The Body in the Boudoir (2 page)

The next day she enrolled in Peter Krump's New York Cooking School and talked her way into an unpaid apprenticeship at one of the city's top catering firms. Whether they were swayed by her interest or the fact that they thought she could use her influence to get them jobs didn't matter. She was in.

When she mentioned vaguely to her family that she was taking some career courses, they didn't seem to notice that she was coming home dead tired and with the occasional smudge of flour on her face. It was enough that their darling daughter was doing something.

Jane Sibley had always had a housekeeper who dropped off the evening meal or stayed to cook it. And Faith had always enjoyed being in the kitchen with these women, some happier to have her underfoot than others. Over the summer, and even more during the fall, Faith had realized that the one thing she liked to do—that could translate into a respectable career, that is—was cook. The brownie recipe with dried cherries she'd invented when she was thirteen had given way to other desserts and then meals, although her mother warned her not to get in the latest hire's way: “Good help is hard to find these days.”

So Faith had decided to be the help, and after she finished her studies, went to her parents with her business plan, informing them that she was using some money her grandparents had set up for their granddaughters in a trust as capital. They were taken aback at first, advising that she work for another firm to start, but Faith had quickly realized that the jobs she'd been getting for the company where she apprenticed could just as easily be hers. And she was right. Have Faith became a success in a New York minute, people she knew—and didn't know—recognizing the cachet in having Faith Sibley not solely as a gorgeous guest but preparing gorgeous food. And here she was at Riverside, the caterer, about to serve two newlyweds their first married meal, which she hoped would launch them into a life of connubial and culinary bliss ever after.

She glanced around the Ninth Floor Lounge (surely they could have come up with a more inspired name?) once more, her eyes searching for missing place settings, an unfolded napkin. Across the river, New Jersey was disappearing into the dusk, and many floors below, the couple, according to her schedule, should be saying their I dos.

Faith had met someone in December and for a few moments, maybe for more than a few, had entertained the idea of plighting her troth forever and ever before he'd casually mentioned he would be out of town for the next year or so working on a book. She still wasn't sure whether she'd been dumped, and if she had it would have been a first as the dumpee. Not pleasant. She'd resolved never to get in that position again. Now, less than a month later, she'd realized much of her infatuation had been with his career as a journalist and the desire to have someone during the holidays, a time when it was always hard not to be a twosome, especially in New York, where romance was in the air, from the couples waltzing on the ice below Rockefeller Center's tree to the ones gazing in Cartier's sparkling windows. Richard had been Mr. Right in so many respects—smart, funny, good-looking, and above all, not now or ever a member of the clergy. Hope and Faith had made a pact to avoid that particular cut of fabric, not a difficult promise for a PK to make.

The elevator doors opened and the first guests stepped into the room, immediately heading for the views. Faith knew the bar would be next and nodded to Howard, who gave her a big smile. She went into the adjoining kitchen and sent out the first of the hors d'oeuvres as well as several trays of drinks: champagne-filled flutes, ice water with and without lemon or lime, white wine. The DJ started playing
Lohengrin
and the newlyweds stepped into the room amid great applause. Both were tall and seemed like people who would be spending their honeymoon on the ski slopes or somewhere else outdoorsy. The bride wore a pleated silk Mary McFadden gown that made her look classically elegant, an updated version of a Grecian caryatid. The couple paused, smiling somewhat shyly at being the center of so much attention, and then the groom swept his wife into his arms for the first dance. The party had begun.

An hour later Faith sent out the last tray of oysters. She'd prepared them raw, with a choice of mignonette sauce—that simple combination of wine vinegar, shallots, and freshly ground pepper with a bit of champagne added at the last minute—cocktail sauce, or au naturel, serving them in the bowl of a Chinese soup spoon rather than the shell. Neater and much easier to handle. The bride and groom didn't need an aphrodisiac—the adoring looks they were sending each other was evidence—but Faith liked to serve oysters at weddings for their symbolism and above all for their flavor. Besides, like caviar—which she'd offered with thin, crepelike blinis or toasted brioche triangles—oysters marked an event as special.

“Has Francesca started serving?” she asked Josie as she came back into the small kitchen after circling the room pouring refills of champagne.

“Yes, and from the look of it, we'd better get ready to replenish the beef fast.”

The groom had not been able to come to the city for the tasting, but the bride and her mother had selected a menu with him in mind. “He likes meat,” his fiancée had said, so meat it was: roast pork loin stuffed with winter fruits, prime rib with a choice of horseradish sauce or au jus, and pecan-encrusted boneless chicken fillets. Faith had added
saucisson en brioche,
substituting a mild sausage for the traditional garlic one and offering several flavored mustards. It was such a nice presentation—the rich, buttery bread surrounding the rosy circle of meat. Despite its fins, they'd done a fish-shaped mold of salmon mousse with green mayonnaise, the color provided by dill, parsley, and chives pureed with the sauce. The bride thought they could sneak in one seafood dish. Roasted root vegetables, Josie's heavy-on-the-cream mashed potatoes, an assortment of breads and rolls, plus a salad with hearts of palm and grape tomatoes, rounded out the offerings.

Amanda, one of Faith's part-timers, came through the door.

“We need more potatoes and another brioche.”

“You grab the potatoes and I'll bring the brioche. I want to cut a few slices here first,” Faith said and did so quickly.

As she walked toward the buffet, set up in front of some of the Hudson River–side windows, the mother of the bride stopped her.

“Everything is delicious. Just perfect. Thank you so much—and although I won't be doing another wedding, I will be in touch for a luncheon I'm giving at my apartment here next month.”

This was terrific news and Faith hoped it might mean a steady client—perhaps, in her dreams, a gig at one of their other homes someday! She'd heard the bride's family had apartments in Palm Beach and Paris as well as a house in the Hamptons.

“I'd be happy to—and I'm so glad you're pleased. Your daughter looks absolutely beautiful, radiant, everything a bride should be. And the groom, too.”

Faith stopped herself from babbling on.

“I'll just take these to the buffet.”

Crossing the room, she switched her thoughts from the celebratory scene in front of her to her earlier conversation with Hope. Her sister never discussed work with Faith. Granted, Phelps had been the first one she'd called about the account loss, which made sense—he was downtown on Wall Street in some line of work that mirrored Hope's—but she had then called Faith and her deep distress was evident. It must have been a major client. Faith might not know much about the intricacies of what Hope did high in her Citicorp office, but she did know that in her sister's chosen field, the wolves were always at the door and any weakness shown would be fully exploited. The reference to feeling better in the man's note accompanying the flowers was odd, but could simply mean he knew how much his account had meant.

“Sorry, here let me help you with that.”

Preoccupied as she was, Faith had walked into the path of a buffet-bound guest. He took the tray from her. She took it back.

Smiling, she said, “I don't think you're on the payroll and I walked into you.”

“Must be my lucky day.”

As lines went, it lacked originality, but the slightly chagrined expression on his face indicated he knew that.

“Well, I have to put this out.” Faith moved quickly toward the table.

“Funny. I was just coming for more.” He followed her, and when she'd handed the brioche to Francesca, he didn't pick up a plate for a piece, but continued the conversation.

“I'm Tom, by the way,” he said, putting out his hand.

“I'm Faith,” she said, taking it. Warm, but not too warm. A strong grip, but not too strong. He held her hand only a few seconds too long.

“Faith as in Have Faith, the outfit that has provided me with the best meal I've ever had?”

He must be one of the New Englanders, Faith thought, disappointed that this handsome—tall, rusty-brown hair, deep brown eyes, yes, with those little flecks of gold—stranger wasn't local. Of course he could also have been on some weird diet or from out of the country, say London, subsisting on boiled veg and tough mutton.

“Yes, it's my company.”

“Great name.”

“We still get the occasional call from individuals looking for a different kind of provisioner—they think it's an escort service—but I wanted something that would let people know we were serious about food, but not too serious about life.”

“Not at all?”

The conversation was beginning to resemble one of those down-the-rabbit-hole ones, and Faith had a job to do, but it was hard to pull away.

“Of course serious about some things, just not in general. Oh dear, this isn't coming out right. Listen, lovely meeting you, but I have to get back to the kitchen and start putting out the desserts.”

“My favorite course. Wedding cake, I assume. Anything chocolate?”

This guy's heart was definitely in the right place.

“I'll surprise you,” she said, heading toward the kitchen.

“I certainly hope so.”

Again, not the most original, but that smile and, yes, those eyes . . . Faith turned her steps firmly in the opposite direction.

The next time she left the kitchen, the party was winding down and the room had thinned out. Faith had sent some of her crew back with a load and the rest were clearing the dessert dishes now.

Faith was filling the platter of candied fruits and bite-size cookies on the buffet with more of the heart-shaped shortbread she'd made when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Would you like to dance? Somehow I have the feeling you're good at it.”

Faith was a good dancer thanks to the white-gloved Knickerbocker Cotillion during childhood and less staid forays throughout her teens. The DJ had been playing oldies for some time now. Extremely old oldies. Cole Porter, and wait a minute, was it “Easy to Love”? It was. She hesitated.

“Come on. We'll dance over here by the window. No one will notice.”

It was the Ella Fitzgerald version, Faith's favorite, and without consciously deciding, she found herself in the stranger's arms, their steps matching perfectly and not minding when he began singing along softly, “ ‘So easy to idolize all others above.' ” Not minding at all.

She closed her eyes.

Another tap on her shoulder. Someone cutting in? For a moment she forgot where she was, and she didn't want any interference, not now. She was humming along with Ella—and Tom, nice Tom.

“Boss, I'm clearing the coffee. Howard's closing the bar, and the bride went to change into her going-away outfit. The party's over.”

It was Josie and she was grinning.

Faith sprang away from Tom.

“We were just—”

“Dancing,” he finished for her. “Your boss is a very good dancer.”

“So I've heard,” Josie said.

Flushed, Faith said, “I'll bring the urn and we can finish packing up. The church will take care of the tables and chairs—they're theirs, but we have to see to everything else.”

“May I help?”

“Thank you, Tom. We're all set, and I'm sure you'll need to be on your way to the after party. I enjoyed meeting you.” Faith backed away, bumping into the buffet.

“There isn't one. They're leaving right away for Vermont. They both have to be back at work on Wednesday, so only a short honeymoon.”

Which, a few minutes later, explained the bride's going-away outfit—a shiny white Gore-Tex ski ensemble complete with tulle-trimmed faux fur earmuffs; the groom's outfit was black. She was carrying her bouquet, lifted it high, much like an Olympic torch, and tossed it, hitting one of the beams in the vaulted ceiling. The cluster of French lilacs, tea roses, and ivy bounced down not into one of the bridesmaids' outstretched hands, but Faith's—the hand that was reaching for the coffee urn. Startled, she threw it toward the laughing throng of unmarried women, where it appropriately reached the bride's unmarried sister.

“You're having some night, lady,” Josie said, filling a tray with unused cups and saucers.

“Don't be silly, and we'd better get going.”

“Yeah, wouldn't want to be up in this tower past midnight. You might turn into a pumpkin or something.”

Faith ignored the reference and got busy. A half hour later they were done—standing in the Lounge, empty of all save the tables and chairs. Josie was headed to a party nearby and Howard offered to drive the van back to work.

“Why don't you grab a cab and go home?” he said to Faith. “There's not much we have to unload. Nothing left for the fridge. I'll take these linens down and head off.”

Faith was tempted, but she was sort of like the captain of a ship and her place was on the bridge until docked.

Or not.

Tom stepped out of the elevator and said, “I could say that I wanted your card, but that wouldn't be true.”

Faith moved away from Howard and Josie toward him.