poured it, sizzling, into the pan.
“That smells fantastic. When do we eat?”
“Almost immediately. Ben is supposed to be setting the table.” He’d counted out the cutlery, but at the moment he was distracted by what else was in the drawer with the napkins. Amy was sitting in her high chair doing a fine imitation of Buddy Rich.
After lunch, the Fairchilds scattered. Some to nap—“rest quietly,” in Ben’s case; others to tend the garden and read the newspaper. Faith pulled a few weeds. The back door was still nailed shut, an omnipresent reminder of the break-in. The door had arrived from Concord Lumber, but without hinges. Apparently, obtaining these was more difficult than placing a new order for the whole thing all over again. Perhaps the best strategy was to expect everything to go wrong and then be pleasantly surprised by the things that did work out. She frowned and looked at the vegetable garden they’d been planting. Tom had had seedlings all over the house and either the temperature had been below freezing or the backyard awash with torrential rains. Everything was in the ground now, but it didn’t look as if the Fairchilds would be supplying Burpee with their surplus. “We’ll be lucky to have peas on the Fourth of July,” Tom had muttered darkly a few minutes ago, before settling into the hammock with the sports section. Peas on the Fourth—and salmon. Another of those quaint New England customs that started when some observant soul noted the concurrence of three events—early peas, new potatoes, and the run of eastern salmon. It neatly solved the problem of what to serve on the Fourth, the way Saturday-night supper meant baked beans and brown bread. Hinting at a culinary lack of imagination on the part of Tom’s forebears had resulted in an early Fairchild tiff, with husband taking the “What was good enough . . .” line and wife claiming the “Time to get out of the rut . . .” higher ground.
“Do you want to get that, or should I?” Tom called. The phone was ringing. Knowing well her husband’s innate dislike, bordering on distrust, of Bell’s invention, Faith sprinted for the front door and picked up the receiver just as the answering machine kicked in. Whoever it was waited patiently at Faith’s instruction to hold on until the message was over. Promptly at the beep, Courtney Cabot Bullock’s voice came over the line. “So sorry to trouble you on a Sunday,” she began.
From the confident—and insincere—tone of her voice, Faith knew full well Mrs. Bullock wasn’t sorry at all. But she did have good manners.
“Stephanie said you wanted to meet this week to go over the final arrangements, and I have a fabric swatch for the tablecloth at last, so you can get busy with the flowers.” The implication being that Faith need search no more for something to fill the void of her existence—the Bullock women had come to her rescue.
“What day is good for you?” Faith said. She knew how to play. Any time she suggested would be inconvenient. Any time Courtney suggested would be fine.
“Well, the big day is less than two weeks away, so I do think we had better make it soon. Friday at three?”
Faith was almost positive Courtney had already written the engagement down in her book—in ink. “That will be fine,” she said. She’d have to take the kids. She wasn’t about to hire a sitter for a meeting with the Bullocks, and it would give Stephanie a glimpse into the future, although Stephanie’s maternal involvement would be limited to saying good night after the nanny had done all the work. When Faith had taken over the former Yankee Doodle Kitchens, she’d done extensive remodeling and built a play area with low shelves for books and toys, a soft carpet, beanbag chairs, even a chalkboard at the far end of the room. Ben and Amy loved going to work with Faith and it gave her the flexibility she needed. At three o’clock, Amy might be persuaded to nap in the large playpen Faith had stocked with FAO Schwarz’s best to lure her daughter, and Ben before her, into staying within the pen’s confines long after other children without such magnificent diversions had vocally yearned to be free.
“This is definite then, unless you hear from me otherwise.” No mention of Faith’s possibly canceling. One didn’t cancel the Bullocks.
“I’ll see you then. Thanks for calling.” Faith could be insincere too. “Good-bye,” she said.
“Good-bye—oh, and one other small matter.” Faith held her breath. Courtney continued. “When Stephanie was out at your place”—Faith pictured her making that coy little quotation marks gesture around the word
Faith jumped in quickly, not because she felt she had to curry favor with someone as influential as Courtney —although, damn it, the woman was. Have Faith regularly turned down bookings and had events scheduled into the millennium.
No, it was the distinctly unpleasant prospect of catering the wedding when she was on the outs with the bride and the bride’s mother. It would be like the last days of a remodeling job, when the contractor and home owner invariably crossed swords over the punch list. It was hard enough working with these two ladies when they were all ostensibly friends. And, like it or not, the catering business depended on word of mouth, as much as what went into it. Courtney Cabot Bullock was not someone Faith wanted to offend.
Faith crossed her fingers. “Stephanie is welcome anytime. We’re always happy to see her—or you. And the wedding is going to be wonderful.” That part was true.
Faith pictured Courtney nodding to herself and crossing off item number seventy-five on her “To Do” list: “Chew out caterer.”
“Fine, that’s settled, then. See you Friday. Good-bye.”
What was settled was that Stephanie could continue to feel free to drop in whenever she wanted for cookies or anything else they were preparing. Mummy had taken care of everything.
Clearly, Stephanie was bored being at home. Too many thank-you notes to write? Faith had heard about the avalanche of wedding presents ad nauseam. Or maybe the deb was getting on Courtney’s nerves, as well? “Why don’t you run along to Aleford, dear? Get out of Mummy’s hair?” Faith waited until early evening to mention that she was going out. Tom was returning from a visit to a parishioner who was recovering from heart surgery. Faith had bathed the kids and put them to bed in the interim, hoping there would be some kind of sporting event to occupy her spouse while she left for her rendezvous with Scott. Tom and his entire family were ardent sports fans, favoring local teams, of course. Faith was still not sure when football was played—it seemed to be on TV all the time—yet she was pretty certain that spring meant baseball, and she was right.
Tom came racing through the front door. “We were watching the game, and I don’t think I missed much.” His kiss grazed her cheek and he went straight to the television, flinging himself into a comfortable, slightly decrepit club chair that had come with the house.
Faith appeared by his side a few minutes later with a bottle of Sam Adams beer and a bowl of pretzels. “If you get hungry, there’s a roast beef and Boursin sandwich in the fridge.” She knew he would be. “And some Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk in the freezer.” She’d planned her strategy well. “I have to talk to Scott and Tricia. I won’t be gone long.” She gave him a kiss, listened to his vague acknowledgment of her remarks, and was out the door before he could surface and voice his misgivings. He’d told her last night that as far as he was concerned, their investigation into their own and any other burglaries was now officially over. He’d said it a number of times—very firmly.
It was a short ride to the Willow Tree Kitchen, the place where Faith had first met Scott Phelan six years ago, after Cindy Shepherd was killed.
The Willow Tree hadn’t changed much, nor had Scott, except he might be slightly better-looking.
As for herself, Faith fancied that even the birth of a second child hadn’t caused a precipitous decline toward cellulite and silver threads among the gold. It wasn’t that she feared middle or even old age. She simply wanted to take a long time getting there.
Scott was already ensconced in his favorite booth. Before his marriage, he’d eaten at the Willow Tree every night. It was a regulars kind of place, and, in turn, the regulars knew what to order: the chili, beef stew, pea soup, or the nightly special. The clams and lobster in the summertime were surprisingly good and cheap, but the melted margarine killed the experience. The menu never changed. That is, the printed menu never changed. Veal Florentine had been a figment of the first owner’s imagination and there was no Weight Watchers plate.
Scott was nursing a beer, watching the game.
The Red Sox were losing. A waitress appeared, putting another mug in front of him, together with a basket of
