“I’m leaving the day after Christmas to finish the book. I’ve cleared my desk of all but the Stanstead profile, so I’ll be gone a month or two, maybe three. I will be back whenever he announces, and we can grab some time then, but for all intents and purposes—and I mean this most regettably—I’ll be gone until spring.”
“Oh,” said Faith. She was not a fan of long-distance romances, especially one that was just getting off the ground, no matter how many stories up they were.
She’d never been one to carry a torch—perhaps because there had never been anyone who had caused one to burn brightly enough. Why hadn’t Richard told her this before? He must have known last night. Clearing his desk meant forethought. But not a thought for her. She looked into his eyes. Yes, there was a little guilt there, embarrassment. Don’t worry, she wanted to tell him. I’m not going to make a scene. I’m not going to try to tie you down.
“Oh,” she said, “that’s wonderful. The sooner you finish the book, the sooner it will hit the best-seller list.”
“I knew you’d understand. Merry Christmas,” he’d said, clinking her glass with his.
He’d taken her home in a cab. She had pleaded fatigue and the brunch the next morning to do. As she’d gotten out, he’d handed her her bag. “What do you carry in this thing? Rocks?”
“Yes,” she’d said, smiled, and waved good-bye.
“That’s it. See you tomorrow. You sure your mother’s oven is big enough for the turkey? I’d be happy to do it here and bring it over,” Josie offered. The brunch was a great success, especially the Big Apple pancakes [see the recipe on page 282], and they’d cleaned up quickly together.
“I’m sure, although all she ever uses it for is to broil a nice piece of fish or, alternately, a nice boneless chicken breast. That’s what they eat—with a little salad or a few vegetables, depending on the time of year.”
“This does not sound like the kind of clergy I know.
Being God’s Go-Between is strenuous work, and they need more than a shriveled-up dry piece of chicken to do it. You bring your daddy over to Josie’s when I open and I’ll give him a real chicken breast—soaked in buttermilk, coated with my special seasoned flour, and deep-fried, with a crust as light as an angel’s wing.”
“It’s obvious you’re going home soon. Your accent is getting deeper and deeper and you’re starting to talk like someone out of a Zora Neale Hurston short story.” Josie laughed. “Nothing wrong with that. Anyway, you need cheering up.” Faith had given her an abbrevi-ated version of the last two dates with Richard. “I think it is positively wicked to dump someone at the holidays. The man has no class whatsoever,” Josie added, fuming.
“I don’t think I was being dumped. More like put on hold.”
“Same thing.”
“Same thing,” Faith agreed glumly. This was a new experience for her. She had never been the dumpee—and she didn’t intend to let it happen again, no matter how many verses the man could sing, or how well. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Emma’s problems, she might have paid more attention to the signs Richard had been giving her. They’d been there.
“I’m leaving, ladies. Merry Christmas to you both.” It was Howard. He’d delivered all the surplus food to an agency that fed the homeless. “I’d hate to be on the streets tonight. It is colder than a witch’s—toe. And with that, I’m off to start trolling my Yuletide treasure, or maybe it’s Yuletide carol. Whichever, I’ll be doing it.” What little family Howard had lived in California, but he’d often remarked to Faith that you could make your own families—and he had. The same group had been celebrating all the holidays, plus times in between, for years now.
Faith handed him a brightly wrapped present. “Put it under your tree.”
“Thank you, love. Yours is in your big pocketbook.
I hid it there. Open it whenever you like. Check yours out, too, Miss Josephina.”
Faith had gotten him a camel-colored cashmere muffler at Barneys. Howard was not above brand names.
“You’ll have to wait for yours until tomorrow,” Faith told Josie. “It’s not wrapped.” Nor were any of the other presents she’d gotten for friends and family. She was so used to doing this chore in the wee hours of Christmas morning, after the Christmas Eve service, that it had come to seem part of the day, a tradition.
Wrap presents, fall asleep. Wake up, open them.
“You sure you’re okay here? This thing with Richard hasn’t bummed you out too much?”
“I’m leaving soon to go across town to my parents.
And no, the thing with Richard hasn’t gotten to me, and I think it would have by now if it was going to—that’s a mouthful, but you know what I mean.” Faith was surprised. She really wasn’t that upset. Maybe the cookbook had some good cookie recipes. She needed new ones. They often served cookies and fruit. Maybe fruit cookies? A Big Apple cookie [see the recipe on page 284]—a cookie with an attitude?
“I know what you mean—and count yourself lucky.
You didn’t go spending a fortune on some Christmas present for him. I did that once—beautiful gold-filled pocket watch. I was fool enough to give him his first.
All I got was a black lace garter belt, and you know who that was a present for. Picked his pocket next date—last date, too.”
When Josie had gone, the kitchen felt unusually empty. Faith had taken down the posters and charts she’d put up on the walls when Have Faith moved in.
She allowed herself a nostalgic moment. The new place was bigger, brighter, yet this had been her first place, and it would always be the most special.
She packed the equipment she needed to cook tonight and tomorrow into a large zippered bag. The only thing she couldn’t find was her strainer. She had two of them. They were essential for sauces—metal and shaped like a dunce’s cap, not mesh, but solid.
They had wooden pestles to push the food against the small holes. Josie must have packed them. Then Faith flashed on the party at the Stansteads’. Hope in the kitchen, fooling around with the equipment; Faith taking the strainer and pestle out of her sister’s hands, shoving it out of the way on the counter. The Stansteads’ apartment was close to her parents. She could stop by for it, say Merry Christmas—and return all of Emma’s keys, too, very discreetly if Michael was home. She went to the phone and called. No answer, which was what she’d half-expected. They’d be at the Morrises’ or the Stansteads’, dividing their holiday time.
She sat down again, feeling ever so slightly triste.
Christmas Eve. It would have been nice to have had somebody. She thought of all the couples she knew—happy and unhappy. Hope was bringing Phelps, which left Faith paired with her grandmother. They’d had an uproarious lunch at a much-denuded Altman’s, where Mrs. Lennox had regaled her granddaughters with tan-talizing tidbits of past scandals—most of the chief figures long gone—interspersed with department-store remembrances of things past: percale sheets like silk, the divine hats, and the only china department with all her patterns. Definitely Granny was a great dinner partner, yet the holidays were one of those arklike times, when you felt a bit peculiar if you were a female zebra, say, without a matching male striped creature at your side.
If there was still no one home at the Stansteads’, she’d stop anyway and get the strainer. The only thing resembling one at her parents’ was an ancient colander, and it would never do to strain the shrimp sauce for the fish mousse. She’d saved some of the mousse from the luncheon the day before, but you had to make the sauce up fresh.
No more sighing. No more looking back, she told herself. She had a terrific business and there were a dozen men out there in Gotham who would be more than happy to dance attendance—or more. And there was always that one she hadn’t met yet. It wasn’t Richard. Even before last night, she’d known that. But he existed. It was simply a question of time.