“And of course Sylvia Vale, my administrative assistant, who was there when we opened our doors." Sylvia rose and bowed regally.
“John McGuire, the chairman of our board of trustees, who keeps me honest." A genial, portly man with a fringe of silver hair stood amidst the laughter.
“And finally, two ladies—the pillars of the temple, so to speak—Leandra Rhodes, current president of our Residents' Council, and Bootsie Brennan, the head of our Ladies' Auxiliary—the Pinkest Lady of them all.”
So this was the noxious Cyle's mother—a diminutive creature in rose velvet. Either it was Nice 'n Easy or Cyle hadn't produced any gray hairs in her shining gold locks, which Faith sincerely doubted. Small women like Bootsie, probably weighing all of a hundred pounds, were often heavyweights in other arenas, Faith had learned, and she didn't doubt that Bootsie—and what was that a nickname for?—could take anybody in the room.
Leandra Rhodes—she remembered Denise had mentioned her. She was tall and stately, with a braided crown of gray tresses. No touching up for her. She wore an ancient, slightly rusty-looking turquoise taffeta-and-velvet gown that had seen a great deal of service—most likely first purchased for Waltz Evenings at this very hotel. Her white kid gloves—so difficult to get cleaned nowadays and looking pearly gray even from a distance—came up over her elbows. Faith was not fooled for an instant by the genteel shabbiness. Leandra was a classic Boston lady, a low heeler, with plenty of Adamses, Higginsons, and Shaws gracing the family boughs, just as there were also the fruits of her ancestors' labors stored away in the State Street Bank. She looked like a woman who knew exactly what she—and everyone else—should do.
“And now, please eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves, though as your doctor I am bound to warn you—not too much.”
He sat down and the applause continued. Donald stood up and raised his glass. "To my father, the memory of my mother, and to Hubbard House," he said.
Someone cried, "Hear, hear," and everyone drank a toast.
Dr. Hubbard rose again and held his glass up. "The evening would not be complete without a toast to absent friends. Let us stand and remember.”
The man was a consummate artist. Faith felt a lump in her throat. If Dr. Hubbard was as good at medicine as he was at public speaking, she thought they ought to beg him to' take them on as patients.
Tom echoed her thoughts. "Quite a guy. Think what a different life most elderly people would have if there were more dedicated people like Roland Hubbard.”
Two people whom the Fairchilds had not yet met smiled across the table. "He isn't a plaster saint; he's as genuinely caring as he seems," the woman said.
Denise came out of the reverie she'd been in since they'd sat down, and evidently recalled her duties as hostess. "Please let me introduce all of you. This is Julia Cabot"—she motioned toward the woman who had just spoken—"and her husband, Ellery, Hubbard House residents. Then my dear neighbors, Joan and Bill Winter, and the Reverend Thomas Fairchild and my new best friend, Faith Fairchild. Joel was supposed to escort me, but tickets to some revolting rock concert proved more interesting. I can't imagine why.”
Everyone laughed and began to tell stories about their children. Faith felt a cold sweat starting as it did every time she contemplated the thought of Benjamin the teenager. It didn't matter that the Miller teenagers next door had always seemed at least somewhat reasonable and Pix averred it was not just in public. But hormones run amok could produce any number of catastrophes. Though even if they were disagreeing, at least they'd be able to have a conversation, something rather difficult at present. It was a vaguely comforting thought.
Tom and Faith danced some more and the evening meandered along pleasantly. Faith told Tom he ought to dance with Bootsie and tell her what he thought of her son. He replied that one cross to bear was enough, and in any case he made it a rule never to dance with women named Bootsie.
Denise's table proved to be an agreeable mix of people. Those who were dancing switched partners easily. Julia Cabot, in particular, was a superb dancer and thanked Tom so heartily at the end of her spin that he immediately engaged her for another. Her husband looked up at her affectionately "Poor Julia doesn't get much dancing out of me anymore, I'm afraid. A problem with these May/December romances." Julia kissed him and told him to stop talking nonsense, then waltzed gracefully away. She was an attractive woman with light-brown hair piled up on her head and dressed in a long, full-skirted emerald-green satin gown. Ellery addressed the rest of the table—quite proudly, Faith noted. "I'm eighty-two and I'm not supposed to say how old Julia is, but let's just say I was doing my darndest to make the freshman crew team at Harvard when she was born.”
With Tom busy dancing and the others chatting away, Faith thought she would take the opportunity to work the room a little in the hopes of picking up some information. Now that she knew who they all were, she'd go directly to the Hubbard table and see how they were doing. She wandered over to where the family was sitting. Dr. Hubbard was dancing with Sylvia Vale, and they swept energetically by in a near imitation of Arthur and Katherine Murray. As Faith approached, she was greeted warmly by Muriel, who was sitting with her brother and Charmaine.
“Mrs. Fairchild! How splendid that you could come. Do sit down and meet my brother and his wife." Was it Faith's imagination or were the words "and his wife" in a lower register?
“Mrs. Fairchild and I have already met, thank you Muriel. She's working in the kitchen," Charmaine told her husband, making Faith feel not unlike Cinderella at the ball.
Donald took Faith's hand in both of his. It must be a family trademark, she thought. He was actually quite attractive, with a slight cleft in his chin that his father didn't have. It made his face very much his own. He dropped her hand gently. "My father mentioned that you were so kind as to pitch in during our flu epidemic, and we're very grateful. I'm sure this is a busy time for you and the Reverend."
“I'm glad I could do it," Faith said, then wondered what to say next—something like "We're all friends here. How about telling me what's really going on at Hubbard House?”
Charmaine reached under the table and pulled out a purse that would have proved ample for a polar expedition and prepared to redo her face. She caught Muriel's disapproving glance and said, "If you'll excuse me," and left.
A few yards from the table she stopped to talk to Denise's earlier dancing partner. She was toss- ing her hair around and he had one arm casually flung around her waist. Faith looked back at Donald and Muriel. She was not surprised to see a look of deep disgust on Muriel's face, but she was stunned by the look of intense anger that had transformed Donald's kindly expression. He looked as though he wanted to kill someone.
Charmaine and whoever it was broke apart, and the man continued on toward the table.
“Good evening, Muriel, Donald, and I don't believe I know this beautiful lady," he said.
It was clear Donald wasn't going to make any introductions, although a mask of indifference had replaced the one of hatred. Muriel, ever mindful of her manners, did.
“Faith Fairchild, Edsel Russell. Mr. Russell is in charge of the buildings and grounds at Hubbard House." Then she added, "Mrs."—and this time there was no doubt about the emphasis on the word—"Mrs. Fairchild is a volunteer.”
Edsel Russell gave something between a nod and small bow toward Faith. "Please call me Eddie. Everybody does. My mother, God rest her soul, thought Edsel was classy, but then she had never seen the car.”
Faith laughed. "Well, I hear they are becoming highly collectible. I suppose it's another example of if you wait long enough, whatever you're holding on to will come back in fashion." This was not one of her maxims but Tom's, and in his case it was more like continual use, rather than stockpiling, say, one's old Diors until hems went up or down again.