was? That was such a good word. She’d drag it out again when she talked about the party with Richard.
Soon.
By the time she emerged from the kitchen, Richard was gone. She was glad. For a moment, she’d thought he was going to offer to help, and that would not have worked at all. She liked to keep her work life and private life nicely separated, although tonight it had been difficult.
Poppy came out of the study.
“Faith, I haven’t had a moment to talk to you all evening. Wonderful party, dear. You are fabulous.
Everyone is saying so. I tell them I taught you how to make s’mores, obviously starting you on the road to success.” Poppy laughed. Faith had forgotten how completely charming she was. And yes, she had taught Faith how to make s’mores—at a sleepover. It had been terrific fun. Poppy had seemed like a kid herself.
Faith also remembered Poppy’s saying they would do it again. She was still waiting.
“It’s a perfect place for a party. A beautiful room.
Hard to go wrong.”
“Emma does have a knack this way, I’ll say that for her.”
And what else, Mom, what else do you have to say about your daughter?
“We’re all going out to dinner. Not that I can eat anything. Maybe a little salad.”
Suddenly, Poppy seemed distracted. She was looking toward the study, where all the others were.
“What are you doing for the holidays?” Faith asked politely to fill the gap in the conversation. So many topics were off-limits. Too bad.
“Jason isn’t interested in skiing anymore, so that means Mustique again. We’ve taken a house. You should come down,” she added with such sincerity that Faith could almost believe she meant it.
Emma came out of the study. She looked exhausted, ill even. She read the fear in Faith’s eyes and immediately said pointedly, “Everything’s fine. It was all perfect. And Mother, Faith has another party to do, so you mustn’t keep her.”
“
“I wish I didn’t have to go, but I do.” Emma’s eyes filled with tears. She slumped down in one of the chairs by the fire, which was going out. “Are you all right for the next party? Shouldn’t you be leaving?”
“The rest of my staff is taking care of it, and I’ll be finished here soon, anyway. But the question is, Are
Emma answered in a slightly manic torrent of words. “I thought it was a coincidence, so I didn’t mention it before, but now I’m not so sure. I’ve been getting a million hang-up calls since all this started.
It’s horrible, Faith. I’ve been going crazy. The phone rings ten or twelve times in a row, and every time I pick it up, there’s no answer. Just breathing. At first, I kept asking who it was, but now I don’t say anything, either, and after a while, there’s a click. I tried letting it ring, except then the machine would pick it up, and I don’t want Michael to think anything’s wrong. Besides, they just keep calling—whether I answer or not. Over and over and over again. It’s getting so that every time the phone rings, I’m afraid to pick it up.” She shuddered and wrapped her arms together.
And exactly how does Emma think she is going to hide the current state of her emotions from her husband? Faith wondered. Emma was close to the edge now, about to burst into frightened sobs.
“I don’t think it’s a coincidence. And if you went to the police, they could have the phone company trace the calls. You can’t keep this up! You really will make yourself ill!”
Emma shook her head; her hair fell over her face, a curtain of red gold. “No police,” she whispered.
Several people were coming out of the study, Michael Stanstead among them. The party was definitely over. “We’ll meet you there, then. Sign of the Dove, in half an hour.”
At the sound of her husband’s voice, Emma hastily blotted her eyes on the insubstantial lacy hem of her dress, tossed her hair back, and sat up.
“Everything was perfect,” she said loudly to her friend. “You saved my life, Faith.”
Saturday was a blur of work, and when Faith locked the door of the catering company’s kitchen in the wee hours of Sunday morning, she vowed to hire more help in the New Year—and, more immediately, sleep until noon.
The phone rang at nine. Fighting her way to consciousness, leaving behind what was possibly a pleasant dream involving Richard and a beach—she couldn’t quite grab on to it—Faith picked up the receiver.
“Um,” she said.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Emma asked anxiously.
“No,” Faith lied, wondering why people always lied about being awakened and why no one ever simply said, “Yes, I was happily comatose until the damn phone rang.” Then suddenly, she was wide-awake.
Emma. Anxious.
“What’s happened?” Something had to have happened.
“I got another card. It was mixed in with the mail, but it didn’t have a stamp. I’ve been dropping all the cards into that big bowl on the table in the hall until I had a chance to open them.”
“And you just did,” Faith said, finishing for her, now agitated herself. She knew the blackmail wouldn’t stop, yet there was always the faint possibility that she might be wrong. “What does it say this time?” Emma lowered her voice. She’d been practically whispering to start, and now her words verged on inaudible. “I can’t tell you.”
Faith managed to catch the phrase. “You’re afraid Michael will overhear or you just plain can’t tell me?”
“Both,” she whispered.
“Look, Emma, tell Michael you’re going to church, or shopping, or whatever you do on Sunday mornings and get yourself over here immediately.” Faith took a quick shower. Normally, she did some of her best thinking under the strong, warm spray, but today her mind was on autopilot. She lathered, rinsed, and got out, then dressed and made a pot of coffee. She was looking at the toaster with a slice of bread in it when she realized she had virtually no memory of her previous actions. She focused on the matters at hand, first pushing the toaster control down, then thinking about this latest blackmail attempt. The card could have been in the pile for days—
The buzzer sounded, and in a few moments Emma was sitting at the small table Faith had placed between the two front windows overlooking West Fifty-sixth Street.
“Are you hungry? English muffin?” Faith asked, pouring coffee. She firmly believed that food enhanced mental processes.
“I don’t want anything to eat, thank you. I’d probably throw up.”
“You’re not . . .” Faith began. Why not complicate matters a little further.
“No,” Emma said sadly. “I wish I were. You have no idea what it’s like getting your hopes up every month.
We’ve been trying for over a year now. The doctor says I need to relax. Michael has been an angel. Did I tell you he’s taking me with him in January for this business thing in the Caribbean someplace? He says he just wants me to sit in the sun on a beach. I know he’s as disappointed about not having a baby as I am, but he never shows it—or blames me.”
