“Thank you.” Faith wasn’t sure whether he was complimenting her powers of speech or appearance, but a compliment was a compliment. “I did go to school with Emma. We’re very good friends, but I’ve never gotten to know Michael.” This was true of a lot of her friends’ husbands. They were all still back in junior high, when the boys stayed on one side of the dance floor and the girls on the other. Michael was surrounded by men in suits. There was an occasional woman, women like Lucy, like Faith’s own sister, Hope, but the sexes hadn’t reached that gender meld-ing Faith supposed was the goal—at least when it came to jobs, positions of power, that kind of thing.
Faith intended to hold on to her own idiosyncrasies.
Yet, at the parties she attended, the parties she catered, everyone mixed at the beginning, but by the end of the evening, those who weren’t in matched pairs—or trying to be—had precipitated out into male and female conversational groups. What would it be like in ten years? At the end of the next decade, the end of the century. The great big millennium? She was not given to predictions or pronouncements, but she was sure that the battle of the sexes would still be going its own intriguing, irritating, and irrational way.
Richard was cutting a large piece of romaine lettuce.
Everything about the meal had been slightly oversized, so far. As he ate, he seemed to be phrasing his reply. “I like Michael. He’s very straightforward. Nothing coy about his answers, and he hasn’t refused to talk about anything; plus, it’s all on the record. I told him that at the start and he had no problem with it, he said. Seems to care a great deal about his wife, the rest of his family. But also cares a great deal about Michael Stanstead. He’s very ambitious. But it goes with the territory. You wouldn’t be running the way he is if you didn’t have that drive. He’s ruthless, but so far I haven’t picked up on any cruelty. If he’s stepped on any fingers on the lower rungs of the ladder, I haven’t found them yet, but I’m looking. Works like crazy.
What else? Smokes god-awful cigars, very expensive, and drinks, but not to excess. Frankly, I thought he’d be a more interesting subject.”
This was a surprise. The one thing Faith hadn’t thought was that Emma might be married to someone dull.
“Any hobbies, any passions?”
“Plays tennis and squash. Keeps a sailboat at their summer place in the Hamptons. There is one thing, though.”
“What’s that?” Faith sat up straighter.
“He’s not like a lot of politicians I know who get off on adoration. They need to have the crowd cheering, and if one person isn’t clapping, they take it personally.
Stanstead projects an image of someone who is totally sure of himself. Not conceited, but removed. He doesn’t need everyone to love him, just vote for him.
It’s remarkably effective and makes people want to get close to him all the more. It also gives him a slight air of mystery—and he needs that, because charisma is the name of the game these days.”
Emma and Michael, across the crowded room, which was filled with the noise of holiday cheer, were drinking their champagne. They were both leaning back in their chairs. Faith couldn’t see her friend’s face, but at some point in the conversation, she’d pulled the clasp from her hair and it hung loose, Titian red, the reflected light turning strands to gold. Every once in a while, someone would stop to speak to them.
Earlier, the way they had been sitting signaled, Do not disturb. Now, they were holding court. At least Michael was. He may have manufactured whatever charisma he has, Faith thought, or may not have much to say except about politics or business, but the elixir is working tonight. He looked like a leader.
“They’re here, behind you. Michael and Emma,” Faith said, discreetly pointing her finger.
Richard turned around and stared for a moment, then nodded his head, acknowledging Michael’s slight wave. Apparently, he couldn’t see Faith, or didn’t recognize her.
“Yes,” Richard said. “White House material for sure. I might even vote for him myself. And the people joining them now are his wily factotum, Adrian Sutherland, and Lucy Morris, Stanstead’s sister-in-law, whom you must know. Every great man needs an Adrian Sutherland. Brainy, part British, not a bit dull, and not quite as scrupulous as his boss, from what I’ve been able to pick up.”
Faith craned her neck to peer around the very large woman who was still clinging to her sable coat as she lowered herself into a chair between the two parties.
Adrian and Lucy again. Coincidence? New York is a big city, with more restaurants per capita than any other place in the country. And Adrian and Lucy just happen to walk into this joint? Adrian and Lucy. A waiter was bringing more champagne and menus to the Stanstead table. She gave a sudden start as she felt a warm hand cover her own.
“Eventually,” Richard said, “you can tell me what this has all been about. Now brandy here or someplace else? Yours or mine, for instance?”
“Stanstead, the guy whose party we did a week ago, is up on the dais, but your friend, his wife, isn’t with him,” Josie said as she came through the door to the kitchen of the community center where the luncheon was being held. “There’s an empty place setting next to him. He must be one of the honorees or he’s going to give out the awards. Isn’t he in politics?” Faith’s heart sank, then began to beat rapidly. She had tried calling Emma this morning, but the line had been busy, and Faith hadn’t had a moment to spare herself—jumping out of bed, throwing on her clothes, and rushing straight to work. Josie had grinned and said,
“My, my, my, we don’t often see the boss so disheveled.”
Now the rest of the staff was back in the room after serving the first course, awaiting instructions. “Clear the soup, but remember—not until everyone at the table appears to be finished.” Faith hated it when plates were cleared while some of the people, usually includ-ing her, were still eating. In some restaurants and at many parties and events, it seemed there was someone in the kitchen with a stopwatch and the wait staff was all competing for the blue ribbon. On more than one occasion, she’d literally had to hold on to her plate.
“Meanwhile, be sure water and wineglasses are full and that there’s plenty of bread. We’re running low on the buckwheat walnut rolls, but there are plenty of the sourdough ones and Parmesan bread sticks. Josie, when you clean the guest of honor’s table, remove the extra place setting.” It would look a little tacky, and very obvious, to do it now. Maybe it wasn’t for Emma.
Maybe there was another no-show.
The staff scattered and Faith looked around the kitchen. Jessica was doing the salads. Almost everyone had ordered the Waldorf ones. The desserts were ready as well, and the fish mousse, the main course, was keeping warm, awaiting the shrimp sauce. She had a few minutes. Coming in, she’d noticed a pay phone by the rest rooms. And now, grabbing some change from her purse, she went to call Emma.
Just as she was punching in the number, Michael Stanstead emerged from the men’s room. His hair was glistening ever so slightly with water from his comb. He really was extremely attractive. Photogenic.
Telegenic.
“Faith! I might have known. That soup was superb!
She nodded. It was nice to be appreciated. “It’s not an Italian recipe, so I simply call it fennel soup.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing simple about the stock—
or the rest of it. Emma and I spent a week in Tuscany taking cooking lessons last fall. I didn’t even know what
As if reading her mind, Michael said, “Emma spent most of the week sunbathing in the courtyard.” A frown crossed his face. “She hasn’t been all that well, you know. She was supposed to be here today, but I insisted she stay in bed.”
“What do you think is wrong?” Faith wanted to hear his version, especially after watching from afar last night. It wasn’t likely that he would mention his wife was being blackmailed—even to her old school chum—but he might say something about trying to get pregnant.
