the hall held a simple flat containing dozens of deep crimson tulips—new, pale green grass carpeting the surface of the soil. Chat had a standing order at Mad-derlake, and they had outdone themselves for the party with this hint of spring, plus the wonderful overflow-ing vases of Christmas blooms—from large, lush amaryllis trumpets to tiny, tight snow-white ranun-cules—throughout the apartment.
The buffet was Lucullan enough for any Falstaff—
its centerpiece a cornucopia of clementines, lady apples, Seckel pears, and holly entwined with garlands of small gold beads. To complete the decor, Faith had filled the large room, which stretched the full width of the spacious apartment, with candles—votives, candles in candelabras, tall, thick altar-type tapers.
Up this high, there was no need for privacy, so Chat’s windows were bare, framing views of the city that changed with each passing season, each passing hour. Now the night sparkled—a gleaming white crust of snow covering the park, tiny lights in the bare branches of the trees surrounding Tavern on the Green.
Then there were the lights of the avenues, buildings, bridges, stretching as far as the eye could see. The Chrysler Building with its Art Deco curves and the Empire State Building still pierced the heavens, despite the manic building boom on all sides. The Empire State Building sported seasonal red and green lights—
gaudy, like the trappings of the city below, always too dressed up to sleep.
The doorbell rang. The combo started playing Coltrane. The party had begun.
Chat was ecstatic. “You’re a genius, my sweet. Only
twenty or so people have raised what they call my ‘de-fection’ or, alternatively, ‘the flight to Jersey.’ You’ve turned what could so easily have descended to bathos into a madcap celebration instead! I’m booked until next fall with weekend guests!” Faith knew her aunt had been anxious about the party and the aftermath.
The apartment had been sold. There was no turning back. She loved her friends—and New York. She simply wanted to try something different.
Faith thought things were going pretty well herself.
No need to mention the pate that crumbled to pieces when they started to slice it—she had extras. No need to mention the comments made to Faith about Chat’s move to New Jersey: “Surely London would be more simpatico—and convenient.”
At eleven o’clock, someone suggested they head across town to the Carlyle and catch Bobby Short’s show. People started drifting out.
Faith was collecting dirty plates and glasses from Chat’s den when her mother walked in. The Reverend Lawrence Sibley had been unable to attend his sister’s party. It was, like Easter, his busy time. Faith was sorry.
This was the first time her parents would have been at anything she’d catered. Her mother sat down on a large leather couch and patted the cushion next to her.
“Take a few minutes to rest. You’ve earned it. The food was delicious and everything looked perfectly wonderful. I’m going to recommend you to all my friends and clients.” Her mother smiled mischievously.
“Nothing like nepotism.”
“I wanted it to be very special for Chat.” She sat down and looked around the book-filled room, dominated by a large Biedermeier desk. “I’m going to miss this apartment,” she said.
“Me, too,” replied her mother. She spied a pack of Gauloises someone had left and took one out, looked guilty, and put it back. “I only smoke at parties. You know that.”
“Sure, sure,” Faith said. “But don’t let me stop you.
I’m not your mother.”
“But
“Granny looked her usual gorgeous self tonight.
We’re having lunch at Altman’s tomorrow. She’s got this thing about saying good-bye to Charleston Gardens.”
“I’m sure they haven’t done this much business in years. It’s nice of you to go.” Jane lit up, keeping an eye on the door in case her mother suddenly appeared.
“I want to go. Hope is coming, too. What do you think of Phelps?”
Hope and beau had made a brief appearance early in the evening, then dashed off to something Adrian Sutherland had asked Phelps to attend.
“I make it a practice not to think anything of the young men my daughters date.”
“Come on, Mom,” Faith wheedled.
“Well, he seems a little like people I know who are always holding out for something better—an invitation, job, what have you.”
“And in the end they get stuck—like those girls in the dorm who turned down dates early in the week, hoping their Prince Charmings would call on Thursday—of course no one would ever admit to being free if the call came on Friday.”
“I remember.” Her mother laughed. “And nine times out of ten, they’d end up washing their hair on Saturday night!”
Faith was tempted to tell her mother about Phelps’s
request to borrow money from Hope, but it was a moot point now. Hope had come into the kitchen and told her sister that he didn’t need the money after all. That he’d had a “windfall.”
“I hope she knows what’s she’s doing, that’s all,” Faith said.
“Do you?” her mother countered, stubbing the cigarette out in an ashtray.
“Okay, fair enough. Now, I have to get back to work.
I don’t want to keep the staff.”
Her mother put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Daddy said you’d lost a friend recently. Who was it?”
This wasn’t like telling your mother about getting a bad grade in geometry, or the fight you’d had with your supposed best friend, yet Faith wished she could pour her heart out, as she had on those long-ago occasions.
“You never met her. She was older. Someone I just got to know recently.”
Her mother frowned in sympathy. “Heart attack?”
“Something like that.”
Jane gave Faith a kiss. “Take care of yourself, darling. I’m going to take Granny home now—if she’ll leave the party.”
At the doorway, her mother stopped. “I had expected to see Poppy here tonight. She’s such a friend of Chat’s, but then the life she leads means her time is not her own. I always felt sorry for Emma. You were great friends once.”
Why was her mother bringing this up?
“Yes, were—and are. Why did you feel sorry for Emma?”
“Oh, the ‘poor little rich girl’ thing. She had everything materially, but not much emotionally. It was how
Poppy had been raised, so I suppose she never noticed that the child was starved for affection. Arrests development, you know. I wonder if Emma will ever grow up—even if she is a happily married lady, from all reports.” Her mother’s intonation gave Faith pause and she set the tray down.
“Have you heard otherwise?”
“Madeline Green was talking to me about an hour ago and asked if I had seen Emma lately. I haven’t. She wondered if you had mentioned anything to me, and again I was ignorant. You know Madeline is Emma’s godmother and has always looked after her.”
“What do you think she was getting at?”
“I asked her, of course.” Jane was a lawyer and in-terrogation of all sorts came naturally.
“What did she say?”
“That Emma had had bouts of illness and was behaving in a rather disoriented manner. She mentioned that
