“I know where that is,” Faith said, happy to have something more to do.
“Even if you don’t find anything, these guys have quality jewelry. You can pick up some things. But don’t pay what they ask. Maybe I should go with you. Or Tricia can. You’ve got
‘Kick me—I’m from the burbs’ written all over your face.”
Faith resented this. “You forget, I grew up in the Big Apple. Most Bostonians wouldn’t even get off the train in Grand Central for fear of being mugged.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re street-smart. Only, it was the apple, not the core.”
Faith couldn’t argue with that without revealing certain things in her past she’d sworn never to divulge, so she simply smiled enigmatically.
The gesture was lost on Scott, who was reaching for the last biscuit. He broke it in half and offered part to Faith. She heard echoes of the day’s earlier church service, “Take and eat this . . .” It was a vastly different kind of communion, but the gesture still felt ceremonial.
They sat in companionable silence for a while.
A spider had constructed an elaborate web between an elk’s antlers, and several dead flies were festooned there. Faith put her Coke down.
“What has our friend Stephanie been up to this week? Decided to change the date, go Hawaiian, what?” Scott and Tricia had never met any of the Bullocks, but they would be working at both the rehearsal dinner and reception. They reveled in the Stephanie stories, and whether there were any new ones had become the first question when they showed up for work.
“She dropped by on Thursday and proposed moving the rehearsal dinner from ‘Daddy’s’ to the Algonquin Club on Commonwealth Avenue in town. It wasn’t vintage Stephanie, not like lobster bisque being ‘too pink.’ Her heart wasn’t really in it. I think she’s running out of things. Niki sent her home to break in her bridal shoes.”
“They do that, you know. Tricia was wearing the damn things all over the apartment the week before we got married.” Tricia Phelan had informed Scott that she intended to get married only once and it was going to be “the whole nine yards,” not the elopement to the Cape that he’d envisioned.
If the Phelan nuptials had been nine yards, then the upcoming Bullock extravaganza would be nine hundred and ninety-nine.
“What do you think this is going to set ‘Daddy’ back?” Scott asked as he dug into a generous wedge of lemon meringue pie. He’d switched to coffee, and Faith followed suit. It never kept her awake.
“Niki and I sat down a couple of months ago when we had nothing better to do, or nothing we wanted to, and tried to figure it out. We know what we’re billing; it will be somewhere around thirty thousand dollars. Could go up to a million, though, now that we’re charging for changes.” Scott let out a low whistle. Faith smiled. “Hey, that’s nothing. In New York City, a caterer considers a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding midrange.
Twenty-five thousand gets you chicken and an old man with an accordion. Of course, the Bullocks don’t have to rent tents or a room, although I’m surprised Stephanie didn’t insist on flying everyone to Bavaria for a weekend at one of Mad Ludwig’s castles—you know, the Sleeping Beauty type. We are providing the tables and chairs, but not the tablecloths. Another savings, and so thoughtful of Courtney Bullock.”
“From everything I’ve heard, she seems to want to stick it to her ex every way she can.” Faith nodded. “She was so mad at one point when he refused to pay for the kind of roses she wanted for Stephanie’s bouquet—they grow in only one tiny village in Provence—that I thought the whole thing would be put on hold while she sued him for breach of fatherhood, or anything else she could fabricate to cover his ‘maniacal penury’—her words. She was also goading Stephanie to consider a wedding dress embroidered in gold-bullion thread!”
Scott was slowly shaking his head back and forth. “It’s hard to imagine people having that kind of money. They’ll end up dropping more on this wedding than we’ll spend on a house some-day.”
“Easily. We haven’t even mentioned clothes, hair, makeup. Then there’s the band, and photographer, limos, and invitations. Binky’s had to cough up for the rings and his expenses. I doubt his morning coat will be rented.”
“And Julian Bullock has this much dough?”
“Apparently. Courtney has her own nest egg, too, I believe. She was amused, not angry, because Julian wouldn’t pay for her mother-of-the-bride dress. ‘Just like old times,’ Stephanie told us she’d said.”
Scott stood up and stretched. “I’ve got to get going. Work tomorrow. I guess I’d better start saving for the ladder I’m going to give any daughter we might have.”
“As if Tricia would ever let you get away with that,” Faith teased.
“You may be right, but Tricia knows what makes sense and what doesn’t. Spending hundreds of thousands of dollars for something that’s over in a few hours is nuts.”
They walked out into the parking lot together.
It was dark, and Faith realized that she hadn’t been paying attention to the time. The small windows at the Willow Tree didn’t let in much light and, in any case, time didn’t pass so much as crawl once you were inside. The baseball game was long over. She had no idea who had won.
“Well, good night—and thanks, Scott.” “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Yes, you have. I know a whole lot more than I did two hours ago.”
“Me too.” She could see his broad grin in the warm darkness. Damn, he was good-looking.
She was halfway to her car when she heard him call. She waited for him to come closer.
“Faith.” He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Faith, you’ve got to let this go. Get on with your life. Tom, the kids. Believe me, you could make yourself crazy, and it will all be for nothing in the end. Let it go.” He dropped his hands and disappeared into the night.
Faith had automatically walked up the back stoop before stopping herself and turning toward the front door. The hall light was on, but the rest of the downstairs was dark. She took her shoes off and crept up the stairs and into the bedroom, feeling like a teenager who has broken curfew.
The light on Tom’s side of the bed went on the moment she crossed the threshold, flooding the room. She froze.
“Tom, I . . .”
He patted the bed. “Why don’t you come over here and tell me what’s going on?”
She dropped her shoes and padded over to sit on the bed, leaning against him. It was tempting to turn the light off and simply spend the whole night this way. She felt her eyes close.
“I met Scott over at the Willow Tree. I thought he might have some ideas. Not that he’d ever be involved in anything like these break-ins, but he might know someone who might know someone.
That kind of thing.”
“And did he?”
“No, but I learned a lot about different kinds of robberies. He told me some pawnshops in Boston I could try and—”
“Okay, but what’s going on, Faith? What’s going on with you? Where are you?”
She knew what her husband was talking about.
These were questions she’d been asking herself.
“I feel . . . it’s hard to describe. I feel very alone, very empty. Every day I wake up and do all the things I’m supposed to do and tell myself how lucky I am to have my life, yet nothing seems real.
Sometimes people’s voices seem to be coming from far away or I’ll drive to work and not remember getting in the car, and the trip is over. It’s been like this since I found Sarah, found her tied up like that.”
Tom pulled the covers off and drew his wife close to him. She stretched out and let her head fall onto his shoulder.
“The only times I feel like me are when I’m out there doing something about all this, but then later it seems like a waste of time.” She’d dropped off a copy of the results of Friday’s meeting, neatly typed up by Pix, at the police station on Saturday afternoon, before they’d headed north. Charley hadn’t
turned any cart-wheels, even after she’d pointed out the similarity in the days and some of their other conclusions.
That night, sleepless as usual, she’d been forced to face the fact that they really hadn’t come up with anything significant.
“Is there some way you could let it go?” Tom asked. “Something I could do to help you get there?” Déjà vu all over again, and what were the odds of having two extremely attractive men offer virtually identical advice within the space of one hour?
“I wish there was. Getting another adjuster will help. And things are busy next week. I doubt I’ll have time to think of anything except radish roses and crystallized violets.”
“Do you want to talk to someone about it all?
Maybe get something to help you sleep?” Faith knew it was the sensible thing to do, but it seemed like an enormous effort at the moment.
“There are other cures for insomnia, darling.”
“Imagine that somebody stole your little electronic organizer or your Filofax—or both.” Faith could hear her sister’s sharp intake of breath over the several hundred miles of telephone wire that separated them. Hope had called Tuesday morning to offer the same advice Faith seemed to be getting from every quarter: Let it go.
“When you put it like that—”
“Exactly,” Faith interrupted. “You’d be doing the same things I’m doing.”
“And the police don’t have any leads?”
“If they do, they aren’t sharing them with us, and I very much doubt they do. The town is filled with rumors. Someone saw a man with a duffel bag in a backyard up on Hastings Hill Saturday night and called the police. The man, if he existed, either disappeared—rumor number one—or gave the police a phony address, which they didn’t realize was wrong until they got back to the station and checked a telephone book—rumor number two.”
“The whole thing makes me absolutely sick, Fay.” Hope was happily the only one who ever used this nickname, and for most of her life Faith had been trying to think of a way to tell her sister how much she disliked it. “How are the kids? Not to change the subject.”
“I’m glad to. You’re not the only one who thinks I’m obsessed. The kids are fine. Amy is right on schedule, chugging along toward two.
She gets these sudden fits of wanting something and wanting it now. Ben watches in fascination, and I don’t dare let her get away with anything. It would be the thin end of the wedge for both of them.”
“But that little face! How can you say no?” Hope and Quentin had made it clear that children, unless they came packaged and with a guarantee, would not be forcing them to face down their co-op board for many a moon, if ever.
So she could say silly things like this. Faith didn’t bother to respond.
“I have to go. There’s a show house over in Byford that Marian wants to see and I’m going with her. You were terrific to call. Love you.” The two sisters hung up, each relieved that they weren’t in the other’s shoes. Hope’s Bruno Maglis were ter-rifyingly corporate, as far as Faith was concerned, and her clothes were so boring—a row of dark suits in the closet.
She pulled on an Armani black linen skirt, tucking in a Dana Buchman ivory silk blouse with full sleeves, tight at the cuffs. It had tiny covered buttons, like those on old-fashioned bridal gowns.
Stephanie Bullock had firmly rejected white tulle and lace. She and Courtney had both headed for Vera Wang in New York almost before Binky could struggle up from his knees. Faith had seen Stephanie’s dress and it was gorgeous. What Faith would have selected herself had she not worn her mother’s dress. Courtney’s dress had been described as a column of pearl gray silk, pleated like Fortuny silk—no mauve lace or turquoise chiffon for this mother of the bride. The woman had certainly kept her figure. Hats had been in, then out so many times that Faith wasn’t sure what the Bullock women or attendants would have on their heads come the wedding day.
She was about to get the silver necklace she usually wore with this outfit, a curve of sterling made by the craftsman Ronald Hayes Pearson, when she reminded herself that it was gone. Dis-paru. This happened more times than she would have thought possible. She’d reach for a piece of jewelry, only to come up against the same old wall. She didn’t have any. To speak of, that is. She clasped the gold chain they had bought at the pawnshop in Lowell around her neck. It was very pretty and similar to the one stolen, but it didn’t feel like hers. Not yet anyway. For an instant, she felt a tiny prickling sensation around her neck.
Whose was it? The pins and needles went away as she reminded herself of what Tom had said when they bought it: “It’s here. It’s for sale and you’ll give it a good home. And I mean that literally. Nobody has a more beautiful, exquisitely kissable neck than my wife.” He’d whispered the latter part in what was supposed to be a sexy voice, but given that it was Tom, it sounded more like an Eagle Scout swearing allegiance. He came close to sensual when he adopted a French accent, but this had also been known to cause the object of his desire to burst into gales of laughter.
Faith leaned over and brushed her hair, then stood up and let it fall into place. Well-meaning friends had burbled on about what fun it would be to buy new things once the insurance money came through. She felt immensely sorry for herself. They had no idea what they were talking about. The next person to say something like that was going to get a smack. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Maybe it would be Millicent.
Tom had agreed to pick the kids up and give them lunch so the two women in his life could have this time together. Faith liked her mother-in-law—especially once they’d ironed out the question of what Faith should call her. Mother Fairchild, Marian’s suggestion, had been too reminiscent of a convent, and Faith did not consider herself a novice. The use of Mrs. Fairchild took them through most of the engagement, but then Tom’s Dad had stepped in and announced that it would be Marian and Dick. Much better than all the pussyfooting around he’d observed Faith doing, he’d said, and infinitely preferable to
“Hey, you.” Ben called them Granny and Gramps, which was what they most cared about at this point.
She grabbed her bag. Marian would be here any minute and she wasn’t a woman you kept waiting, particularly when there was a show house in the vicinity.
Some got their kicks from champagne; Marian Fairchild got hers from viewing the latest trends in balloon shades and the newest staple- and glue-gun tricks. She was unabashed about her passion for seeing other people’s houses—after all, what better pastime for a realtor’s wife? The South Shore was filled with Fairchild enterprises—Fairchild’s Ford, Uncle Bob in Duxbury; Fairchild’s Market, like Fairchild’s Real Estate, also in Norwell and originally owned by Tom’s grandparents. There were no Fairchilds associ-ated with the market now, but the name would go on forever. Any change would elicit an outpouring of wrath and sharp decline in custom on the part of the people who had “always” shopped there.
“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home?”
Faith flew down the stairs, glad she’d left the front door open. Marian was in the dining room, staring at the sideboard in shock.
“I know you said they took the drawer, but I suppose I didn’t believe it until now.” She put her arms around Faith.
Marian Fairchild was in her late fifties and wore outfits that varied only in regard to the fibers—wool or cotton, depending on the season.
The cardigan sweaters with grosgrain ribbon matched the A-line or pleated skirts. Today, her round-collared blouse was a bright Liberty print.
She carried one of those wooden-handled pocket-books that had coverings like slipcovers. They buttoned on and off. The tartans of winter had given way to a bright pink linen that picked up the colors of her blouse. Her sweater and skirt were pale green. Her headband matched. Tall, like all the Fairchilds, Marian had great posture and was very fit. Her hair was thick and so white, she looked like the peroxide blonde she never was. Her bright pink Coty lipstick always appeared slightly smudged, bleeding into the tiny wrink
les around her lips—and except for some laugh lines, the only wrinkles Faith had detected.
“We’ll take my car. It’s out front. Lunch first, then the house—or the other way around?”
“Either way is fine with me.”
“Then let’s eat. I was up early and I’m famished.”
The closest thing to a tearoom—which was what Faith thought of as a mother-in-law type of place for lunch, especially her mother-in-law—was in Byford itself, not far from the show house.
Over three kinds of finger sandwiches—cream cheese on date and nut bread, curried chicken salad on buckwheat walnut, and cucumber on white—and the inevitable garden salads, the two women covered everything from the robbery to what to do about Amy’s new habit of getting out of her crib several times a night: “Put her back.” Marian’s sympathy was balm to Faith’s soul; the only fly in the ointment being the elder Mrs. Fairchild’s disconcerting habit of suddenly asking, “Did they get the mother-of-pearl fish-serving pieces the Conklins gave you as a wedding present?” or “Is Great-Aunt Phoebe’s cameo ring gone? You know, the shell cameo with the head of Plato that had her name inscribed inside?” Each time, feeling masses of guilt wash over her, Faith had to say, “Yes, it’s gone. Everything’s gone. Everything.”
When they’d finished their strawberries and clotted cream, Marian summoned the waitress, who bore a striking resemblance to one of the ones at the Willow Tree, asked for the check, and announced to Faith, “Lunch is on me, dear. You need a little treat after what you’ve been through.
No, I won’t hear of it.” She put up her hand in an imperious gesture, reminding Faith of Tom’s description: “Mom was the tough one. We could never get around her. She’d do this thing with her hand like a traffic cop, and if you knew what was good for you, you just shut up and obeyed.” Faith did.
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