Holly Ball was beginning to look like not only an investigative outing but a welcome break in Faith's domestic routine. It was definitely time to get out of the house.
Wednesday Faith rushed through her chores at Hubbard House. She was trying a new hairdresser, not Denise's but one she had gotten from a perfect stranger whose cut she'd admired in the checkout line at the Star Market.
Just as Faith was leaving, a woman burst through the door and ran over to Mrs. Pendergast. 'Mrs. P., you absolutely saved my life! Here, I brought you these.' She thrust a slightly wilted centerpiece of roses and orchids into Mrs. Pendergast's hands. 'It was from the table, and I thought you might be able to use these for lunch.' She put a brown paper bag on the counter. 'They're theleftover caviar canapes. It's my way of saying thanks.”
Mrs. Pendergast wasn't rushing to make any introductions, so Faith did the honors herself.
“Hello, I'm Faith Fairchild, a volunteer here.'
“How sweet of you, I'm Charmaine Hubbard. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a million things to do to get ready for tonight. Hope to see you there.' And she was gone with one final wave from the door before exiting.
So this was Charmaine. Charmaine—a woman fighting an all-out battle against advancing years armed with turquoise Spandex and plenty of mousse. So far she hadn't been doing too badly. Very svelte, and a mane of glistening streaked hair. If there had been tucks, they were out of sight. She looked a little like Charo, or Farrah Fawcett when she had a mane of hair, and the faint southern accent, real or assumed, gave her a perennially youthful allure.
Faith knew better than to ask Mrs. Pendergast a direct question. But even Mrs. Pendergast, faithful unto death, couldn't stifle her annoyance. She was emptying the contents of the bag into the garbage disposal and muttering aloud, very aloud, 'As if I'd serve leftover soggy fish egg canapes nobody wanted to eat in the first place to my ladies and gentlemen!' She looked over her shoulder at Faith with a slight grin. 'Called me up in tears last night about seven o'clock. The fancy chef she'd hired to do her dinner party couldn't figure out how to turn on her oven, and she'd never done it either. I had to drop everything and go over. They were both in a tizzy. He was carrying on about his cream brewlays or some such thing and she was wailing that the guests were arriving. I guess they never heard of a match.”
Where was Donald while all this was going on? Faith wondered in passing, but this thought was quickly overshadowed by one of greater interest.
What would Charmaine wear to the ball?
Four
The Copley's rococo Oval Room, complete with cloud ceiling, had been partly transformed into a winter wonderland. The rosy-pink walls were decked with holly, and each round table sported a seasonal centerpiece. A nearsighted person taking off his or her glasses would have seen a warm blur of green, gold, silver, and white with flashes of red. Alberta balsams in large tubs were decorated with small twinkling white lights and scattered throughout the room. The balsams mixed pleasantly with the other scents emanating from the hors d'oeuvres buffet and the napes of female necks.
Faith had no trouble spotting Charmaine. She had obviously decided to combine the time of the year with the spirit of the place and looked like a Watteau shepherdess who had come across a bolt of cloth of gold and tinsel trim while keeping watch over her flock by night. Her gown started as a sparkling
“Are we going to try to find our table—it's number twenty-four—or do you want to stand here and check out what everybody's wearing a little longer?' Tom asked her.
“Let's find our table, then dance and check out what everybody's wearing.”
Faith herself had opted for a deceptively simple Isaac Mizrahi silk gabardine sheath. It was short, demurely covered her collarbones with a ruffle, then plunged almost to the waist in back. It was red, and she'd bought it for the holidays. She hadn't expected to get an opportunity to wear it around Aleford much, and it was another reason she was pleased about the ball.
They found their seats, and Faith could see from the place cards that they were indeed at Denise's table, but Denise herself was nowhere in sight. Itwould have been difficult to spot anyone other than Charmaine in the crowd. There were about four hundred people—volunteers, Hubbard House residents, and benefactors eating, drinking, chatting, and/or kicking up their pumps. The din was uproarious, and the proper Bostonians (and those from outlying suburbs) were having a grand old time. Sylvia Vale floated by swathed in scarlet tulle with an elaborate matching turban that might have led some observers to believe she either had read the invitation incorrectly and thought it was a costume ball or was part of the entertainment—Madame Glenda and her Magic Doves. Sylvia waved to Faith and mouthed 'See you later' with her Cupid's-bow lips.
“And I thought I might not have fun,' Tom commented. 'First lead me to the goodies, then lead me to the band.”
They inched their way across the dance floor to the food. Faith cast a professional eye on the buffet. There was a nice assortment of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, and waiters were constantly bringing more, so none of the trays had either a ravaged look or the forlorn lack of appeal a full tray presents when others are empty—leading to the inevitable question of why no one wanted to eat whatever was on it. (This tended to happen with the fish-paste cocktail sandwiches at certain local functions Faith had reluctantly attended.) They filled their plates, got some champagne, and sat down to watch the action from the pretty little gold bamboo chairs the Copley had thoughtfully placed along the sidelines.
Dr. Hubbard galloped by, and presently Faith spotted Denise.
“There's my friend Denise,' she told Tom. 'The woman in the black crepe Armani dress over there.'
“Pretty, but not my type. Too fashionable,' Tom commented.
“And I'm not?'
“That doesn't deserve an answer. Let's just say I like to run my fingers through some hair, not an inch of stubble. If I want that, I can stop shaving for a couple of days.”
What was it with men and long hair? If Tom and his ilk had their way, we'd all be Rapunzels, Faith reflected.
“I wonder who that is she's dancing with. I haven't seen him at Hubbard House. Maybe someone she's seeing.”
Denise's partner was handsome in a Richard Gere sort of way, and his tuxedo was a bit more current—and snuggly fitting—than those of the men who were waltzing around him. They mostly sported the timeless boxy numbers from Brooks dug out from the backs of their closets year after year for occasions like this.
Faith looked over at Tom. He looked good in black—fortunately for his calling—but she had to admit she preferred the well-cut tux from Barney s she had given him their first Christmas together to his robes.
He caught her stare. 'Want to dance, honey? It is a ball, remember.'
“Love to,' she replied, and jumped up. 'I don't think my card is filled.'
“Lucky, lucky me,' Tom whispered in her ear as he pulled her close.
“Dance me over to Denise—I want to say hello,' Faith instructed him, and veered toward the other couple.
“I was under the impression that the dance floor was the one place where I got to lead, darling, but it looks like I'm wrong there too. Just shove me wherever you want.'
“Martyr,' Faith said, and steered toward Denise.
As they got closer, Faith became aware that Denise was involved in a heated conversation with her partner. Her cheeks were red and she seemed close to tears. When they drew up next to them, Faith heard her say, 'Please,
“How lovely to see you, Faith. And you must be the Reverend Fairchild. I'm so glad you could come and I was able to get you at my table.'
“Yes, we saw. You can tell us everyone's names.' Faith hoped the hint wasn't too blatant, and to cover up
