Body in the Big Apple

Granted, it was a stressful time of year—as was life in the Big Apple at any season, particularly in the circles Emma traveled in—money had married money, and Stanstead was involved in politics, too. But the fear on Emma’s face hadn’t been that of someone worried about finishing her Christmas shopping or getting her cards out. It wasn’t a “What am I going to wear to the United Nations Association benefit next week?” look or “Did I send our contribution to Covenant House?”

It was fright, as in “I’m scared.”

“You can go, Howard. The two of us can finish up. As usual, you were magnificent.” Faith blessed her lucky stars often; in this case, for delivering Howard, the perfect bartender/waiter. He was attractive, but not so arresting as to divert attention from the food. Bright and funny, maybe the best thing about Howard was that he didn’t want to be an actor. Or a writer. Or a composer.

Or anything else except what he was.

It was after nine. Tonight, Faith could afford to take her time. She didn’t have another job, or she would have been long gone. This one had been described initially as “cocktails for a few business friends with a few nibbles.” “A few” had become a crowd. The “nibbles” heartier. Howard reported that—as often happened—this was dinner for many of the guests—the “juniors,” he called them. Faith was glad she’d prepared plenty of food—filling food.

She’d known from the host’s choices that sashimi and white wine were out. These guys still ate red meat—

and they were mostly guys with a few trophy wives or girlfriends scattered about the room like tinsel on a tree. She was cynical enough to know that the host would have asked some guests to bring arm candy and some not.

“A good party?” Josie, her full-time assistant, was looking for some strokes.

“A very good party—and I should know.” Faith smiled.

She’d been to enough of them over the years. Born twenty-three—almost twenty-four—years ago to the Reverend Lawrence Sibley and his wife, Jane, nee Lennox, a real estate attorney, Faith had grown up in Manhattan with her sister, Hope, one year younger.

Children’s parties and the delights of Rumpelmayer’s had given way to increasingly less innocent pleasures, culminating in New York’s club scene and parties, endless parties. Wasn’t that what the eighties were all about?

Unlike Hope, whose career aspirations had been 7

well defined by age ten, when she’d asked for a sub-scription to the Wall Street Journal for Christmas, Faith hadn’t had a clue about her future for many years. It had been pleasant to consider the world her oyster and contemplate any number of possibilities for a while. Then one morning early in the fall after she’d graduated from college, she’d awakened—late—and realized she was very, very bored. The unexamined life was not worth living, she knew from her father’s ser-mons—and Plato—so she’d lain back and thought. She could get married. There were several possibilities in that department, but she wasn’t in love—and she wasn’t that bored. She could get a job. Her mother had taken to leaving the Times on the kitchen table, open at the Help Wanted section. It made sense, but what kind of job? She could go back to school. Most of her friends seemed to find it necessary to add more initials to their names, yet Faith did not feel called in that direction.

It had not escaped her notice that lately she’d been paying more attention at parties and restaurants to the food—the way it was served and the way the table was set—than to her companions. And all with a highly critical eye. She’d always loved to cook and had taken as many courses as she could get away with in her college’s famed culinary arts department while still earning a B.A. in English. She’d sat up in bed, the previous night’s dinner still before her eyes. I could do that, she’d thought, and much better.

She’d traded her social life for an apprenticeship with one of the city’s top catering firms and courses at the New School in how to run your own small business. Her family had watched with bemusement and some skepticism. Then, when Faith had announced she 8

was dipping into the modest trust fund left by her grandfather to launch Have Faith, she’d encountered some resistance.

“Have you considered the rate of failure for such ventures?” her mother had asked, pulling a computer printout from her Prada purse at lunch at Le Bernardin.

The restaurant—new, hot, and specializing in seafood—was Faith’s current favorite. She’d known her mother’s spur-of-the-moment invitation had been as calculated as her own acceptance. She’d reached into her own purse—Longchamps—and pulled out the numbers she had crunched. Her mother had been surprised—and impressed. By the time the coffee had arrived—strong and black—Jane Sibley had seemed close if not to approval, then to acquiescence. But still she’d wavered. Faith could legally use the money as she wished, yet she had wanted her parents’ blessing.

Then she’d hurled her last spear.

“It’s because having a daughter who’s a cook doesn’t give you the same reflected glory that having one who’s cornering the market does, right?”

“Good heavens, no. The other way around these days. And what a mean thing to say, dear. I won’t repeat it to your father.”

“Then what is it? You want me to get married? You want grandchildren?”

“Oh, you silly, I’m worried you’re going to lose all your money, of course.”

“Well, I’m not. Trust me,” Faith had heard echoes of earlier talking-tos from mother—conversations about things like curfews.

Her mother had reached over to pat her hand. “I do.” And that was that.

Faith’s aunt, Charity Sibley, had been enthusiastic 9

about the idea from the beginning. Stretching far back into the highest branches of the tree, the Sibleys had named the first three females in a family, Faith, Hope, and Charity. Faith was convinced that the reason she had merely one sibling was her mother’s aversion to the name Charity and her awareness that it was a tradition Lawrence wouldn’t have even fleetingly thought to break.

Charity Sibley was a natural ally for Faith, having started her own extremely successful ad agency when she was only a few years older than Faith was now.

“Such a hot field,” she’d said, congratulating her niece. “After Black Monday in ’87, everyone moaned and groaned about all the money they’d lost—serving spritzers instead of a glass of wine. All those boring purees and coulis—cheap, but not very filling. Happily, things are back to normal now and entertaining is entertaining. You can do my Christmas party. Lots of fun food and music. I don’t want any sad faces.” She’d been alluding not to junk bonds, but to her decision to sell her business and her apartment at the San Remo, overlooking Central Park on the West Side. She’d already purchased a rambling old house with acres of land in Mendham, New Jersey—a decision that had shocked and saddened her many New York friends. “Jersey!” one had exclaimed on Chat’s answering machine. “Why not Forest Lawn!” Chat had stuck to her decision, smilingly confident that anyone who really wanted to see her—and her pool, tennis court, whirlpool, sauna, and other amenities—

would manage to find a way to cross the Hudson River.

“I always get lost in New Jersey” had been Faith’s sole comment.

10

“I’ll give you a map,” Chat had replied.

That settled, there was no question that favorite aunt and favorite niece would continue to see as much of each other as before.

Have Faith had edged into the highly competitive New York catering market in early fall and quickly established itself by word of mouth, lip-smacking mouths. Before, in many circles, snaring Faith Sibley as a guest had been considered a coup. Faith was not yet swamped by business, but the future looked promising. On the strength of the tide, she’d moved into her own place—a studio on West Fifty-sixth Street, but a studio with a doorman in a prewar building with an enormous, beautifully landscaped inner courtyard.