Body in the Big Apple

fits before settling on a black velvet coat dress that flared slightly at midcalf. It had a small black lace insert at the bodice. It looked festive and elegant. She pulled her hair back. Richard liked the nape of her neck. He was going out of town for a while. Damn.

She was going to miss him, wasn’t she? She sprayed on Guerlain’s Mitsouko, put on her coat, and went off to the party.

At eleven o’clock, Richard and Faith were walking down Fifth Avenue, which was by no means deserted.

There had been a break in the cold spell and the warmth from the day’s sunshine seemed to linger in the air. Strolling down Fifth, or any number of other avenues, was one of Faith’s favorite things to do. Especially at this time of year, when every window was filled with glittering enticements.

Richard, like Faith, had grown up in the city. It was one of the things they had in common—an unabashed love of New York.

“Where did you go to see Santa?”

“Macy’s, of course.”

“Of course, but then here at Schwarz’s with my grandparents for good measure.” Faith didn’t think her grandmother had ever been in Macy’s—or any other large department store other than Altman’s.

At the giant toy store, every day was Christmas, Hanukkah, and your birthday all rolled into one—the one in your dreams. As usual, the windows were filled with outrageous toys—huge stuffed animals, dolls with designer wardrobes, and kid-size working models of their parents’ luxury cars.

“I had a car you could really drive.” Richard’s face was almost against the glass. “Foot power. If you ped- 170

aled like hell and were on an incline, you could pretend you were doing five miles an hour.”

“Maybe Santa will bring you one of these—except bigger.”

“He’d have to bring me a parking place, too,” Richard said ruefully.

They walked on, past Tiffany’s, the windows bright but empty, the contents resting securely in the vault. A stage set waiting for the principals to arrive. Next was Trump Tower. It looked like a giant Godiva chocolate box. They stopped to gaze past the revolving door into the pink marble atrium. Faith had never seen so many poinsettias—and such enormous ones. But, like those at Saint Patrick’s, they went with the place. Excessive, overblown, exorbitantly expensive, it was still a great spot to hang out, gliding up the escalators past the five-story waterfall walls. You could almost convince yourself the brass everywhere was fourteen-carat gold.

Then Steuben. Its curved crystal-clear glass window appeared not to exist at all—fooled you into thinking you could reach in and pluck one of the vases from the display or grab the Excaliber paperweight, complete with sword awaiting Arthur.

“I love New York,” Faith said. The city’s ineffable magic had momentarily erased all the hideous pictures from her thoughts.

“Did you ever consider public relations? I’ll bet someone in the mayor’s office would be interested in a catchy phrase like that,” Richard teased.

She punched him lightly on the arm she was holding. “You know what I mean.”

They walked all the way to the New York Public Library at Forty-second Street, passing the tree at Rockefeller Center.

171

“Do you skate?” Richard asked.

“I skate,” Faith replied.

“Then we’ll go skating when I get back.” He was, Faith noted, making the tacit assumption that they would keep on seeing each other. They were climbing the library steps. Faith patted one of the stone lions guarding the portals. They had such great Bert Lahr faces. Each had a festive wreath around its neck.

Richard was smiling at her. He had a great smile—and the rest of him wasn’t bad, either. They had talked about everything and anything, except themselves, and she had no idea if he was getting over a relationship, seeing a lot of other people—although he seemed to be free most nights—or had even been seriously involved before. He was thirty. It wasn’t much older than she was if you simply counted the years, yet it seemed much older. Thirty. Don’t trust anyone over it. That TV show— thirtysomething—she’d watched an episode and found it too self-conscious and boring. Too many whiners. But what would she be doing in six years? What would Emma be doing?

Going to Washington lunches she didn’t want to attend while hubby wheeled and dealed in Congress?

Faith devoutly hoped so.

“A penny for your thoughts. Make that a quarter—

inflation,” Richard put his arms around her. He smelled good—soap, Brooks Brothers spice cologne.

It was what her first boyfriend had worn and she was still a sucker for it—and all the heady firsts it conjured up.

“Oh, I was trying to remember which lion’s name is Patience and which Fortitude.” This had crossed her mind when they’d arrived at the library.

“Can’t help you. It’s one of those things I’ve forgot-172

ten, if I ever knew—like the words to certain Christmas carols. But I have both—patience and fortitude, that is.”

“Where did you get the rest of the Wenceslas verses? Here at the library?”

“I bought a book. It’s in my apartment. Want to stop by and sing?”

As a variation on etchings, it was certainly original, and Faith realized she wanted to sing. Wanted to sing very much.

“Baked butternut squash soup with toasted pignolis, butterflied game hens with asparagus risotto, Bibb lettuce and radicchio with pomegranate seeds in a raspberry vinaigrette, cheese plateau, and individual chocolate mousse cakes.” Faith had arrived at work early the next morning. The soup was done and she was starting the cakes. The recitation of the menu for tonight’s dinner was for Josie’s benefit. She’d just come in and they were alone.

“Two questions. Anything else with the hens? Like a chutney? And, more important, where’d you get that glow? ’Cause if it comes in lotion, I want a truckload.” Josie laughed. “Never mind. Don’t tell, but if it were a cosmetic—like those tubes of instant tan—someone would be a billionaire.”

Faith tried to look stern and professional. “Chutney’s a good idea. We can offer two—one for the fire- breathers.”

As the morning wore on, she let her thoughts wander. Last night had left her more confused about her feelings for Richard than ever. He wasn’t seeing anyone else. Had never been married, but he’d had a five-year relationship that had broken up last summer. It 173

wasn’t a tell-all session, to Faith’s relief. She’d run as fast as she could from men who insisted on detailing their every conquest—and every heartbreak. For her part, she simply told him she had several good male friends— guys she’d gone to school with, some she’d met since—but she’d never been seriously involved with anyone for too long. As Josie was wont to put it,

“I don’t hear chimes.”

As the morning passed, thoughts of Richard receded and the cast of characters occupying her life, the cast she couldn’t mention, resumed their prominent roles.

She’d see Lorraine tomorrow morning and ask if she could borrow the manuscript. The earth-shattering tell- all book. It had to be what Lorraine was talking about.

It had to be in one of those precious stacks of memorabilia under her window seat. Obviously, there were things in it that freaked out Lorraine. Who and what had been mentioned? There was something sickening about Fuchs sitting at his shaky card table, hammering away at his old Underwood, filling sheet after sheet with his own particular venom. Faith thought of the recent craze for Mommie Dearest books. Fox would skewer those hostesses, Poppy for sure, as well as his comrades in the struggle. Politicians, of course,