“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 and lettuce." She waited patiently as he guided the fork from plate to mouth, tensing slightly as the tomato quivered and started to fall. It was like watching Ben eat. The mission was accomplished, and while he was chewing she asked, "Are you happy here?" Time to be direct.
“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 warmly. Muriel was obviously a very nice person.
Faith dashed to the parking lot and drove home. The phone was ringing as she opened the kitchen door. It was Tom.
“Where have you been, honey? I've been calling you all morning."
“I went out to Hubbard House to visit Farley Bowditch and—" Faith started to explain.
“That's nice. I'm sure he appreciated it," Tom interrupted. "I'm going to be later than I thought tonight, but I will be home for dinner." His voice sounded grimly determined. Something was up, Faith realized—not just from the tone of his voice, but from the fact that her visit to Hubbard House had scarcely been noted. She hoped it wasn't complaints about wording in some of the hymns again. There were so many points of view these days, and Tom had been going in circles trying to keep everybody in tune.
“Fine. I have to get Ben at the Viles'. He's playing with Lizzie today. Then we have to do the food shopping, so I'll be running a little late too. Is everything all right, darling? You sound a little harried."
“I am. Leave a light in the window and get out the scotch.”
Faith hung up. This wasn't just hymns. A thought stabbed her. Maybe the director of the church school was ill and couldn't direct the Christmas pageant! This was always a worst-case scenario and something her normally unflappable mother had fretted about at Christmastime all during Faith's childhood. Jane Sibley was noted for her cool toughness in court, and there were hints of a possible judgeship, but the intricate theological wrangling about who was going to be Mary this year and my son isn't going to be a shepherd again totally unnerved her. Let alone getting them all down the aisle and in some sort of recognizable order at the altar.
But Tom would have said something, especially if he intended to dr
ag her into it. She shook her head. He wouldn't ask her in any case. Pix would do it. Pix always did everything. In fact, it was odd that she wasn't doing it in the first place. Pix Miller was Faith's next-door neighbor, and the Miller family's intimate involvement in two murder investigations, which Faith had literally stumbled into, had forged a bond stronger than either the occasional cup-of-sugar type neighborliness or the "you planted your hedge over my property line" antipathy.
She drove to get Ben, and the job of tearing him away from Lizzie effectively blotted out any and all thought. Today was worse than usual. Lizzie's mother tactfully stood aside as Faith wrestled a screaming Ben into the car. "Don't wanna go! Wanna stay wid Lizzie! Nononononono! and so on. She gave Arlene Viles a weary smile and backed out of their drive. The only thought that comforted her was that Lizzie would be worse about leaving when she came to play at their house. As she drove to the market, she thought she might suggest this phenomenon to Tom for some kind of sermon. What does it say about human nature that we derive so much comfort from not being last in line? No matter how badly your child might behave, there are always worse ones. And, a friend had told her once, no matter how fat you think you are and how much cellulite is dimpling down your thighs, there's always someone in the Loehmann's dressing room who looks worse. Faith was some years away from these comparisons, yet the point was the same.
Ben had calmed down as soon as Lizzie's house was out of sight, and now her only problem would be to convince him to sit in the cart and not try to "help" by pushing it for her. She grabbed a bunch of bananas as soon as she entered the store, put one in Ben's hand, and strapped him in before he had a chance to protest.
Tom was later than usual, and looking at his expression when he entered the kitchen, she could see that he was mad, not sad. So no one had died or contracted some serious disease. It was merely some pain in the ass—a congregation being like any other group of individuals.
She put her arms around him. "Come on, let's have a drink and sit in the living room while you tell me all about it. I fed Ben and he's watching a Winne-the-Pooh tape—that gives us roughly twenty-two minutes of peace."
“Wonderful, darling—although whatever you've got in the oven smells so delicious, I'm not sure I can concentrate.”
Faith had decided Tom needed some good, solid food—nothing nouvelle—so she'd prepared a pork roast with garlic, rosemary, white wine, and olive oil. There was curried cabbage, fresh applesauce, and a potato galette Lyonnaise to go with it. She poured herself a glass of Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau and followed Tom into the living room. Ben was at the far end, mesmerized by Eeyore, and barely acknowledged Tom's kiss.
“All right, what is it? They've discovered the bordello we're running on the side in the parsonage? Or someone got a back issue of Playgirl and saw your centerfold? What?"
“Oh, Faith, I wish it were something funny. I really don't know what to do, or rather I do, and the next couple of months are going to be so damned unpleasant. And why now? You know how much I love Christmas.”
Faith did know. Tom's family started getting the cartons of ornaments down from their attic before Halloween just to check and see if any of the lights needed new bulbs. When the house was finally decorated, there wasn't a corner that had been overlooked. Some year Faith fully expected to find St. Nick toilet paper peeking at her from the roll.
“I also feel a bit petty about it. It shouldn't bother me so much, but he has a way of getting under my skin—and it's only been one day!”
Everything was suddenly clear. "So," said Faith, "you can't stand your new divinity school intern."
“I loathe him. So will you. He's arrogant, pompous, self-centered, stupid, and he smells."
“Well, at least you can tell him to take a bath. Hint around."
“It's not good old BO. It's some kind of horrible men's cologne."
“And what is this creature's name?"
“Cyle—as in 'Kyle,' but spelled with a 'C'—and you can bet it didn't start out that way. We met this morning to discuss what he would be doing, and he started interviewing me! Before I knew it, he was offering advice about my sermons, ways to keep the congregation alert, and suggestions for a new wing for the parish hall. I began to feel a knot in my stomach that is just starting to go away now." He took a mouthful of scotch.
“How long will he be here?"
“Until the first of March, and there's no only about it.”
Faith was a little surprised at the intensity of Tom's reaction. Cyle must really be something. Tom was the least judgmental person she knew. Turning the other cheek, living and letting live—this was Tom. At the moment he was sounding more like her.
“I suppose what is actually troubling me is contemplating the kind of damage a person like this will do in the future. Imagine going to him for comfort. The sole thing that is going to make this bearable is for me to finagle my way onto his ordination committee."
“Why do you suppose he wants to be a minister? He sounds more like someone who thinks of call waiting rather than the 'call.' "
“I've been wondering the same thing myself—it has to be the idea of a captive audience every week. Maybe I should try to steer him into politics—or TV evangelism."
“Anywhere but your church."
“Exactly.”
Tom stretched his long legs out. Winne-the-Pooh had gone back to the Hundred Acre Wood, and they tucked Ben into bed before sitting down to eat. As they ate, Faith told Tom about her visit to Hubbard House, eliminating Sylvia Vale's mistake but mentioning the tight spot they were in and how she could help.
“I don't see why not," he said. "I'll be able to pick Ben up occasionally."
“And I know Pix will help."
“Have you uncovered any skulduggery yet?”
“Not yet. Everything looks like it's on the very up and up."
“Which is what I've thought all along. Chat's friend may have been imagining things." That re-minded Faith of Farley's ghost, and she gave Tom a hilarious account of the thoughtful wraith.
They cleaned up the kitchen and soon after climbed into bed.
“Feeling better, sweetheart?" Faith asked softly. "Almost," Tom answered, reaching for her under the blankets.
Sylvia Vale greeted Faith at the door the next morning with exuberant relief.
“You've come back! That's marvelous. Mrs. Pendergast said you would, yet one never knows." She sighed. "It used to be so easy to get help in the old days. I've been here since Hubbard House opened, you know."
“I'll be able to come weekdays until everyone is back. Please don't worry."
“I won't," she said brightly, but Faith wasn't sure. Sylvia Vale seemed like someone who enjoyed her worries.
“I'll get to work, then," Faith said, moving toward the corridor that led to the annex.
“Just a minute." Sylvia darted into the office and returned with a thick cream-colored envelope. "All the Pink Ladies are invited, of course.”
Faith took the envelope and thanked her, moving more quickly to avoid both the appellation and the possibility of a new, unwelcome, addition to her wardrobe. She ripped open the envelope on her way downstairs. It was a heavily embossed invitation to a dinner dance on December fourteenth at the Copley Plaza in Boston for the benefit of Hubbard House. Two tickets were enclosed.
That was next Wednesday. She didn't think they had plans, and it would be a way to see the cast of characters. She hadn't even met Dr. Hubbard yet—father or son. They were sure to be there. She wondered if Denise would be going.
It was raining, and there were more people in for lunch. The kitchen was so busy that Faith barely had time to say hello, much less ask Mrs. P. for the inside dope on Hubbard House. They had started to set out the trays when Mrs. Pendergast said, "Can you do these? I've got some marrow bones and a piece of beef set aside to make soup for tomorrow, and I want to put it on."
“Oh," said Faith, with all the ardor of an ingénue who's just heard the star may have twiste
d an ankle, "let me. I can make a lovely, rich bouillon. It's very nourishing."
“If you like," Mrs. Pendergast agreed. "There's some greens and carrots in the fridge you might want.”
Faith did and merrily set about assembling a good strong stock. She'd clarify it in the morning and bring some leeks and Madeira or port to add.
There was enough time for a visit with Farley before she left, and he regaled her with stories of various inhabitants of Aleford—mostly long gone. She tried to steer him toward the Hubbard family, but there didn't seem to be anything of interest there to Farley, except sympathy for Dr. Hubbard—"Poor Roland. Losing Mary so young." Faith did learn, however, that Millicent Revere McKinley's father had had a lucrative bathtub gin business, and she filed the information away for possible future use.
That night Faith told Tom she definitely had to get back to work. Making such a large amount of stock was a poignant reminder of Have Faith's past glories when she had had any number of pots going at once.
“It's exhilarating—of course I love to cook for you and Ben, but there's not quite the scope for imagination a banquet offers.”
Tom was amused. "Maybe Mrs. Pendergast will let you do the main course soon if she likes your bouillon—and then who knows what next.”
Mrs. Pendergast did like Faith's bouillon. Faith offered her a steaming cup after she had added the egg whites, Madeira, leeks, parsley, and other seasonings before straining it.
“Very tasty—and you're right. It does look nourishing. Are you going to bring up Mr. Bowditch's tray today?"
“Yes, I have time, if you don't need me here." Faith felt as proud of her bouillon as of her first galantine de lapereau.
Muriel Hubbard was in Farley's room when Faith entered. She was about to take his blood pressure and had his medication in a small paper cup.
“Hello, Mrs. Fairchild, how nice to see you," she said.
“It's always nice to see Faith," Farley added gallantly. "What have you brought today besides your charming self, my dear?"
The Body in the Bouillon ff-3 Page 4
