Just as Tom started to carve, the phone rang. This was such an ordinary occurrence in their lives that Faith didn't even get annoyed anymore. It was like ants at a picnic. You lived with it.
“I'll get that, honey. Please start.”
It was Dr. Hubbard. Faith wasn't sure what to say or ask, but he solved the problem for her by dominating the entire conversation.
“Sorry to bother you, but your husband was anxious for the results of the autopsy. Had to do it because of the soup, you know." He gave a brief laugh, although Faith failed to find anything funny about it. Perhaps if it hadn't been her particular bouillon .. .
“Anyway, tell Reverend Fairchild it was cardiac failure—Farley's ticker just as we thought, and we wouldn't have had any bother if he'd fallen backward, but Farley always did like to do things his way." Another laugh.
“You can have the funeral anytime you want now. Well, I'll let you go. Drop by and introduce yourself when you come tomorrow. We're enormously grateful for your help, and I hope we'll see both you and your husband at our little shindig on Wednesday.”
Faith thanked him and walked back to the table filled with relief and intense curiosity to meet the man behind the voice.
They were all tucking into their lamb and listening to Cyle expound on transubstantiation with varying degrees of lack of interest. Faith hastened to interrupt him with the news. Cyle took a bite of potato, carefully finished chewing, then commented, "It's so sad to see that generation going. We'll not see their like again, I fear.”
What did this boy read? Faith wondered. Frances Hodgson Burnett?
“I was especially fond of old Farley. He seemed to be in perfect health last week when I saw him." Cyle fixed Faith with a mildly accusatory eye. Had he heard about the bouillon?
“I didn't know you were acquainted with Mr. Bowditch," Tom said, his back up at "old Farley."
“I wasn't until he went to Hubbard House. The mater is one of their Pink Ladies—that's what they call the volunteers—and I've always made it a point to visit and help in any way I can.”
Tom had trouble hiding a grin. Faith had neglected to tell him about the Pink Ladies, and she knew he couldn't wait to tease her about her new moniker.
Cyle continued to address the air. "Yes, men like Farley are a vanishing breed.”
Which considering their ages is no surprise, Faith almost replied.
“Men who know the true meaning of service. Who are devoted to their brothers."
“And sisters?" Faith murmured. Pamela Albright's lips twitched.
“I happen to know we're in for a little windfall, Tom. Farley mentioned it to me—in confidence, but sadly that no longer applies," Cyle said fatuously. "And Hubbard House too, of course. Farley was devoted to Hubbard House.”
The Reverend Fairchild had had enough.
“Catch the Celtics Friday night, Allen?”
It was a pleasant lunch despite Cyle's presence, but they all breathed a collective sigh of relief when he announced he had to leave before coffee as he had an appointment.
“So sorry," Faith said crisply, and suggested to the others that they take their cups into the living room. If he had such an important appointment, why had he wheedled his way into dinner in the first place? Nowhere else to go? With a passing thought that quickly evaporated in the winter air as to what this appointment might be, Faith led the way through the door into the living room. Tom hastened to see Cyle out.
Allen sprawled comfortably on the couch. "Talkative young bastard, excuse the language," he commented as the front door closed. They all exploded in laughter.
“I have half a mind to put him in charge of the pageant. He has so many ideas about how it should be done correctly," Pamela said.
“At least get him sewing on the angels' robes," Faith advised. "So long as he's here, let him be useful.”
Allen stood up. "Come on, Tom, the classy hotel they're putting me up in gives me guest privileges at some health club. Let's go knock a few squash balls around. You can give yours whatever name you want and I have a few for mine. Then we can hit the steam room and our troubles will melt away." Allen was a lawyer, and according to Tom, he wasn't particularly pleased with the way the case he was working on in Boston was going.
“Sounds like heaven," Tom said. "Give me a minute to help Faith and I'm your man."
“I'll help too—it's the least I can do for such a delicious repast," Allen offered.
“No, go on—it sounds like exactly what thedoctor ordered, or would have, and I'm going to clean up in a leisurely way—there isn't that much to do."
“Are you sure, Faith? Otherwise I have to be going too," Pamela said.
“Oh, stay—not to clean up, but have another cup of coffee."
“I really can't. I shouldn't even have taken the time for lunch, but I can never resist one of your invitations.”
They left, and Faith reveled in the solitude of the house for almost fifteen minutes before Ben awoke and she took him to the playground. Life at two and a half was an endless round of pleasure.
She wanted to get out of the house too, she realized. She'd been spending every spare moment finishing the Christmas cards, and last night she and Tom had wrestled with the tree lights for an hour before even starting to trim the balsam fir Faith preferred for the smell that filled the room. A service that untangled the lines, replaced missing bulbs, and strung the lights on the tree so the wires didn't show would make a fortune. She was sure something like it must exist in New York: S.O.S. Tree Lite, or Baby Let Us Light Your Tree.
When Tom got home, he called Farley's niece, whom he had seen the day before, to talk about funeral arrangements. After a brief conversation, he told Faith, "The funeral is set for Tuesday. I suppose you'll be too busy at Hubbard House to come, but of course the Bowditches will understand."
“Come on, Tom. It's not like you to be devious. What did she say?"
“She didn't say anything, but you're right. I was being less than direct. Falling into one's soup as a last mortal act is slightly ludicrous, and it might be better if people were not reminded of it by your presence. Not that anyone in town thinks you had anything to do with it."
“Balderdash, with an emphasis on the first syllable. It's the bell all over again. When tales are told hundreds of years hence, the one about the minister's wife who desecrated a landmark and was a suspected poisoner is going to be a favorite to pass the time while traveling from planet to planet. I'm surprised Millicent hasn't called. But don't worry, darling. I hadn't planned on attending the funeral and I'm not mad at you for not wanting me there and not saying so, although I probably should be."
“No, you shouldn't, and if trying not to hurt your wife's feelings ..." Faith closed his mouth with a kiss. The conversation was going nowhere, and with Ben fast asleep, they were wasting precious time.
Millicent called as they were going upstairs—ostensibly to find out when the service would be. Tom answered the phone and decided not to give Faith a report of the conversation, which was all Faith had predicted and more. There was no question in Millicent's mind. If Farley had had a decent Yankee lunch of Welsh rarebit on toast, her own personal favorite, he'd be alive today.
* * *
The next morning Faith was back at Hubbard House. As she drove into the parking lot, she felt increasingly apprehensive about what Mrs. Pendergast would say. She pushed open the kitchen door slowly and peeked in. Mrs. P. turned around. There was no preamble.
“Now it wasn't your fault. What you need to do is forget about the whole thing and get busy with this fruit cup here.”
Faith walked across the room toward her.
“Of course," she continued, "can't say anybody ever dropped dead in my food.”
She could kiss any idea of further food preparation good-bye, Faith realized, and reluctantly let go of her lofty plans for a culinary revolution at Hubbard House.