Body in the Big Apple

She’d call a friend, take a pin, and stab at the huge list of holiday concerts and plays in the Times. A few days ago, she’d been bemoaning her lack of time to indulge in holiday gaiety, and here at last was an opportunity to revel in the season. Revels. Maybe she’d go to the Christmas Revels.

“You can come hang with us,” Josie offered.

“You’re a sweetheart, but I have some more things I want to do here. Then I’m going to make some calls and go out. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not, but . . .” Josie frowned.

“But what?” Faith asked.

“Take care of yourself. That’s all.” The first call Faith made when her assistant left was to Emma. She wasn’t home, but Faith left a message, telling her she was still at work and to call back there or try at home. Next she tried Richard on the off chance that he was back. She didn’t leave a message.

The sheets of packing paper they’d been using were piled up on the stainless-steel work area and Faith took a pencil from next to the phone, sat down, and started idly listing names: Emma Morris Stanstead, Michael Stanstead, Poppy Morris, Jason Morris, Lucy Morris, Nathan Fox, Arthur Quinn, Lorraine Fuchs, Harvey Fuchs. She paused. Todd. Todd Hartley. Natasha from the bookstore in the Village. Husky-voiced, exotic Natasha. Husky-voiced. One of Emma’s messages had 223

been high-pitched, one deep. Who else? Fox’s cousins—Irwin and Marsha. Adrian Sutherland.

Phelps Grants. She wrote “Emma” in the middle of the big sheet of paper and began rewriting the names, grouping people around her in constellations. Michael, Adrian, and Phelps. Poppy, Jason, and Lucy. Faith drew a line from Lucy to Adrian. Nathan, his cousins, Quinn, Lorraine, and Harvey. She drew a line from Nathan to Poppy. She put Todd alone. Natasha alone.

Emma in the center, Emma the common denominator.

Faith stared at her work, trying to think of more lines to draw. Everyone connected to Emma, but what were their links to one another?

The phone pulled her from her speculations. It was Emma.

“You do work terribly hard, but I suppose cooking all those things takes quite a bit of time,” Emma said.

“Yes, it does.” Faith knew that neither Emma nor her mother before her had ever so much as made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Poppy’s onetime s’mores had been an aberration, obviously, and quite amazing.

Faith continued. “Just checking in. You’ve been on my mind a lot today.” She hadn’t told Emma about Lorraine Fuchs’s death—or her meeting with Arthur Quinn. There was no point.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t come to Chat’s party. I’d hoped we could get away early and drop by, but things are getting very hectic. Michael’s decided to announce his candidacy the first week in January, so when we’re not out, he’s buried in his office here with Adrian and these other people. That cute guy who was with Hope at our party has been here a lot. He seems nice. At least he smiles a lot. You can’t imagine how much the apartment smells like cigar smoke.”

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The new Boss Tweeds. Faith had a sudden irreverent image of the Thomas Nast cartoons updated. Make that Hugo Boss.

“Why don’t you come over and have a cup of tea?

We always seem to be meeting so frantically. I don’t have to go anywhere until after six—and that’s just around the corner on the next block. The man came and put the tree up today. It looks lovely.” The idea of sitting in Emma’s beautiful living room, tree or no tree—and what man, Saint Nicholas?—was very appealing. I’ll decide what I want to do from there, Faith told herself as she accepted the invitation.

Faith decided to take the bus uptown, then walk to Emma’s. She had by no means had her fill of window- shopping. Plus, she still had a few more presents to buy. She wasn’t sure what to do about Richard. He’d said he would be back before Christmas—and his family lived in the city, so she was sure he would. It would be awkward if he had something for her and she didn’t have anything for him. It would be very awkward if she had something for him and he didn’t have anything for her. On Madison, one of those toy stores that’s really for grown-ups had a window filled with snow globes.

She went in, attracted by one that had the city in miniature, even a tiny yellow cab. The proprietor took one from the shelf and handed it to her.

“It plays ‘New York, New York,’ ” he said.

Faith wound it up and shook it. The hokey song was perfect. A blizzard of artificial flakes swirled and fell into a heap. She shook it again. Richard would love it.

By the time she got to Emma’s, it had started to rain.

And she wasn’t dressed for it. Her warm waterproof coat was still at the cleaner’s. She hadn’t had time to 225

pick it up, and now it looked like it might stay there until spring. She looked around for one of the umbrella salesmen who mushroomed forth at the hint of mois-ture, but there wasn’t a single one in sight. She had about five of these collapsible black umbrellas, but they never did her any good when she needed one, shoved to the back of the closet as they were. The rain began to come down harder. Her hat was plastered to her skull, and whatever her plans for the evening turned out to be, home and a hot shower would be first.

She sprinted into Emma’s building, almost colliding with the doorman, who was hastening to greet her with an open oversize umbrella.

“Too late, Bobby!” she exclaimed.

He shook his head sadly. If only I’d been at her side at the ready when the first drop had fallen, his expression said. “You’re wet right through. Now, you go up and I’ll let Mrs. Stanstead know you’re on the way.” The doormen were all sweethearts in this building—

and Faith was sure it wasn’t just because the Stansteads tipped well.

Emma was at the door. “Come in and get dry. Tea’s ready—or a drink, if you’d rather.”

“I’ll start with tea,” Faith said. She stripped off her sodden coat, and miraculously, her clothes were mostly dry. She followed Emma in. The fire was a welcome sight and she went over to stand in front of it as she admired the tree.

It was real and the room smelled of balsam, not cigar smoke. Yards of gold and silver beads wound around the boughs. Clear glass balls that looked like shimmering soap bubbles reflected the tiny white lights strung from the top of the tree to the bottom.

The only other decorations were the Alice in Won-226

derland figures from the Gazebo, made by Gladys Boalt. Each cloth character was a work of art—small figures with intricately fashioned garments and hand-painted features. The White Knight, pensive and be-whiskered, rode close to the star near the ceiling, his eccentric accoutrements in miniature suspended from his saddle.

“Emma!” Faith cried in admiration. “Your tree is incredible.”

Emma was pouring tea. “I began buying the Alice in Wonderland ornaments when I was in college—as treats. Michael gave me all the ones I was missing the first year we were married. I like to think of them as the Met’s Neapolitan figures of the future.”

“And so they are,” Faith agreed, examining the caterpillar’s tiny hookah and the dormouse in a teapot carried by the March Hare.

By tacit agreement, the two friends talked of nothing but the season. Emma had bought Michael a new car, a 325 i, the BMW convertible—black. “I know it’s kind of boring, but he’ll love it—and be surprised. He thinks I’m getting him a smoking jacket from Charvet.

I let him find it. Men are such little boys about presents.”

Faith showed her the snow globe. Emma liked it so much that Faith resolved to go back and get one for her.

Before they knew it, it was six o’clock.

“I wish everything I did could be as nice as just sitting here like this,” Emma said wistfully. “So cozy. So