'd ditched black pants and skirts, her wardrobe staples. Tonight she was wearing a soft blue wool Calvin Klein dress with a full skirt and a cowl neck. She'd pinned the cameo on and was glad she had. Not only Marian but Dick noticed—“Wish you could have met my mother. She'd be so pleased the cameo has a new home. Tom was the first grandchild and they were very close.”

Faith took a slight breath and answered Betsey, “No adults as in bridesmaids and groomsmen. Hope will be my maid of honor, and I think Tom has told you that Phil will be his best man with his brothers and brother-in-law as ushers.”

“I'd have thought you wouldn't have a problem finding bridesmaids. There were so many women at your shower.” Betsey wasn't giving up.

Faith did start to bristle at this; it was getting to be a bit much.

“That was exactly the problem. I have so many good friends and female relatives that I didn't want to choose.”

So there.

“Dinner is served.
Bon appétit!
” Marian called gaily. It was apparent that she for one was having a ball.

A
leford, Massachusetts, looked exactly the way Faith had pictured it. Or rather the way it had been pictured in countless books and on calendars. Kodacolor blue sky, white puffy clouds, historic buildings, but since it was still March, any daffodils or other flora foolhardy enough to emerge had been flattened by the most recent nor'easter. It was New England with a vengeance.

The day had already been a full one and it was barely two o'clock. Marian's pumpkin pancakes with maple syrup from a nearby friend's trees were so good that Faith ate three. She was adding them to her list of recipes for brunch, maybe putting pecans in the batter with a few sprinkled on top.

Like dinner the night before, breakfast with the Fairchilds consisted of much talk and much laughter. The brothers, in particular, kept things going, teasing one another and their parents. Betsey did bring Scotty over and the baby was adorable. Faith had hoped to see a softer side of Scotty's mom, but the baby produced even more rigidity in the woman as she described his schedule and the long list of “don'ts” in his future. No TV, no electronic-type games, no junk food, no fast food, limited play dates, assigned chores, etc. Faith had brought a selection of board books and a plastic one that could go in the tub as gifts. Scotty seemed quite contented, but his mother explained that he needed to learn to be careful, so they had gone straight to picture books and if a page got torn, the book was taken away. Her brothers hooted at this, Tom included, and she blushed, but defended herself by saying they would all see how well Scotty turned out.

“I think he's pretty great just the way he is,” Tom said, tossing the delighted infant in the air. Faith felt herself getting sappy again. Tom was going to be a great dad.

“So, Bets, would Mom's pancakes fall into the category of ‘junk food'—all this sugar—or what?” Craig said. “And what happens when he gets old enough to find out about your Mallomar habit?”

Marian had told them to stop bothering their sister and pushed them out the door for a game of touch football. Faith had declined. She hadn't brought any play clothes. “Next time we'll get you,” Craig said, and she'd been afraid he was right.

After helping Marian clean up and making sure she hadn't left anything in the guest room, Faith had gone outside to watch them, feeling slightly as if she was watching those old movies of the Kennedys at Hyannisport. They even
sounded
like the Kennedys.

Sydney Jerome had come out of the house next door and was roped into the game. She was beautiful to watch. A graceful athlete. But, Faith told herself, if he'd wanted her, he could have had her. Or had he? She narrowed her eyes and tried to read Tom's expression as he threw a pass to Sydney. No, no indication of passion, as in lust. Just passion as in winning the game.

Uncle Will, Dick's oldest brother, arrived. The Fairchild's Market brother. News of Faith's visit had spread among the clan and she had met Fairchild's Ford and his wife the night before when they'd arrived for dessert.

He joined the group at the sidelines and, after greeting them, addressed Faith alone: “So you're the bride! Quite the little drinker, I hear. We should get along fine, missy! Although I guess I can hold my liquor better!”

Faith had seen a sporting event go into freeze frame only on television, but she swore later when she told Hope about it that the Fairchild family touch football game did exactly that. And then collapsed back into motion as Faith said, “I'm sure you can, as I start dancing on tabletops after two glasses of champagne. I'm afraid someone's given you a mistaken idea as to my capacity.”

Faith saw Marian spin around to say something to Betsey, who had been behind her watching the game while holding Scotty, but her daughter had vanished.

Uncle Will had looked puzzled at the lack of response to his joke, so had started laughing himself, which got everybody going and the moment passed. For some of them.

On the way to Aleford, Tom had given Faith a quick tour of Norwell. It had been very sweet. Seeing where he went to school and worked summer jobs, and hearing about the town's history—it had been a major shipbuilding center during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Tom felt about Norwell, and the surrounding South Shore area, the way she felt about Manhattan. At least they both liked water, she told herself.

They'd stopped the car at the church, another First Parish, and walked across to the cemetery, where John Cheever, a favorite author for both of them, was buried.

“When he received the National Medal for Literature, he said in his acceptance speech, ‘A page of good prose remains invincible.' I've always remembered that. It applies to sermons, maybe even more,” Tom said.

Faith gave his hand a squeeze.

They'd driven up to Aleford after that. The parsonage was everything Faith had imagined—and more. Its previous tenant had been a longtime widower and apparently subsisted on food from the casserole brigade, those handmaidens of the Lord whose offerings took the form of tuna noodles in Pyrex. And Tom confessed that he generally grabbed a bite at the Minuteman Café, or heated up some soup. He'd never turned the oven on. The
batterie de cuisine
consisted of several dented aluminum saucepans, a small cast-iron frying pan, and a turkey roaster big enough for the entire Plantation at Plimoth. The stove was electric and the limited counter space was covered in the kind of 1950s Formica with squiggles that was unaccountably becoming fashionable again.

The rest of the house had possibilities, but the walls hadn't been painted since some war, perhaps Civil, and had dulled to musty beige. The windows were covered with heavy lined muslin drapes that obscured the light. The ceilings were low, typical of the period. But the dining room had beautiful wainscoting that Faith knew she could bring back to life, as well as a large harvest table, chairs, and sideboard that were original to the house, Tom told her.

Upstairs, the master bedroom ran the length of the house, with windows overlooking the front yard. There were two other good-size bedrooms and a small one that, judging from the animal alphabet frieze on the walls, must at one time have been a nursery. A half bath downstairs and the two upstairs needed attention, but nothing major. There was a large linen closet and an attic with drop-down stairs that Faith decided to leave for another time. You never knew what might turn up in these New England attics. It could be old chests of drawers with boxes of “string too short to be saved” or it could be something darker . . .

It was a daunting experience going from room to room and imagining living there, but they were sipping champagne, which helped enormously. There had been a bottle of Korbel on the kitchen table, cooling in a bucket that looked as if it was normally used in the garden. It was the first thing they had seen when they came in through the back door—apparently no one in New England ever used the front; in Norwell the Fairchilds' was blocked by lilacs in the summer and snow the rest of the year. There was a note of welcome and congratulations with the bubbly from the Millers, the next-door parishioners.

“You're going to love Sam and Pix,” Tom said. “And they have three kids: Mark, Samantha, and Danny. Mark's in ninth grade and they go down in age from there. Their back door is always open, and you're to go over whenever you're ready to go to sleep tonight.”

“I don't think I've ever met anyone named Pix,” Faith said, wondering if it was some kind of old New England familial shorthand the way girls were called “sister” in the South. As for the sleeping next door, she had no problem with that. No need to start tongues wagging.

“It's a nickname, and I know her real one, but I can't remember it. Some kind of plant. Ivy? Anyway, no one calls her anything but Pix. We're having breakfast there and then they'll walk over to church with you. I have to leave a little earlier.” He said this last with a slightly apologetic air.

“Trust me, I'm used to the routine. The whole ‘no clean collars, last-minute checks for egg in the corner of your mouth, same color socks on both feet' thing. It all takes time.”

She had been examining the closet in the big bedroom. Possibly it could hold one season's clothes. Tom put his arms around her and said, “Did I mention that I bought a new mattress for the bed?”

“I believe you did. And I believe you mentioned that the bed itself came from your parents?”

“To be more precise, a cousin of Dad's, and can you imagine, she was going to get rid of this perfectly good one when she got a new one from Paine's instead of putting it in her attic or basement, where it could get some use someday? Someday possibly in the next century. Dad almost had a fit.”

“But here it is still in the twentieth and it's a very nice bed. Looks quite comfy.”

“Only one way to find out.”

N
either Tom nor Faith felt like going out to dinner. Tom had made a fire in the fireplace, which drew nicely. He was quite the Boy Scout, Faith realized, and was handy as well. It would be useful having a husband who could not only hang a picture but also apparently put up drywall, do wiring, and lay shingles. Her skills in these departments were limited to knowing which numbers to dial.

“I'll make dinner,” she said. “You must have
some
food in the fridge and the pantry.”

Tom looked doubtful. “Well . . .”

“Come on, let's go look. You'd be surprised what I can make out of nothing.”

“No, I wouldn't be surprised at all. Anyway, there's always Country Pizza. Harry makes a great one with everything but the kitchen sink on it.”

“I'm sure it's yummy,” Faith said in a voice that indicated the opposite. She was as snobbish about her pizza as she was about other food and had still not gotten over her shock at being served a slice with pineapple and ham on it at a friend's apartment. She believed in fusion cuisine, but Italo-Hawaiian was some kind of oxymoron.

Tom's larder was almost as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's.

Faith stood with the refrigerator door open and took a head of cauliflower from the vegetable bin.

“What were you going to make from this?”

“I can't remember, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I decided I needed more veggies. That's why there are all these bell peppers, too.”

He had a large wedge of what he called “rat cheese” and there was a gallon of whole milk on the shelf, only partly drunk. Faith realized that Tom was what her aunt Chat referred to as a “big, hungry boy.” The kind who went through gallons of milk regularly. Faith got her calcium from yogurt and made a mental note to add milk to every future shopping list. She looked in the pantry and found a box of elbow macaroni that hadn't been opened.

“We'll have mac and cheese with the cauliflower and the red bell peppers in the sauce. I've done it lots of times and it's delicious, very creamy. It might lack a little oomph, since the only spices I see are your salt and pepper shakers, but I'll use plenty of cheese so it will get brown and crunchy on top.”

After eating, they dozed off in each other's arms in front of the fire—the result of the food, drink, warmth from the hearth, and—for Tom anyway—mild fatigue from the earlier vigorous game of football.