“That is so typical of Sylvia—Sylvia Vale—and yet somehow she never puts a foot wrong. Here you are. The problem's solved even though she was completely screwed up about it.”
The salads were done and only needed dressing, which the residents put on themselves.
“Do you want us to do the bread, Mrs. P.?' Denise asked.
“Yes, and I'll mash the potatoes, and then it will be time to get the trays done.'
“You should be doing this instead of me,' Faith remarked. 'You know so much.'
“Not a chance. Remember I'm selfish. I don't want to have to be here every day at a certain time. Besides, I have a hair appointment tomorrow. With this cut, I have to go all the time. It gives me another purpose in life, and it's almost as nice as the old days in high school when my friend Linda and I used to iron each other's hair, smoke cigarettes we took from her mother, and gossip. Somehow my hairdresser Richard's stories don't seem as interesting as which cheerleaders went all the way and whether the math teacher was seeing Debbie Jackson outside school, but Richard pampers me and I love it.”
Faith was still searching for someone who could cut her hair—if not exactly as she'd had it before her northern migration, at least in some approximation. She didn't want Denise's cut, but she recognized the hand of a master. Before she could ask her where Richard wielded his scissors, Denise looked at her watch and exclaimed, 'Have to run! 'Bye, Faith. Nice meeting you. 'Bye, Mrs. P. You've got a treasure here. Let her do some of the cooking. I think she knows how.' She winked at Faith. 'Joel and I love Have Faith's wild berry jam.”
A faint whiff of Coco lingered after she left, mingling with the smell of the brown bread, Parker House rolls, and cranberry muffins they'd been putting into baskets. Mrs. Pendergast lumbered over.
“Put a few more muffins in each. We've got them to spare today. And you know these ladies always bring big pocketbooks to meals.' She laughed.
Faith hadn't pictured the stately inhabitants of Hubbard House as the types who filched rolls from the dining room, but then it could also be yet another example of Yankee frugality—she could hear the soft murmurs, 'Don't want them to go to waste, you know.' She added some more to each basket and went over to help Mrs. Pendergast fill the trays. The tray slips were tucked under the silverware, and she saw that one of them was for Farley Bowditch. He must be in the nursing-care wing.
“I'm going to have to leave soon, Mrs. Pendergast, but I could bring this tray up on my way out. Mr. Bowditch is a friend.'
“That would be fine. It isn't hard to find. You go back the way you came, but instead of taking the stairs, take the elevator and go to the second floor. We're in the basement of the annex. When you get out of the elevator, go straight and turn right. His room is in the middle of the corridor.' She hesitated. 'Do you think you can stand another day?'
“I think so.' Faith smiled. 'See you in the morning.' Mrs. P. hadn't been a font of information—not yet anyway—but Faith was getting fond of her. She'd get even fonder if she could take over some of the cooking.
She picked up the tray. Farley had opted for the fish, and it lay in overcooked splendor on a Wedgwood plate with a blanket of red paprika and a morsel of parsley. She popped a cover on it to keep it hot and set off.
It was easy to find the nursing-care wing, but Faith decided to get deliberately lost on the way back. Of course she could always ask Sylvia Vale to show her around, but it was more fun—and instructive—to go alone.
Farley was sitting up in a chair by the window and was delighted to see her.
“Mrs. Fairchild! How nice of you to come, and you've brought my lunch, I see. Perhaps you would join me? The kitchen is so obliging and the food is quite tasty.'
“I'm afraid I don't have time today, but thank you. Actually I'm volunteering in the kitchen for a while, as they are short of help at the moment.'
“Ah yes, your culinary renown has preceded you, no doubt.'
“I'm not sure about that. I'm peeling potatoes and arranging salads for now.'
“All in good time, my dear.'
“But please, don't let your food get cold. I thought I would bring it up and see how you were doing. Tom sends his best and says he'll be out to see you soon.'
“How kind. Well, I'm fine, but Roland—that's Dr. Hubbard—is not happy with my get-up-and-go. He says it's gone and wants to keep a closer eye on me until we find it.' Farley laughed brittlely, wheezing slightly.
Faith decided to use the Aunt Chat ploy. 'I have an aunt who lives in New Jersey now who is considering Hubbard House, and I told her I would ask some of the people who live here what they think of it.'
“Who better?' Farley agreed amicably. 'The horse's mouth.”
Faith expected him to continue, but he appeared to be distracted by a tomato, which had surfaced from the midst of the lettuce. 'Oh, this is nice. Tomato
“Oh my, yes. Best decision I ever made—coming here. They take wonderful care of you and you meet such interesting people. Of course, I knew quite a few of them before, but we have stockbrokers, lawyers, teachers, even preachers here. A lady who writes books. A couple who raise orchids in one of the cottages. A vast assortment. Then there's the ghost.'
“The ghost?' asked Faith, wondering if this was a pet name for someone, an old New England tradition associated with the house, or perhaps where Farley's get-up-and-go had wandered.
“I should say my ghost. Nobody else has seen it, yet it's real enough. Comes into this very room at night and shuts the window. Sometimes pulls my blankets up around me. So considerate. Roland says he wishes it would appear to more people. Would help cut down on staff.' Farley laughed and wheezed again. 'But tell your aunt not to be afraid if she hears about it. We're used to ghosts around here. My mother used to see her grandmother sitting on the porch swing the first of June every year. It was how we knew summer had arrived. I don't know much about ghosts in New Jersey, but you tell her she would be quite happy here. Don't know much about New Jersey either. Only went there once when my nephew graduated from Princeton. Didn't get into Harvard. Seemed like a nice enough place, but you tell her to come here. Probably better.”
Farley was turning his attention to the fish, and Faith said good-bye with promises to return the next day. She wouldn't be getting any useful infor- mation from him, that seemed clear, but she always loved this kind of elderly gentleman. She looked back at him—sitting with perfect elegance in an old bathrobe from Brooks with a shawl draped around his shoulders. He could have been presenting his papers at the Court of St. James.
As she left, she noticed a nurse's station, which opened onto an atrium, at the end of the corridor and walked down for a closer look. It was well equipped, and even the gold-framed botanical prints on the wall behind it did not disguise the fact that this was a medical facility. She'd noticed the oxygen hookups and other hospital-room paraphernalia in Farley's room. It was all unobtrusive but state of the art. Whatever Howard Perkins had stumbled onto, outdated or shoddy medical equipment wasn't it. A door to the left of the nursing station opened and a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties came through, carefully locking it behind her. Before she did, Faith glimpsed a wall of glass cabinets—obviously the medication room.
The woman smiled at her. 'Hello, are you looking for someone?'
“I found him, thank you. I've been visiting Farley Bowditch. I'm helping in the kitchen and brought him his tray. He's a parishioner of my husband's.'
“Oh, then you must be Mrs. Fairchild. I'm Muriel Hubbard and I met your husband when he was here the last time. Farley loves company and it was good of you to come. And Mrs. Pendergast must be thanking her lucky stars. We've been having a terrible time with so many of the staff out, and it's impossible to get short-term replacements.”
Muriel was a small but solid woman. Her brown hair, cut in a sensible, chin-length Dutch bob, was streaked with a few gray hairs. The bangs accentuated her broad forehead. Her glasses hung from a string around her neck, and she was dressed in a navy-blue skirt, starched white oxford-cloth blouse, and comfortable nurse's shoes. She exuded competence, security, and dullness.
“I'm glad I can help,' Faith told her, 'but I must get home now. I've already stayed later than I planned.' Virtually nothing so far had gone as planned, Faith thought, her mood elevating as it did whenever unpredictability surfaced in days that at present tended to march in step.
“Thank you again, and I'll look forward to seeing more of you. She extended her hand and shook Faith's
