she felt dissociated, as if she were watching a film, but a very different one from the other scenes played out over the course of these heartbreaking weeks.
Faith had come to the end of a very long jour-ney. She would never feel completely safe in her house again, nor take any of her valued possessions for granted. She had lost a great deal, but she had answered the most important question. She knew who had killed Sarah Winslow and why.
It brought a measure of peace.
Clouds floated across the moon. Houses darkened until only a few lighted windows hung suspended in the night. Most of Aleford was sleeping.
On Maple Street, Patsy Avery was washing the last of the corn bread pans. Will used a generous amount of dripping and the water beaded up on the grease. He was asleep and she would join him soon. She put the clean pan in the dish drainer and turned out the kitchen light. The refrigerator promptly started humming, but that was the only sound she could hear. She opened the back door and went into the yard, craning her neck far back to look up at the sky. The look of the moon with its wisps of trailing black garments made her shiver. Burglaries, violence, deception—murder.
Maybe Mama was right. Maybe not. Aleford wasn’t Stepford. It was no better or worse than any other place once you got to know it, poked beneath the surface.
The air was warm. It was June, and summer, her favorite season, had finally arrived. Each year she took good, deep breaths to store up for the cold, lean months—most of the months here.
So, girl, what was it? Will had said he’d move anywhere she wanted, anyplace that would make her happy. Give up this job for another. But no place was home.
That was it. No place was home. Not even home.
This time, it was Samantha who jerked Pix Miller abruptly from a sound sleep. She rushed into her daughter’s bedroom, to hear her mumble, “Not another lap, Coach.” She shook her and Samantha woke slowly.
“Bad dream, darling.” Pix smoothed her daughter’s long dark hair back from her face, fanning it against the pillow.
Samantha burrowed down in her bed. She always slept almost completely covered up, no matter what the temperature outside.
Pix stayed by her side until Samantha’s deep, regular breathing started again. Even then, Pix didn’t get up, continuing to sit on the edge of the bed, her hand on Samantha’s blanketed shoulder.
Soon she’d be gone. Having been through it with one child, Pix knew how irrevocable the break was. Children came back—too often and for too long, some parents complained. The Millers never did; never would.
“Another lap.” Sam and Pix had tried hard not to put too much pressure on their children, convincing themselves these choices were the kids’
choices, things they wanted to do. One more lap.
Tomorrow she’d talk to Sam, then Samantha. A year off before college might be a good idea. A year off because there had been and would be too many laps. She kissed her daughter on her sweet, smooth cheek and went sorrowfully back to bed.
Charley MacIsaac had approached his empty house with the usual feeling of disbelief. It seemed like only yesterday that his wife, Maddie, had been there to welcome him home, whatever the hour—a pot of tea, a meal, his favorite oat cakes in a tin on top of the refrigerator. In reality, it had been many years—and he sensed it would be many years more before he would join her.
She would have enjoyed tonight. Enjoyed hearing the tale—and, most of all, enjoyed the rightness of it all. “There is justice in this life and you’re making it, my Charley,” she’d have said to him.
He went to bed, not bothering to undress, his eyes wet.
At the First Parish parsonage, much to her surprise, Faith Sibley Fairchild was still awake. After the events of the last two days, she had been sure she would slip into oblivion the moment her head hit the pillow. Finally, she’d gotten up, checked the children, who were fine, and wandered downstairs. She wasn’t hungry, not after the feast the Averys provided.
She didn’t feel like reading, either. She made herself a cup of cocoa—this was what her father used to do for her when she couldn’t sleep as a child—and took it into the den, where the television was. She curled up in the one truly comfortable chair in the house and picked up the remote.
She didn’t want to buy anything, watch classic sitcoms, music videos, or old movies. She was about to switch the power off when Julian Bullock’s face filled the screen. She sat up straight and increased the volume, the cocoa forgotten.
“I’d say it was the work of an itinerant folk artist, but a talented one. Portraits of this quality are very rare. It’s not signed, yet . . .” She stared at the face, at once so familiar and so foreign. He was offering up various names and speculating as to the value of the painting, a portrait of a young woman. His voice was assured, although not condescending. The host of the show, a PBS rerun, was clearly enjoying his guest. Faith muted the sound and sat watching the picture until the test pattern appeared. She hadn’t turned on any lights, and the dim illumination from the screen peopled the room with odd shapes.
“You weren’t a murderer, but you did get away,” she whispered out loud to the uncomprehending silence.
The best of times, the worst of times—that’s when we turn to food.
Whether it’s a wake or sitting shivah, at some point someone is bound to say, “Try to eat a little something.” The Aleford casserole brigade springs into action after the Fairchilds are burglarized. We have all done the same thing, bearing lasagna pans, soup tureens, loaves of bread to the bereaved and distressed in body or mind. Offering food allows us to express our concern, our sorrow. We come bearing comfort food: food that goes down easily— whatever that tradition may be. One person’s chicken soup is another’s spicy jambalaya.
Then we have celebratory food—wedding food. Memorable feasts. I’ve written about both kinds in this particular book and thoughts of all the funeral baked meats, as well as festive nuptials, kept me company. The mere mention of these foods is a mnemonic. I thought about the French country wedding we attended that started with rich brioche and champagne immediately following the ceremony, ending almost twenty-four hours and many courses later with onion soup gratinee. There was the wedding reception at the Boston Athenaeum where the bride’s mother and grandmother had made a fabulous many-tiered cake—decorated with words and edible objects that had special significance for the bride and groom. Our own wedding was at the home of the friends to whom this book is dedicated—deep in the woods, a miraculous December day filled with so much sunshine, guests sat outdoors to eat. A nor’easter dumped a foot of snow on the ground a week later. The food was delicious, I’m told. Too nervous and excited to eat, both my husband and I were so ravenous late that night, we scoured the Connecticut countryside for an open sub shop on the way to our honeymoon inn. And what a sandwich it was— roasted peppers, steak, cheese. There was a fire in the room’s fireplace and we ate, sipping champagne—a decidedly non–Faith Fairchild menu, but one we’ll remember forever.
The sad times—those soups and casseroles, but also the platters of little sandwiches, the anchovy paste on cardboard. People, preoccupied with the business of grief, eat a triangle or two, then drift back together, gather about those stricken. I sometimes think those aluminum trays of sandwiches float from one living room, funeral home, or church hall to another across the country, the crustless bread always white and slightly stale.
Another tray holds slices of cake; there’s always a coffee urn. We don’t really remember the food, but we know it was there. Remember the urgings:
“You have to keep your strength up. Try some soup. Mrs.—fill in any name—made it.” Good times and bad times. We reach for and provide sustenance—the abundance of food, the offerings of our hearts common to both.
EXCERPTS FROM
HAVE FAITH
IN YOUR KITCHEN
BY Faith Sibley Fairchild
