Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  “Now,” Marcia said. “What’s for dinner?”

  “The Robsons,” her father announced.

  “Oh, hell. Look, we can go…”

  “No, you cannot,” Babs said. “You’re staying right here. I’ve set the table but we can easily place two more chairs.” She opened the crockery cupboard.

  “Here, let me.” Marcia took the plates from her.

  “You really only need to set one more. I doubt if Michael will be here much before ten,” Jo pointed out.

  Marcia glanced at her, one eyebrow raised as she identified both the irritation and the probable cause, but said nothing. What was there to say? In her opinion, if Michael wanted to fix the boat before coming home to see his parents — so what? Did that give Jo the right to look so pissed off? Why didn’t she do her own thing, while he did his?

  “Mommy, can I stay up until Daddy comes?” Tamsin asked.

  “Depends on what time he comes and how sleepy you are,” Jo called from behind the kitchen door. They’d had a long day and were both tired.

  It was a bit rough on the kids, though. Marcia thought back to her own childhood and the weekends with Big Mike and Babs. At the time she hadn’t always wanted to go sailing, or skiing, depending on the season, and would have preferred more time for sketching and painting. She had been thankful for boarding school and then college to take her away from what she had called ‘cloying family’. Only recently had she begun to appreciate all the loving and caring her parents had offered their young family. She was always keen, nowadays, to find excuses to ‘come home’. And tonight was extra special. When she heard the knock on the door she ran to open it, and pull the dark young man proudly into the room. “This is Benny,” she announced.

  The party became noisy. But the children were beginning to yawn and the meal had not yet started.

  “They’re late,” Jo observed, glancing at her watch.

  “They’re always late,” Dale retorted. “They’ve never been on time for anything in their lives.”

  They were referring to the Robsons, but Babs was quite pleased about her guests’ lack of punctuality on this occasion; it had given the family a chance to get to know Benny. And appreciate him. He was quiet and good-humored, and he certainly seemed to worship Marcia — which was reciprocated. How grand it would be if Marcia could finally settle down… but Benny was also an art student, so it didn’t look likely to happen for a while yet.

  Nor would he gain a good idea of his possible future mother-in-law if his first dinner at Pinewoods were spoiled, especially with Marcia carrying on about the spaghetti Bolognaise Benny’s mother made. But just as Babs was despairing, there was a ‘cooee’ from the front of the house. “Hope we’re not la-ate?” Margaret Robson’s head appeared round the kitchen door.

  “Not more than usual.” Big Mike left his chair to kiss her.

  “Oh, good.” She hugged Babs. “I was so worried, and kept nagging Neal. Jason couldn’t make it, Babs; he sends his regards, and apologies.” Jason was the eldest of her two sons. “James is just shunting the car around that great big Mercedes in the yard. Whose is it…? Oh, yours, Josephine,” she said as Jo came down the stairs. “My dear, how nice to see you. Is Michael still racing?”

  “He’s in Newport.” Jo determined not to get irritated; Margaret Robson was the only person in the world who still insisted on calling her Josephine. “He had to…”

  “Well, never mind. Where are those lovely kids of yours?”

  “In bed. I’ve just kissed them good night.”

  “Not ill, I hope?”

  “No, Meg, not ill,” Babs interrupted. “Just sleepy. It’s nearly nine, and…”

  “No! Is it? We are late. I knew it. Neal! We are late. I told you…”

  “Never mind, Meg.” Mike handed her a gin and Martini. “Get yourself outside that and we’ll go eat.”

  Meg was Babs’ total opposite. Slim — skinny, Mike called her — nervous and excitable, she exuded energy and tensions. Her black hair would have been grey without help, but her blue eyes were as lively as they had been thirty years before. Meg worried about everything. She loved her children, and worried for them; loved her husband, worried about him. Her home, business, elderly mother, tomorrow’s lunch… everything was of vital importance and a big problem.

  Neal adored her. Not much taller, smooth, smiling features belying his white hair, he was one of those quiet, calm, confident men who make nervous women feel safe. Meg felt safe, most times. Except when he’d gotten some idea, some project in mind, like now. She knew he was dying to tell his friends about it, but he was waiting until they were all assembled.

  James and Suzanne, the two younger Robson children, came in. “Hi, everybody.” They gave a general greeting. “Hi, Dale,” Suzanne added softly.

  “Oh, hi there, Suzanne. How’re you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She sidled over to the bench around the breakfast table where he was sitting and parked herself on the end, trapping him. She was plump and curvy with an uncooked pastry complexion, but her eyes were gentle and smiling and everyone knew her for a sweetheart.

  Dale made a big effort to talk about subjects which might interest her, knowing he’d regret it later when she’d had a drink or two. She’d never needed much encouragement.

  Jo and Marcia helped Babs to carry the serving dishes through to the antique sideboard in the dining room where Big Mike sharpened the carving knife and set about the meat. When everyone had a heaped plate in front of them and Mike had said grace, Neal Robson rose to his feet. “Before we eat,” he said, “I have something to say.”

  “Make it brief,” Mike recommended; he and Neal had been in the army in Korea together.

  Neal grinned at him. “We have done it,” he said.

  They stared at him.

  “Bought that place in Eleuthera,” he explained. “The one you’ve been trying to talk me into for years.”

  “Well, son of a gun,” Mike said. “I never thought you’d go through with it.”

  “I’m so scared,” Meg squealed. “I think it’s a crazy idea.”

  “You’ll love it,” Babs told her. “Oh, I am so pleased. We’ll be down there together… oh, the swimming, and the snorkelling…”

  “And the diving,” Dale added.

  “And the sun,” Jo put in.

  “We’ll be down in July, as usual,” Mike said. “When are you planning on getting there?”

  “Well,” Neal said. “We rather thought we’d go down next month. According to your Lawson, that house hasn’t been lived in for ten years.”

  “At least that,” Mike agreed.

  “It’ll be full of crawly bugs,” Dale grinned.

  “Ooh!” Meg shrilled.

  “Dale!” Babs remonstrated. “All you have to do, Meg dear, is shut the place up and have it fumigated.”

  “Yeah, but there’s a lot to do to it,” Neal said.

  “Oh, I’m so scared,” Meg said again.

  “What about?” Mike inquired.

  “Well, snakes, and…”

  “There are no dangerous snakes in the Bahamas,” Mike declared.

  “But some of them are so big.”

  “Chicken snakes,” Mike said reassuringly. “They won’t trouble you.”

  “But what about things like hurricanes?” Meg squeaked.

  “Hurricanes? They’re no hassle.”

  “Oh, but when one reads the newspapers…”

  “You don’t want to believe everything you read in the newspapers,” Mike announced. “We had a hurricane down there. Three years ago.”

  “Well,” Babs said. “I don’t think it was actually a hurricane. Didn’t they call it a tropical depression, or something?”

  “It was a hurricane,” Mike said firmly. “Don’t you remember that wind howling?”

  “And the rain,” Marcia said, squeezing Benny’s hand. “So much got in we had to sleep in the lounge.”

  “It must have been awful, but awful. Were
n’t you terrified?” Meg asked.

  The Donnellys exchanged glances.

  “I’ll confess I was a bit worried at first, but providing one is sensible and takes the proper precautions, like boarding up the windows, why…” Mike spread his hands expansively. “It’s a doddle.”

  “Read three books by candlelight,” Dale said.

  “You read through a hurricane?” James Robson was aghast.

  “Sure. Not easy, mind you, because the candle flame kept blowing out.”

  Marcia kicked him under the table but the Robsons didn’t realize they were being roasted.

  “Believe me,” Mike declared. “Hurricanes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.”

  “Then how come people die in them?” James wanted to know. “They do, you know.”

  “Oh, sure they do. When they’re living in some shantytown in Haiti and the whole house comes down on them. It shouldn’t ever happen to a proper building.”

  “Anyway,” Dale said, “hurricanes hardly ever hit the same place again for years and years. So Eleuthera has got to be the safest place in the Bahamas for a long time to come.”

  “I think you’re talking about lightning,” Marcia objected. “So how come the house gets struck by lightning every year?”

  “You get struck by lightning?” Meg gasped.

  “Does no more damage than that storm,” Mike asserted.

  Jo remained silent as the conversation continued. Perhaps she was just irritated with Michael, but the whole family was being a bit over the top tonight. She could remember that storm. It certainly hadn’t been a hurricane; the winds had never risen above 5o mph. Yet it had been terrifying, out on Dolphin Point, with the waves crashing on the rocks on one side and rolling up the beach on the other, and the wind howling, and the trees bending, and the rain teeming down as the thunder and lightning had been continuous. They had all been scared, not least Big Mike; she had been more afraid for the children than herself, had first really felt the bitterness that she should be there, coping, while Michael was racing Esmeralda in the relatively calm waters off Bermuda. But in fact no real damage had been done, although Mike was gradually increasing the wind strength every time he talked about it. She wondered what his reaction would be to a real hurricane.

  “Hello there!” The front door opened and Michael stalked in. “Not too late for some food, I hope?”

  “Mike!” His father leapt up and seized his hand; he was the only person allowed to call his eldest son by the diminutive, as Michael Donnelly junior was determined to grow away from his Irish roots. “Jo says you had trouble.”

  “Defective gear.” He kissed Babs, blew one at his wife. “Kids in bed?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  The rest of the party was already on their dessert, but Mike provided his son with a plate of roast beef, and the conversation became concerned with yachts and racing. Mike could hardly wait for the meal to end. As soon as they left the table, he pushed Michael into the little study. “Boy, am I glad you’re back.”

  Michael raised his eyebrows. “Problems?”

  “You have got to be kidding. Calthrop White wants to float a stock issue.”

  “So?”

  “By August.”

  Michael sat down and lit a cigarette. “He has to be nuts.”

  “I told him. But he has to have it going. He’s trying to buy some British TV station. Seems the franchise comes up in the fall and he reckons he can get it for $125 million.”

  “What the hell does he want another network for?”

  “He’s ambitious, I guess. So there’s work to be done. He’s our best customer.”

  “But, Dad…”

  “Okay, okay. It shouldn’t interfere with the racing. I’m letting Palmer handle most of the work on it. Now let me give you the big one.” Michael raised his eyebrows. “Bigger than that?”

  Mike winked. “For us, maybe. I had a phone call from Lawson this morning. Let me tell you what he has in mind.”

  Michael listened, pulling his chin. “Sure it’s not one of his get-rich-quick schemes?”

  “Sure it is. But this one could just work.”

  “A million bucks? Can we raise that?”

  “Could be. What do you think?”

  “A million bucks,” Michael said again. “Holy shit, Dad, that wouldn’t be too bad. You talked to Babs?”

  “I haven’t talked to anyone except you. But if you’re for it…”

  Michael Donnelly considered a moment longer, then stretched out his hand. “Count me in. But… just let’s keep it between ourselves for the time being, eh?”

  WEDNESDAY 31 MAY

  National American Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue

  “Another week,” Julian Summers remarked, slumping into his chair, which faced that of his new senior, Richard Connors, in the weather room. “Had a good weekend?”

  “I hung wallpaper,” Richard told him, continuing to study the various items on his desk. “Ever heard of something called Profiles?”

  “It’s a magazine.”

  “So I gather.”

  “Quite up-market,” Julian told him. “It’s a monthly, does in-depth studies of prominent people. All over the country, all over the world. From politicians to pop stars. Why?”

  “They seem to want to do me.”

  “You? Great balls of fire. You’ll be famous.”

  Richard gave him an old-fashioned look. “Some female named Donnelly. Seems she has an appointment for Thursday. Shit!”

  “Don’t you like females named Donnelly?” Julian asked, innocently.

  “I don’t like females named anything, right this minute,” Richard told him. “But Kiley says I have to see her. Says it’ll please JC. You seen these, Julian?”

  Julian got up to lean over his shoulder. “Water temperatures?”

  “All Mark can get us.”

  “Say, is it legal, for him to feed you all that data?”

  Richard grinned. “Maybe it isn’t. We were at school together, then college. Heck, we played on the same team. So we’re buddies.”

  “And so he keeps you one jump ahead of the other guys. Those look kind of high for May.”

  “They are, goddamned high for May. And look at the pattern. From mid-Atlantic right across into the Caribbean and then up into the Bahamas and the Gulf Stream. Twenty-fours and fives and sixes, and out there, twenty-seven. But see that one?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “That’s right. You know where that is?”

  “Tell me.”

  “That was taken at the Ambrose Lightship.” He pointed. “Not thirty miles east of New York Harbor.”

  “So it’s gonna be one hot summer.”

  “Yeah,” Richard said. “You know what sea temperature is needed to cause a hurricane?”

  “Nope.”

  “26° Centigrade. So there’s probably one spawning in mid-Atlantic right this minute.”

  “So what’s new? Tomorrow is the first of June: the official beginning of the hurricane season.”

  “Sure. We’ve had hurricanes on 1 June before,” Richard agreed. “But they have to have warm water, so that this time of year they fizzle when they get up here, or even off the Bahamas. But here we are, at the beginning of June, and there’s warm water everywhere. We could have 27° plus up here in another month if the weather holds as it is. That means the whole goddamned ocean is going to be hurricane-ripe by July.”

  “So the guys in Florida are going to be busy. Thank God it’s nothing to do with us.”

  “You reckon? What about Hurricane Gloria in 1985? Didn’t she just about knock on your door, up here?”

  “She was a freak,” Julian pointed out. “And she missed. Just.”

  “All hurricanes are freaks of nature, Julian,” Richard told him. “And they all hit somewhere, some time.”

  Julian frowned. “You really reckon a hurricane could hit New York? Christ, that’d be something.”

  “Yeah,” Richard said.
“Yeah, it could happen. Just let’s keep an eye on those water temperatures.”

  THURSDAY 1 JUNE

  Park Avenue — Morning

  Sunlight flooded the bedroom, and Jo yawned and stretched, smiling as she touched the sleeping form beside her. They had been out to dinner the previous night, and he would probably sleep for a while yet. They had had a lot of fun.

  She rolled out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair, and began to get the world moving. The apartment, thirty-eight floors up, was light and airy, with a plate-glass picture window in the lounge giving a panoramic view over the city and the East River. Jo had worked hard at her ambition to create a smart, modern home with a cozy, lived-in atmosphere; even the family room had style, despite the haphazard piles of yachting books and journals, children’s games and Nana’s bean-bag bed. Nana awoke as soon as her mistress came in, and for all her age and rheumatism there was a bout of energetic tail wagging before she grabbed Jo’s hand, gently, and led her into the kitchen to stand, significantly, before a certain cupboard.

  “You reckon it’s milk bone time, do you?” Jo laughed and took a bone-shaped biscuit from its box. Nana accepted it daintily, and carried it away to her beanbag.

  Florence had already arrived, and was making coffee, while Jo got the children out of bed, to wash their faces and get dressed for school. Florence Bennett had worked for Jo since Owen Michael’s appearance was imminent. From being a nurse full-time she had developed into a nanny-cum-housekeeper when the children started school. A large, red-faced woman of Scottish descent, married to a fishmonger named Bert, whom she loved dearly but who was half her size, she was a total treasure. Jo sometimes felt that Florence kept the entire junior Donnelly household sane.

  This morning, as usual, Florence would walk the children to school. Jo had ideas about sending them to boarding school when they were a little older — she even dreamed of Owen Michael going to an English public school — but it was a touchy subject at the moment, like so many.

  The children sat down to breakfast and she returned to her bedroom, to discover Michael sitting up and scratching his head. “Shit,” he remarked. “That’s exactly what I feel like. Must’ve been the olives.”