“Incidentally, have you seen the dining room?" Sylvia laughed preparatory to making a joke. "It would be a bare cupboard without you!"
“No, I haven't seen it," Faith replied, and hoped Sylvia had time to give her a tour.
Sylvia did seem to have time, and showed Faith the elegant dining room with curved windows overlooking a garden and large deck. "During the summer months, we eat out on the deck that Doctor Hubbard added. It's almost like a resort!" Sylvia told her. There was also a small dining room off to the side for the residents to use for private parties and a good-sized library on the other side. They walked back through the living room.
“This was one of the few changes the Hubbards made. Originally part of it was the entrance hall." She gestured to the left and pointed back at the grand spiral staircase toward the rear of the room. "The wall between the hall and the Aldrich living room was removed to make a larger space." Faith commented that it was a beautiful room, and Sylvia agreed.
“You know the basement, and I understand you've also seen our nursing wing." Sylvia tactfully omitted any further comment. "This corridor connects the annex with the other house. Upstairs in this house is devoted to residents' apartments and rooms. So important to have one's own space and possessions, I think. I'd hate to end up with nothing except a locker and a bed. But Dr. Hubbard has assured me that there will always be a place for me here."
“And certainly you don't need to think about that for a long time," Faith assured her. Sylvia looked to be in her mid-fifties. She brightened at Faith's remark. "Thank you, my dear. But I'm not as young as all that.”
Maybe sixty, Faith amended to herself.
She went home after retrieving Ben from school and spent the rest of the afternoon cooking and cleaning. Tom was leading a study group on the Apocrypha and trudged in wearily at nine o'clock. He was ready for bed. The Holly Ball was beginning to look like not only an investigative outing but a welcome break in Faith's domestic routine. It was definitely time to get out of the house.
Wednesday Faith rushed through her chores at Hubbard House. She was trying a new hairdresser, not Denise's but one she had gotten from a perfect stranger whose cut she'd admired in the checkout line at the Star Market.
Just as Faith was leaving, a woman burst through the door and ran over to Mrs. Pendergast. "Mrs. P., you absolutely saved my life! Here, I brought you these." She thrust a slightly wilted centerpiece of roses and orchids into Mrs. Pendergast's hands. "It was from the table, and I thought you might be able to use these for lunch." She put a brown paper bag on the counter. "They're theleftover caviar canapés. It's my way of saying thanks.”
Mrs. Pendergast wasn't rushing to make any introductions, so Faith did the honors herself.
“Hello, I'm Faith Fairchild, a volunteer here."
“How sweet of you, I'm Charmaine Hubbard. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have a million things to do to get ready for tonight. Hope to see you there." And she was gone with one final wave from the door before exiting.
So this was Charmaine. Charmaine—a woman fighting an all-out battle against advancing years armed with turquoise Spandex and plenty of mousse. So far she hadn't been doing too badly. Very svelte, and a mane of glistening streaked hair. If there had been tucks, they were out of sight. She looked a little like Charo, or Farrah Fawcett when she had a mane of hair, and the faint southern accent, real or assumed, gave her a perennially youthful allure.
Faith knew better than to ask Mrs. Pendergast a direct question. But even Mrs. Pendergast, faithful unto death, couldn't stifle her annoyance. She was emptying the contents of the bag into the garbage disposal and muttering aloud, very aloud, "As if I'd serve leftover soggy fish egg canapés nobody wanted to eat in the first place to my ladies and gentlemen!" She looked over her shoulder at Faith with a slight grin. "Called me up in tears last night about seven o'clock. The fancy chef she'd hired to do her dinner party couldn't figure out how to turn on her oven, and she'd never done it either. I had to drop everything and go over. They were both in a tizzy. He was carrying on about his cream brewlays or some such thing and she was wailing that the guests were arriving. I guess they never heard of a match.”
Where was Donald while all this was going on? Faith wondered in passing, but this thought was quickly overshadowed by one of greater interest.
What would Charmaine wear to the ball?
Four
The Copley's rococo Oval Room, complete with cloud ceiling, had been partly transformed into a winter wonderland. The rosy-pink walls were decked with holly, and each round table sported a seasonal centerpiece. A nearsighted person taking off his or her glasses would have seen a warm blur of green, gold, silver, and white with flashes of red. Alberta balsams in large tubs were decorated with small twinkling white lights and scattered throughout the room. The balsams mixed pleasantly with the other scents emanating from the hors d'oeuvres buffet and the napes of female necks.
Faith had no trouble spotting Charmaine. She had obviously decided to combine the time of the year with the spirit of the place and looked like a Watteau shepherdess who had come across a bolt of cloth of gold and tinsel trim while keeping watch over her flock by night. Her gown started as a sparkling bustier and ended as layers of filmy white net. She wore a pair of enormous white satin leg-o'-mutton sleeves halfway down her arms and unaccountably carried a small silver basket containing one red rose. Long earrings of tiny silver bells dangled almost to her shoulders, and she was tinkling her way merrily across the dance floor greeting one and all. She had probably wanted to appear in the enormous scallop shell the Copley kept on hand for brides, Faith thought, but even tan, tawny Charmaine couldn't justify that at the Holly Ball.
“Are we going to try to find our table—it's number twenty-four—or do you want to stand here and check out what everybody's wearing a little longer?" Tom asked her.
“Let's find our table, then dance and check out what everybody's wearing.”
Faith herself had opted for a deceptively simple Isaac Mizrahi silk gabardine sheath. It was short, demurely covered her collarbones with a ruffle, then plunged almost to the waist in back. It was red, and she'd bought it for the holidays. She hadn't expected to get an opportunity to wear it around Aleford much, and it was another reason she was pleased about the ball.
They found their seats, and Faith could see from the place cards that they were indeed at Denise's table, but Denise herself was nowhere in sight. Itwould have been difficult to spot anyone other than Charmaine in the crowd. There were about four hundred people—volunteers, Hubbard House residents, and benefactors eating, drinking, chatting, and/or kicking up their pumps. The din was uproarious, and the proper Bostonians (and those from outlying suburbs) were having a grand old time. Sylvia Vale floated by swathed in scarlet tulle with an elaborate matching turban that might have led some observers to believe she either had read the invitation incorrectly and thought it was a costume ball or was part of the entertainment—Madame Glenda and her Magic Doves. Sylvia waved to Faith and mouthed "See you later" with her Cupid's-bow lips.
“And I thought I might not have fun," Tom commented. "First lead me to the goodies, then lead me to the band.”
They inched their way across the dance floor to the food. Faith cast a professional eye on the buffet. There was a nice assortment of hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, and waiters were constantly bringing more, so none of the trays had either a ravaged look or the forlorn lack of appeal a full tray presents when others are empty—leading to the inevitable question of why no one wanted to eat whatever was on it. (This tended to happen with the fish-paste cocktail sandwiches at certain local functions Faith had reluctantly attended.) They filled their plates, got some champagne, and sat down to watch the action from the pretty little gold bamboo chairs the Copley had thoughtfully placed along the sidelines.