Body in the Big Apple

“Well, hi there.” Brilliant, Faith.

“How late are you working tonight? Could we get together?”

“I have no idea. It’s dinner, but sometimes people linger. Certainly not before midnight.”

“Then midnight it is.”

Whoa, she thought. Last night, tonight? Tomorrow night?

“I really have to get some sleep. I’ve—”

“Sounds fine to me.” His voice was warm and the enthusiasm was neither over- nor underdone.

“Okay, why don’t I call you when I’m leaving. The apartment is up on Central Park West.”

“See you later.”

She hung up, then realized she hadn’t invited him to her parents’. Somehow in the course of the conversation, she’d decided to—Phelps or no Phelps.

Sunday morning dawned gray and cold. And brownish green. The only snow they’d have for Christmas was what was in store windows, and the unsightly mounds left by the plows that hadn’t melted yet and were serving as dog loos, with occasional garlands of trash. The apartment was warm, but Faith didn’t feel like leaving the nest of her bed. Not for a long time. Last night had been a disaster. She roused herself. Coffee. Much coffee. Maybe not a disaster, but certainly a downer. The dinner had gone well and she’d showered her cards like confetti upon the complimentary guests. One man had offered to put money in the business and had given her his card. Then she’d gone to meet Richard at the bar at the Top of the Sixes—666 Fifth Avenue, his choice.

“The view used to be better. They’re putting up too many buildings in the city.”

Faith had agreed. The restaurant had been a favorite of Aunt Chat’s when Faith was a child, and they’d celebrated special occasions there. She remembered one time when Chat had let Faith and Hope take turns wearing her new white mink stole—the tangible result of a whopping new account—all through dinner, apparently unperturbed by the catsup they were amply using to cover their fries. The Top of the Sixes was a man-made mountain aerie; they floated not above the clouds, but above the hordes. It had always been hard to come away from the windows to concentrate on the food. As Faith got older, she determined the view was the draw. Not necessarily the food.

Last night, some of the old childhood magic had been present. For one thing, it was almost Christmas and the restaurant was filled with reminders—not only the decorations but also the guests. Everyone was a bit more dressed up than usual and the conversation sounded sparkling, even if proximity would have revealed it wasn’t. Carols played softly in the background. Faith had changed at work and was wearing a burgundy silk shirt tucked into matching velvet pants—a once-a-year kind of outfit she’d bought on the spur of the moment. She wore the Mikimoto pearl necklace Chat had given her for her twenty-first birthday. As she’d fastened it around her neck, she’d noted the way the beads shone luminously against her throat.

She’d pulled her hair back.

Richard was still celebrating. He’d spent most of the day with his agent. “Perrier-Jouet, don’t you think?” Faith had agreed. Not only were the Art Nouveau bottles lovely to look at, but the champagne was damn good, too. She’d settled into herself. Thoughts of Emma Morris Stanstead—thoughts of everything save the moment—had disappeared from her mind.

“You’ve become very special to me, Faith,” Richard murmured. He was sitting next to her, as close as the chair would allow. He took her hand.

“I want to give you something.”

“Oh, no, Richard, you shouldn’t have,” she’d protested, happily aware that her bag was weighed down with the snow globe she’d bought for him.

“It’s nothing.” He’d smiled.

And it was. A cookbook. A nice one with glossy photographs. But a book. Impersonal.

“You probably have a million of these, but you have to get ideas from somewhere, and this looked great. It’s divided by seasons. You can cook your way through the year.”

Oh bliss, Faith thought, and decided to keep the snow globe for herself.

After some more champagne, she had second thoughts. Men were notoriously bad at knowing what to give women as gifts. Her father was a case in point, appealing desperately to his daughters when those times of the year rolled around, and they were more than happy to save their mother from a blender—Dad’s idea for one Christmas—or a sewing machine—for Mom’s fortieth.

She was just reaching into her bag, Richard nuzzling her neck in a decidedly pleasant way, when she heard him say, “I’m really going to miss you.” Say what? “Miss me? Why?” she said out loud.

“I’m leaving the day after Christmas to finish the book. I’ve cleared my desk of all but the Stanstead profile, so I’ll be gone a month or two, maybe three. I will be back whenever he announces, and we can grab some time then, but for all intents and purposes—and I mean this most regettably—I’ll be gone until spring.”

“Oh,” said Faith. She was not a fan of long-distance romances, especially one that was just getting off the ground, no matter how many stories up they were.

She’d never been one to carry a torch—perhaps because there had never been anyone who had caused one to burn brightly enough. Why hadn’t Richard told her this before? He must have known last night. Clearing his desk meant forethought. But not a thought for her. She looked into his eyes. Yes, there was a little guilt there, embarrassment. Don’t worry, she wanted to tell him. I’m not going to make a scene. I’m not going to try to tie you down.

“Oh,” she said, “that’s wonderful. The sooner you finish the book, the sooner it will hit the best-seller list.”

“I knew you’d understand. Merry Christmas,” he’d said, clinking her glass with his.

He’d taken her home in a cab. She had pleaded fatigue and the brunch the next morning to do. As she’d gotten out, he’d handed her her bag. “What do you carry in this thing? Rocks?”

“Yes,” she’d said, smiled, and waved good-bye.

“That’s it. See you tomorrow. You sure your mother’s oven is big enough for the turkey? I’d be happy to do it here and bring it over,” Josie offered. The brunch was a great success, especially the Big Apple pancakes [see the recipe on page 282], and they’d cleaned up quickly together.

“I’m sure, although all she ever uses it for is to broil a nice piece of fish or, alternately, a nice boneless chicken breast. That’s what they eat—with a little salad or a few vegetables, depending on the time of year.”

“This does not sound like the kind of clergy I know.

Being God’s Go-Between is strenuous work, and they need more than a shriveled-up dry piece of chicken to do it. You bring your daddy over to Josie’s when I open and I’ll give him a real chicken breast—soaked in buttermilk, coated with my special seasoned flour, and deep-fried, with a crust as light as an angel’s wing.”

“It’s obvious you’re going home soon. Your accent is getting deeper and deeper and you’re starting to talk like someone out of a Zora Neale Hurston short story.” Josie laughed. “Nothing wrong with that. Anyway, you need cheering up.” Faith had given her an abbrevi-ated version of the last two dates with Richard. “I think it is positively wicked to dump someone at the holidays. The man has no class whatsoever,” Josie added, fuming.

“I don’t think I was being dumped. More like put on hold.”

“Same thing.”

“Same thing,” Faith agreed glumly. This was a new experience for her. She had never been the dumpee—and she didn’t intend to let it happen again, no matter how many verses the man could sing, or how well. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Emma’s problems, she might have paid more attention to the signs Richard had been giving her. They’d been there.

“I’m leaving, ladies. Merry Christmas to you both.” It was Howard. He’d delivered all the surplus food to an agency that fed the homeless. “I’d hate to be on the streets tonight. It is colder than a witch’s—toe. And with that, I’m off to start trolling my Yuletide treasure, or maybe it’s Yuletide carol. Whichever, I’ll be doing it.” What little family Howard had lived in California, but he’d often remarked to Faith that you could make your own families—and he had. The same group had been celebrating all the holidays, plus times in between, for years now.

Faith handed him a brightly wrapped present. “Put it under your tree.”

“Thank you, love. Yours is in your big pocketbook.

I hid it there. Open it whenever you like. Check yours out, too, Miss Josephina.”

Faith had gotten him a camel-colored cashmere muffler at Barneys. Howard was not above brand