The Body in the Boudoir (21 page)

Her uncle didn't reply, but seemed to be turning the idea over in his mind. They walked on, passing the short path to the barn. There didn't seem to be a destination. Finally, he spoke again.

“You and me. Two peas in a pod. I knew it from the moment you were born, and when Jane gave you my name and made me your godfather, I was as happy as if you were my own child. Yes, we've always thought alike. You feel things, I know. Just the way I do. It's almost uncanny. I know exactly what you're going to do sometimes. Just as I know what I'm going to have to do, too. Two peas . . .”

Faith gave his arm a squeeze.

“Thank you, Uncle Sky, I'll always remember these words.”

S
he was back in the turret room after an early and subdued dinner. Her uncle had excused himself immediately afterward, saying he had some things he needed to go over in the library. Tammy looked after him.

“I believe those things are called ‘Mr. Scotch' and ‘Mr. Water.' I hate for him to drink alone. It's too sad, but as you know, Sky does as Sky wants.”

Faith was surprised by her aunt's bitter tone. This marriage had lasted longer than any of their brother's previous ones, Great-aunt Frances had remarked to Faith at the tea. Had the housekeeper's death caused irreparable friction? Was the fact that Danny dressed up in Tammy's clothes and made free with her toiletries going to be grounds for divorce?

“I think I'll make it an early night, take a good soak, but you stay up. There are lots of movies to watch in the TV room.” This was not a small den with a set on top of a TV stand, but a state-of-the-art media center with comfy chairs and recently installed surround sound.

“Thank you, but I'm going to turn in, too,” Faith said.

“Get lots of beauty sleep for your beau,” Tammy said.

Earlier she had told Faith to choose one of the large guest room suites.

“No need for Tom to go creeping around from another room. You'd better know by now whether you're compatible in the bedroom department with the wedding so close. Don't want any nasty surprises at the start of the honeymoon. My father had a third cousin, Desiree—whitest wedding you ever saw—and her ‘he' turned out to be a ‘she.' Des never got over the shock, even though she did marry a nice boy from Tupelo. Believe you me, I know for a fact that she checked first before she said ‘I do' the second time.”

Faith had laughed and said she'd move, but wanted to spend one more night in her old room. She always felt a little like a princess in a tower, and tonight was no different. I
am
getting horribly sentimental, she thought. Tomorrow my prince will arrive and in June, I'll sleep here one last time as an unmarried woman. “Married woman.” It sounded very grown up.

There was a thin sliver of moon, like a silver-crescent pendant, and the sky was bright with stars. She loved Manhattan, but bright lights, big city meant the Milky Way was skim. Out here it was as if a large cereal bowl filled with constellations had been overturned directly above one's head.

Once again she felt pulled toward the attic for the view over the water and she got out of bed.

This time, reaching the top of the stairs from the light in the hall below, she had to turn on the attic lights to make her way across to the chair by the front window. She sat, entranced by the scene stretched out below. The wind had picked up, and the moon made the whitecaps look like bits of frosting. The long drive from the house to the top of the cliffs sparkled from something—mica?—in the gravel. She was feeling drowsy, her eyes losing focus. She could sleep now. Out of curiosity she looked for the feather. She had left it where she had seen it and now it was gone. She got up and bent down, pushing the chair back. No feather anywhere. The floor didn't appear swept, though, and she imagined that a turnout of the attic was a yearly event, not part of the house's regular upkeep. Mice? To feather their nest? She made her way to the rear of the attic and the large window overlooking the back entrance. She'd left what she'd found there, too. Hard for anyone other than a human being to dislodge.

The small piece of rope and fishing line had disappeared as well.

I
f not with the birds, Faith was up uncharacteristically early the next morning, which meant she had a long wait. She had some breakfast, started to take a walk—it was a beautiful, sunny day—but Tom might call and besides, she planned to take a long one on the beach with him. Finally she asked Shirley, the new housekeeper, if she could use the kitchen to make some muffins. Tom would be hungry. He was always hungry.

“Sure, honey, you cook anything you want. Got to feed your man.”

The doughnut muffins had just come out of the oven when Faith heard the front doorbell. Perfect timing! She had to let them cool a bit before dipping the tops into melted butter and sprinkling them with cinnamon sugar. She'd show him to the guest room in the meantime.

“This is just like in the movies,” Faith said. As soon as she'd opened the door, Tom had scooped her up in his arms for a long kiss. “Better.”

“I hate being apart. Do you realize it's been eleven days since I've seen you, almost wife of mine?”

“And how many hours? Oh, and minutes?” Faith felt that it had been much too long, but the way things were going lately she was lucky to know how many days there were in a week. At least everything with Hope was straightened out, and as Tom ate muffins she filled him in on Friday's denouement.

“I wish I had been there. Although I might have had to smack the guy a little.”

Tom was obviously a believer in Muscular Christianity.

“It was all I could do to keep Howard from going for his jugular. Hope is one of Howard's close friends. When I started the business he heard about the bartender opening from her.”

Both Walforts slept in and had their breakfasts on trays, Sky while he perused the
Wall Street Journal
and Tammy while she chatted on the phone. They rarely appeared downstairs before eleven. On the dot, Sky came into the dining area off the kitchen and whisked them both away to see the barn. He seemed to have had a good night's sleep and looked much better than he had the day before. He had still been in the library with the door closed when Faith went up to bed, yet he didn't seem hungover. Faith had once remarked on his capacity for alcohol to her aunt Chat, who explained that it was not uncommon among men his age who had honed this skill on the three-martini lunches of the 1950s.

When they got back to the house, Tammy was waiting for them and said they should feel free to make their own plans. In any case, both she and Sky would be out most of the day. They could all have dinner together if Tom and Faith wished. And they very much did.

It was happening. From the moment Tom arrived, Faith knew that the wedding would be wonderful. Having him here finally at The Cliff made all the lists and preparations—words on paper and in the air—concrete. The wedding was as vivid in her mind's eye as if she were looking at the photographs months from now.

“The first thing we're going to do is go down to the beach,” she told her aunt, “then I thought we'd have lunch at that café the caterer runs on weekdays so Tom can meet her.”

They parted ways and as they walked down to the beach Tom said, “I can see why you wanted to get married here. I've been up and down the New England coast, but I've never seen a more beautiful spot.”

“I knew you would love it.”

They walked for a while, picking up shells and beach glass. The cliffs that gave the house its name ended in a series of several good-size grassy spots and flat rocks that sloped down to the water. The tide was out. Tom took off the cotton pullover he'd been wearing and spread it on the grass.

“Have a seat,” he said.

Faith looked at her watch. It was past noon. Lunchtime.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Oh yes, I'm very hungry.”

T
hey got to the café an hour later. Tom ordered the day's special, a portobello mushroom and Asiago cheese panini, while Faith decided on a cup of their lentil soup and chicken salad with dill on a multigrain baguette. She wouldn't be able to finish it all, especially since she had her eye on one of their famous oversize macaroons for dessert, but Tom in the present and future would be there to make sure no food would ever go to waste.

The owner came to their table with a plate of cherry tomatoes stuffed with fresh ricotta and basil to go over the wedding menu for Tom. She would use local foods whenever possible. Faith had given him a rough idea of what she and her mother had selected. He'd said it sounded terrific and repeated his opinion, more enthusiastically after he'd finished his and Faith's lunch. The owner came back again, this time with a plate of pastries.

“I just had an inspiration,” she said. “How about adding strawberries Romanoff? We could serve it in martini glasses.”

Faith loved the idea. The combination of the slightly macerated fruit, orange liqueur, and cream was perfection. Maybe crème fraiche instead of whipped cream.

For the reception Faith and the caterer had both hit upon using the strawberries that would be at their peak on the island to accompany a traditional wedding cake for dessert. The fruit would appear as strawberry mousse, sorbet, strawberries dipped in dark chocolate, tiny tartlets with one perfect fruit and larger tarts with the berries on top of pastry cream. And there would definitely be shortcake. The real kind, with a biscuit and masses of whipped cream. The offerings would cover several buffets to make it easy for people to choose and return for seconds.

The addition was approved and the couple lingered over coffee. Tom told Faith how much he liked the caterer and how getting married was turning out to be a spectacular idea in so many ways. Faith took this last as a reference, in part, to the hazelnut éclair he was finishing. She was beginning to think Tom's French gastronomic experiences heretofore had been limited to Dunkin' croissants and maybe Boursin cheese from Stop & Shop.

Observing him settle into a pleasant postprandial haze, Faith decided now was as good a time as any to bring up the one subject she'd been reluctant to discuss with him.

“Okay,” she said. “So what's the deal with Sydney? I mean, did you date? There has to be some reason your sister thinks you two are the ones who should be walking down the aisle.”

“Lord, Faith. It would practically be incest if Sydney and I ever got married. We've lived next door to each other all our lives and been in and out of each other's houses so much they're like our own.”

“Never anything but rafts on the river, tree houses, and the garage band? And I want to hear more about that phase, too.”

“Let's draw a curtain over that one. Think the Stones meet the Osmonds. We were neither country nor rock and roll—some truly horrible hybrid all our own.”

He was avoiding the question.

Faith wasn't. “She's beautiful now and she must have been beautiful then. Do admit.”

“Well, I might have taken her to our proms,” he said somewhat sheepishly.

“Aha, I knew it! And you were crowned king and queen, right?”

“Something like that, but honestly, we never thought of each other that way. Like boyfriend and girlfriend. At least I didn't.”

This Faith
could
believe. Men were indeed clueless. She'd bet that Sydney had shed many a tear on big sis Betsey's shoulder over Thomas Fairchild. And recently. But she had her answer as far as her fiancé was concerned. He was not now nor ever had been in love with Sydney Jerome.

A
ll too soon Tom was dropping her off at the train station before heading for the ferry. Dinner the night before had been everything Faith had hoped it would be—Tom and her uncle had hit it off—although the conversation took an unusual turn. Tom was finishing his doctoral thesis on the thirteenth-century Albigensian Crusade against the Cathari sect, considered heretics by the church for their belief in two gods, one representing the world of the flesh, the evil physical world, and the other pure, embodying the world of the spirit. Tom was exploring the heresy, as well as one of its major outcomes, the Medieval Inquisition. The newlyweds were honeymooning in France's Languedoc, the Cathar stronghold, so that he could gather more information, as well as imagine Raymond-Roger facing the pope's troops from the fortifications at Carcassonne. Faith was eager to experience a different Languedoc: cassoulet;
saucisse de Toulouse;
pélardon,
a particularly toothsome goat cheese; oysters from Bouzigues; and lovely fresh fish from the Mediterranean, some of which she planned to consume in one of the region's famous
bourrides,
a garlicky fish stew, cousin to bouillabaisse. Tom had held forth on occasion about the ascetic Cathars, and while Faith applauded their belief in equality of the sexes, she was dumbfounded by their practice of suicide by starvation—life being evil, get it over with quickly—in such a succulent region.

They were flying into Paris, lingering for only a few days before renting a car for the drive south, then continuing on into Spain for five days before leaving from Barcelona.

They had barely outlined their plans and Tom had started to briefly explain his area of interest when Sky interrupted him, exclaiming that he was fascinated by the period himself and had made his own modest study of it, particularly Simon de Montfort, the leader of the crusade and father to “my” Simon de Montfort who took on Henry III in England during the Barons' War. Faith had been surprised that Sky knew so much about this period in French history, but once he explained how he got there, she understood why. All roads led to Westminster for her Anglophile uncle and he had the complete works of P. G. Wodehouse bound in leather with the Walfort crest where they cohabited nicely on the shelf next to Agatha Christie, as well as Shakespeare, similarly adorned. He also had several editions of Debrett. So should a contingent of British nobility arrive for a meal unexpectedly, Schuyler Walfort would know exactly who belonged below the salt and whom above.