never considered dressing them alike. Not even the same style in two colors.
“I ran into Emma Stanstead the other night at a job on the East Side.” Faith threw out the line, hoping for some kind of bite.
“Her husband’s going to be president someday.
We’ll have a friend in the White House, although it’s hard to imagine Emma there. But he’s a very smart cookie. He’ll get all sorts of people to keep her on track. She’ll just have to smile and produce a few kids, of course.”
Faith hadn’t thought of this, yet political dynasties meant offspring, and Michael Stanstead seemed like a dynastic kind of guy. Most of the Michael Stansteads of the world were.
“Emma didn’t look pregnant. In fact, she’s thinner than she was the last time I saw her, but she’s still beautiful.”
“I see them in the paper all the time. Where have you been? They’re one of New York’s golden couples.” In a kitchen of one sort or another, Faith thought, answering Hope’s question silently.
“So, he really is being put forward by the party as a serious contender for future presidency?”
“Absolutely. That’s all I’ve been hearing, and he wouldn’t be bad.”
Faith and her sister studiously avoided discussing politics, but each was aware that in many elections they were canceling out each other’s votes.
“Get a date and have dinner with us next week.
I’m dying for you to meet Phelps.” Hope tried to sound plaintive. She knew it was a busy time for her sister.
“I’ll try. I did meet a cute guy on the bus the other day. He was singing carols.”
“On the bus! Are you crazy?”
“Not all of us can afford cabs, sweetheart.”
“You know very well I didn’t mean that. I take the bus sometimes myself. I mean getting involved with a total stranger—a stranger who’s singing to himself.”
“I’ll be careful.” Faith was smiling. There were any number of men who’d be happy to get her call, yet the idea of someone new was appealing. For months, she’d been telling her friends—and herself—that she was too busy to get involved with anyone, but New York during the holidays was so romantic. She pictured the older couple in the horse-drawn carriage that had passed by when Emma and she were in the park. Nice to take one of those carriages under a starry winter sky after a
long, leisurely meal at one of those bistros on the East Side with a fireplace.
“So, you’ll let me know when?”
She hadn’t been listening to her sister. She hadn’t been dicing apples, either.
“I’ll try. If we can’t get together before then, bring him to Chat’s party.”
“But you’ll be working.”
“And socializing. I plan to do both. It’s the last one she’s giving in the apartment. I’m really going to miss that view.”
Chat’s apartment in one of the San Remo towers on Central Park West had been a fixture in the Sibley girls’ childhood—and adulthood. They’d watched every New Year’s and Fourth of July fireworks from Chat’s windows high above the city and every Macy’s Thanksgiving parade from one of Chat’s neighbors’
windows in an apartment closer to earth. It was a rit-ual.
“Got to go. Call me,” Hope said before hanging up.
Faith put the phone down.
“Phelps,” Josie said, having eavesdropped expertly, as usual. “Sounds like money. Think he’d be interested in investing in a restaurant?”
“Not unless you have plans to franchise in all fifty states, I’d imagine,” Faith said wryly.
Josie had gone to deliver the order and Faith was about to leave when the phone rang. She debated letting the machine pick up, but she shut the door and crossed the room instead. It was Emma. And she was frantic.
“I just got another Christmas card!”
“Where are you? Are you home?” Faith asked tersely.
Of course Emma had received another demand. It wasn’t a question of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
This was Imelda’s whole closet. She had to make Emma realize what a dangerous game she was playing.
“Yes, I’m at the apartment.” Emma was speaking quickly, breathlessly. “The card was in the newspaper.
The doorman leaves it on the mat, and usually Michael gets it first thing, but he left for Albany early this morning. I left the back way when I went out and didn’t think about the paper. Then when I came home, there it was. I picked it up and the card dropped out.”
“I’ll be right there. Are you sure you don’t want to call the police while you’re waiting for me? I’ll be there with you,” Faith pleaded.
Emma’s voice lost its tremulous quality. “I’m sure.
And I’m also sure I don’t want to stay here one minute more. Meet me at Rockefeller Center. At the cafe.
That’s halfway for both of us. I’m leaving as soon as I hang up.”
Faith agreed and headed for Fifth Avenue. Emma was safe inside her apartment, but Faith could understand how frightening the large, empty, silent rooms were at the moment. The bustle—and anonymity—of the city’s crowded sidewalks would be infinitely preferable.
It didn’t take Faith long to get to Rockefeller Center.
Strange to think it had been open pastureland until the early 1800s. Now herds still gathered, but human herds intent on snaring tickets for a Letterman taping, the sight of the tree, a blowout at the Rainbow Room, or some very expensive shopping. She pushed her way through the crowds gathered around the Channel Gardens, those huge raised beds running from Fifth to the ice-skating rink. Tourists were posing for pictures next to the wire angels sounding their horns, poised in the masses of greenery. This whole business with Emma is definitely putting a damper on my Yuletide spirit, Faith thought sadly. Normally, it was her favorite time of the year. She looked straight ahead at the towering seventy-foot Norway spruce rising toward the winter sky, the GE Building behind it. Oddly, the tree seemed to grow smaller as she moved down the promenade and the view widened to include the incongruous forest of skyscrapers to either side, the rink below. Garlands of lights hung from the tree’s boughs, tossing flickering colors over the skaters and Manship’s huge statue of Prometheus, the gold leaf thinning in places, the fountain beneath stilled until spring. She turned to go down the stairs to the American Festival Cafe, still gazing at the tree. The ultimate Christmas tree, befit-ting the city that was, in Faith’s opinion, the planet’s shiniest ornament at any time of year.
Despite the urgency of the situation, she couldn’t
stop herself from watching the skaters for a minute. As usual, they were all ages, all shapes, all sizes. Stumbling, laughing beginners, ankles wobbling. Serene-faced experts gracefully gliding in perfect time to the
“Skater’s Waltz.” Around and around they went. If she hadn’t been meeting Emma, Faith would have joined them.
But she was meeting Emma, and surprisingly, Emma was inside already, a pot of steaming tea and two cups on the table in front of her.
“They’re bringing some scones and tea sandwiches.
I thought you might be hungry.”
