“I feel so much better. I think it was meant that you were there last night. But I must dash.” Emma gave Faith a quick hug and a smile crossed her face, fears al-36
layed. A slight shadow: “You do promise not to tell anyone? Oh, I’m being silly. Of course I know that you wouldn’t.”
Faith was glad that Emma, having spilled her guts, now considered her blackmail problem solved, and she hated to spoil things. But blackmailers tended to follow up on threats.
“What are you going to do about the note?” Emma had her hand up for a cab. She turned around.
“Absolutely nothing at the moment.” A taxi pulled up to the curb and Emma waved good-bye.
Faith crossed the street to the bus stop. Business was good, but not cab versus bus fare good enough yet. As she waited, she realized she was exhausted—and worried. She’d have to try to get Emma to tell her husband.
There was no other way. Faith couldn’t go to the police herself and betray Emma’s trust. She wished she could talk about the situation with her sister, Hope. Hope moved in Young Republican circles and might have picked up something about Michael that would help convince Emma—that his position was so secure, nothing short of an intrigue with farm animals would hinder his campaign, for instance. Faith also admitted that she was dying to tell somebody about Poppy and Nathan Fox. She wished she wasn’t so good at keeping secrets.
The bus came and, mercifully, she got a seat. It was crowded with holiday shoppers, bags making the aisle difficult to negotiate. An elegant elderly woman was occupying two seats with aplomb—one for herself and one for an enormous Steiff giraffe, the head craning out of the FAO Schwarz bag. The sight of the incongruous pair was causing the whole bus to smile. It was still early enough in the shopping season for New
Yorkers to feel the holiday spirit. Outside, the whole city was decked out in its finest. Faith was sorry she wasn’t walking. Each shop window rivaled the next in glittering offerings. If you can’t get it here, you can’t get it anywhere—that’s what the song lyric should say.
The bus stopped, and through the open door, she could hear the Salvation Army Band’s rendition of “Good King Wenceslas.” The man next to her was humming along, and at her look of pleasure, he began to sing in a surprisingly strong tenor:
“That’s as far as I go by heart,” he said apologetically.
“Me, too,” Faith said. “It’s something about
‘ “Hither, page” ’ and ‘ “Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.” ’ I’m a caterer, so I tend to remember the food details. I can do all the verses of the ‘Wassail Song.’ ”
“A caterer. That must be hard work, especially at this time of year,” he said. Faith was mildly impressed.
Usually, she heard inanities like “That must be fun” or
“How do you stay so thin?” He wasn’t bad-looking—
and he had to have terrific circulation. The only con-cession to the weather he’d made was a muffler on top of his tweed sports jacket. She looked at his hands. No gloves. No wedding ring.
“It is a busy time, thank goodness. I’ve only been in business since the fall, and it’s been going well.”
“Great. Well, this is my stop.” He dug in his pocket.
“Want to trade cards? I might suddenly remember the rest of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and wouldn’t know how to find you.”
“True.” Faith laughed as she fished a business card from her purse. “Or you may need a caterer.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Take care.” She watched him out the window before the bus pulled away. Not bad- looking at all. “Richard Morgan,” his card read. The address wasn’t far from her apartment. What does Richard Morgan do? she wondered. It wasn’t anything on The Street. Financiers didn’t wear tweed jackets. A professor? The bus started with a lurch and he was lost to sight. Without the distraction of carol singing, Faith’s thoughts re- verted once more to the problem at hand. The major problem at hand.
Emma, Emma, Emma. Presumably, she was now at her luncheon, breathlessly apologizing for her lateness as the creme brulee was served, only to be politely nibbled or politely refused by the ladies present. Eating dessert in public was a no-no. Bingeing on Mallomars at midnight and throwing up was not. Much as everyone exclaimed over Barbara Bush’s inner beauty and lack of pretension, it was Nancy Reagan’s size-four red suits that set the standard. This was a crowd that didn’t need the Duchess of Windsor’s maxim—“You can’t be too rich or too thin”— embroidered on any of their pillows as a reminder.
It was difficult, almost impossible, to imagine Emma Stanstead as an increasingly high-profile politician’s wife. Yes, she had the beauty and grace—and
figure. Yet, she was quite shy. Growing up with Poppy—and Lucy—Emma preferred candlelight to limelight. When they had traveled in the same circles during adolescence and occasionally later, Faith recalled the change that would come over her friend when she was thrust into uncomfortable social situa-tions. More often than not, Emma would say the first thing that came into her head, and it was often the last thing that would have come into anyone else’s. At ease only with her most intimate friends, she would certainly find the campaign trail and the glare of publicity torture. Emma as a politician’s wife is almost as ludi-crous an idea as my being married to a minister, Faith said to herself as she reached up and swiftly pressed the strip for her stop.
There were moments over the next several days when Faith wondered if she was cut out for the two jobs totally occupying her life—professional caterer and am-ateur but increasingly expert worrier. She’d leave a message on Emma’s machine, one sufficiently circum-spect so as not to raise any suspicions on Michael’s part, then turn to yet another tray of chocolate mousse cakes or yet another pork loin stuffed with winter fruits—the two most popular dishes of the season. She fretted over not being able to leave as many messages as she wanted—one every hour—and she fretted over Emma’s not calling back. She knew Mrs. Stanstead was alive and kicking—although since it was Emma, Faith amended it to “alive and meandering”—because there had been a picture of her in the paper attending the premiere of Wagner’s
“Is there a particular reason you’re so jumpy, or does
being in business for yourself do this to a person?” Josie asked after Faith made a mad and fruitless dash for the phone. It was yet another liquor supplier wanting their business.
Faith had thought she was presenting a markedly calm exterior to the world around her and was surprised at Josie’s words.
“Jumpy? I’m not jumpy. Okay, maybe I’m a little strung out. But if we weren’t getting steadily busier, I’d be even worse. I mean, I haven’t particularly noticed anything myself, but if you say so . . .” She stopped. Josie was right. She was jumpy—and inco-herent. Damn Emma’s soap-opera life. And would it hurt her to call?
The phone rang. Josie answered, “Have Faith, taking care of all your catering needs. Josie Wells speaking.”
She looked at Faith and raised an eyebrow. “No, she’s not particularly busy. She’s right here.” As Faith walked over to the phone, Josie covered the receiver. “Someone with guilt to spare. ‘Please don’t bother her if she’s busy. Are you absolutely sure I’m not interrupting her work?’ ”
It was Emma.
“Emma! How are you? What’s been happening?”
“I’m so sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. It was sweet of you to leave all those messages, but I’m almost never home; then when I am, it’s to get ready to go to another party or opening or some other stupid thing. I
