“Meanwhile, be sure water and wineglasses are full and that there’s plenty of bread. We’re running low on the buckwheat walnut rolls, but there are plenty of the sourdough ones and Parmesan bread sticks. Josie, when you clean the guest of honor’s table, remove the extra place setting.” It would look a little tacky, and very obvious, to do it now. Maybe it wasn’t for Emma.
Maybe there was another no-show.
The staff scattered and Faith looked around the kitchen. Jessica was doing the salads. Almost everyone had ordered the Waldorf ones. The desserts were ready as well, and the fish mousse, the main course, was keeping warm, awaiting the shrimp sauce. She had a few minutes. Coming in, she’d noticed a pay phone by the rest rooms. And now, grabbing some change from her purse, she went to call Emma.
Just as she was punching in the number, Michael Stanstead emerged from the men’s room. His hair was glistening ever so slightly with water from his comb. He really was extremely attractive. Photogenic.
Telegenic.
“Faith! I might have known. That soup was superb! Finocchio? ” He kissed her on the cheek. Apparently, they had reached that stage.
She nodded. It was nice to be appreciated. “It’s not an Italian recipe, so I simply call it fennel soup.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing simple about the stock—
or the rest of it. Emma and I spent a week in Tuscany taking cooking lessons last fall. I didn’t even know what finocchio, or fennel, was. Now I’ve become famous for my tagliatelle alla bolognese. Actually, I’ve only made it once since, but I do know how. And I’ve enlarged my food vocabulary enormously.” Faith was having trouble picturing Emma in a cucina of any kind, even one in the luxurious castello where this was sure to have been located—a program complete with side trips to vineyards, more extraordinary houses, and the odd Giotto or Piero della Francesca that happened to be tucked away nearby at the dear contessa’s little house—one with a moat.
As if reading her mind, Michael said, “Emma spent most of the week sunbathing in the courtyard.” A frown crossed his face. “She hasn’t been all that well, you know. She was supposed to be here today, but I insisted she stay in bed.”
“What do you think is wrong?” Faith wanted to hear his version, especially after watching from afar last night. It wasn’t likely that he would mention his wife was being blackmailed—even to her old school chum—but he might say something about trying to get pregnant.
He did. “She’s been getting despondent over the whole baby thing. I’ve told her, the doctor’s told her, not to worry so much. It’ll happen. But she’s going back for a full work-up of all systems after Christmas.
Could be merely not enough iron or whatever. Could be something else.”
It was something else.
“Duty calls. For both of us, I imagine. Can’t wait to see what’s for dessert? Zabaglione? Biscotti? What are you going to give us?”
“Think a little farther to the west. Be surprised,” Faith said in a slightly teasing voice. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s seasonal.”
Michael laughed. “Just so long as it’s not fruitcake.” Faith shuddered. The mere thought.
The moment he was gone, she dialed again. She’d been reassured, but she still wanted to talk to Emma.
“Oh, Faith, I just left a message on both your machines. I should have listened to you ages ago! I have the best husband in the world!”
“I just talked to him. I’m catering the luncheon he’s attending. He said he told you to stay in bed.” Emma hadn’t seen her the night before, and Faith decided to let her friend have the pleasure of telling all—or all that was applicable.
“I didn’t even wait until after dinner to tell him, just blurted it all out right away. Michael couldn’t have been more understanding, and he was upset that I hadn’t told him sooner. Hadn’t told him about the miscarriage especially. I know I’m going to get pregnant now. He said that psychologically this had probably been what’s kept me from it so far. That somehow I didn’t want to go through it all again—I mean that deep inside I was afraid something would happen again and I’d lose the baby.”
There was something to that, Faith thought. “I’m glad it worked out. I felt sure it would. What did he say about”—a woman teetering unsteadily on her high-heeled Charles Jourdans, even though it was only noon, was making her way to the ladies’ room—“about the rest of it, you know.” No matter how tipsy the woman might be, the word blackmail would be a splash of cold water, and in New York, the six degrees of separation were reduced to about one in this circle.
“He was a lamb about that, too. He couldn’t believe what I’ve been going through. He was teary when I told him about the baby—right there at the Post House—but he was really angry about the blackmail.
He’s going to put a stop to it immediately. I should have realized it would all be fine. Michael knows the police commissioner very well and he’s going to get in touch with him. He’s having something done to the phone right away so the calls can be traced. And he wanted the blackmail notes to take to the police, but of course I’d thrown them all away, since I didn’t want him to find them.”
Faith felt an enormous sense of relief. Somebody else could be in charge now. She didn’t have to shoulder the responsibility for Emma’s well-being single-handedly anymore. At the same time, she felt a bit let down. She had convinced her friend to do the sensible thing. But she hadn’t figured anything out. Of course, the most important thing was that Emma was safe and sound—and would continue to be.
“Since he knows the commissioner, don’t you think you can tell him everything?”
Emma had sounded giddy before; she sobered up immediately. “Maybe in a little while. Not right now.
Things are too perfect. Maybe when we’re away. And Faith?”
“Yes?” What was coming next? With Emma, it could be anything from another revelation, like she’d set up a trust fund for the blackmailers so they absolutely wouldn’t bother her again, to a surefire tip to prevent cap hair in the wintertime.
“I told Michael I hadn’t told anyone else, because I thought he might be hurt that I’d confided in a friend first and not in him. I’m sure he would understand I was trying to protect him, but it just seemed better to make him feel that he was the only one. Kind of an ego thing.”
Faith understood completely. She pictured the scene last night—champagne and roses, figuratively, although she wouldn’t be surprised if there were a dozen long-stemmed American Beauties in a crystal vase next to Emma right now. The setting wouldn’t have lent itself to the revelation that one’s spouse had been second in line.
“Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve; then we fly out the next night straight to the Caribbean. I’d forgotten what being happy feels like, Faith. And I owe it all to you.”
“And Michael,” Faith added.
“And Michael.” Emma agreed.
“I’ve got to run. There’s a large roomful of people waiting for food.”
“Will I see you before we leave?”
“Today is crazy, and tomorrow we have a brunch that suddenly came up. I think it was Henri, your caterer again, who, by the way, had had multiple warn-ings from the Department of Health. You don’t even want to know what they found in his kitchen! Then I’m making supper for the family before church, but maybe I can stop on my way over there. I’ll call you.”
“That would be great. And if not, Merry Christmas, Faith.”
“Merry Christmas, Emma.”
Faith couldn’t decide whether or not to invite Richard for Christmas Eve dinner. As she worked back at her own kitchen after the luncheon, she kept returning to the thought. It made a statement. Bringing a man home to meet her parents for the Good Sibley Stamp of Approval was not something she’d done before. Her parents had known some of her dates when she’d been a teenager, and the biggest thing in the holiday season hadn’t been what Santa would bring, but who would take you to the Gold and Silver Ball—a benefit for the Youth Counseling League. She remembered doubling with Emma, who had also been home for the holidays during their freshman year at college—the last year they’d been eligible to attend. They had looked at the tenth graders, the youngest attending, and marveled that they had ever been that young. They’d also marveled at how very sophisticated a few of those young New Yorkers had looked—pretty babies with Mom’s makeup and Dad’s charge cards.