The Body in the Gazebo (3 page)

“Hungry, darling?” she asked Tom, who was stretched out on the sofa next to her. They’d lit a fire in the fireplace, as they had for several nights, each time declaring it would be the last one until fall. Rather, Tom had made the pronouncements. There had been a blizzard on Easter Sunday her first spring in Aleford and Faith hadn’t trusted New England weather ever since. The battle of the thermostat was ongoing and at times ugly—at least to Faith.

“Hmmm,” Tom said. “I could go for a little something. What did you have in mind?” He got up and reached for his wife.

“Save that for later?” she said, settling into his arms. “For now how about some of that broccoli cheddar soup and a sandwich—pastrami on dark rye?”

After a scary bout of pancreatitis in November, Tom had been advised to eat small meals throughout the day and avoid alcohol. Faith had always teased him about being a cheap drunk—half a glass of pinot grigio and he was singing “O Sole Mio,” so he didn’t miss the sauce. It explained why she’d been sipping some Rémy Martin without him, though.

“Great.”

“Stay put and I’ll bring it in here.”

“No, I’ll come and keep you company.”

Earlier they had been discussing Faith’s conversation with Millicent and hadn’t come to any conclusion other than gently trying to talk to Pix about future choices for her mother, with husband Sam there, too, once they returned from South Carolina. As Faith heated the soup and spread Tom’s favorite horseradish mustard on the bread, she found herself returning to the subject.

“Ursula is determined to go to the wedding in June,” she said.

“I know, and that means she’ll do it.” Ursula was one of the parishioners waiting to welcome the new minister at the parsonage upon Tom’s arrival in Aleford a year before his marriage. She held the distinction of being the first female warden at First Parish and had served on the vestry several times.

“The drive is so long that the best thing would be for her to go down in stages, staying overnight or longer,” Tom went on. “Or she could fly, but that’s pretty taxing these days. She’d insist on standing in the security line—no wheelchair.”

“Because of this,” Faith said, “I wish they were getting married on Sanpere. But aside from the problem of where to house all the guests, Becca quite naturally wants to get married in her own temple.”

Tom nodded. His mouth was full. He swallowed.

“And it’s not just any temple,” he said. “Her family have been members for generations. Kahal Kadosh Beth Elohim is the oldest synagogue building in the country after Touro in Newport, and the congregation is the fourth oldest. It’s a place I’ve always wanted to visit and I’m honored that they want me to be a part of the ceremony.”

Faith had been in Charleston several times before Tom appeared on the scene and since for the business. This was his first trip, and although the wedding was still many weeks away, Faith had already planned what they would see in the area when not involved with wedding events. It was a rare getaway for them. Ben and Amy were going down to Norwell, where they would be blissfully happy exploring their grandparents’ attic and garage—the cars had never been parked in it. Why waste the space? In true New England fashion, the Fairchilds saved
everything,
carefully labeling containers, no doubt one with the proverbial contents “String Too Short to Be Saved.” Weather permitting, there would be canoeing and fishing with Grandpa on the North River and perhaps a visit to nearby Plimoth Plantation with Grandma, who was a longtime volunteer.

Meanwhile Faith had booked their stay at one of Charleston’s historic bed-and-breakfasts—from the picture, a delightfully furnished large room, kitchenette, and bath with a private garden below. She’d advised Pix on the venue for the rehearsal dinner—the Peninsula Grill in Charleston’s fabled Planters Inn. It was romantic in that way only Southern places can be. While there might not be magnolias in bloom, somehow you smell them and, in your mind’s eye, see women in low-cut gowns with powdered shoulders fending off beaux in the soft candlelight. Besides, the Grill made the best coconut layer cake in the universe—a towering confection that managed to be both decadently rich and still light.

Tom got up, rinsed his dishes, and put them in the dishwasher.

“Okay,” he said to his wife, taking her in his arms. “I’ve had enough to eat, but I’m still hungry.”

“Hmmm,” she said. “Funny thing. Me, too.”

F
aith did not get a chance to go see Ursula until Friday. Dora went home for a few hours after lunch before returning for the night and Faith had arranged to come then. Ursula didn’t need constant daytime care anymore—there was a Medi-Alert system next to her bed—but as it turned out she was seldom left completely alone. Pix was so uneasy about going away that she had enlisted her mother’s friends to keep an eye on her, something they’d been doing as soon as Ursula had been up to receiving visitors. Faith had promised she’d be dropping in frequently. It was no chore. Over the years, both Faith and Tom had come to love Ursula dearly. She seemed—and acted—like a member of their family.

Dora had said her charge was awake, so as Faith ran up the stairs—ever so slightly worn in the center of each tread by years of use—she called out, “Ursula, it’s Faith. Would you like a little company for a while?”

The answer came as Faith entered the sun-filled bedroom. “How lovely. And just the person I’ve been wanting.”

Ursula was sitting up in bed. She looked better than the last time Faith had seen her, but still much too thin—the skin stretched over the high cheekbones her daughter and granddaughter had inherited looked translucent. She was wearing a quilted bed jacket; no doubt from Makanna’s, that venerable, and now lamented, Boston ladies’ lingerie emporium, Faith thought. It had served several generations, especially for their trousseaux. The peau de soie lacy slips and nightgowns may have left more to the imagination than Victoria’s Secret garb, but perhaps they were even sexier. What was the line? “Putting all your goods in the shopwindow”? Keeping some of them behind the counter wasn’t a bad idea.

“I’m at your disposal. Tom is picking up the kids and my dinner is all made. I just have to pop it in the oven.” She pulled the slipper chair that was next to Ursula’s bed up closer and took her hand. Ursula gave it a slight squeeze and let it drop.

“When I was young, we almost always had cooks. And when we didn’t, Mother opened cans. She wasn’t at home in the kitchen and I suppose that’s the source of my lack of enthusiasm.”

One passed down to
your
daughter, Faith finished mentally.

“But I didn’t ask you to come to talk about recipes,” Ursula said.

“I didn’t think you had,” Faith said, smiling. Ursula was looking so serious. She had to cheer the woman up. “Even though I
have
tasted your rum cake and it’s fabulous.” The rum cake gave off such a heady aroma that you felt you had imbibed even before a moist, buttery morsel crossed your lips.

Ursula didn’t respond for a moment and Faith wondered if she was up to visitors, after all. Ursula’s next words confirmed the thought.

“I’m a bit tired today.”

Faith started to get to her feet.

“No!” Ursula said vehemently. “I need to talk to you!” She reached toward Faith and seemed agitated. “Don’t leave.”

Faith settled back into the chair. “Of course I won’t. I just thought you might want to rest.”

“I do. It’s horrible. That’s all I ever do, but I’d like you to come back in the morning. Pix will be gone by then—be sure to wait until the cab takes them to the airport—and besides, mornings are my best times.”

“That’s no problem. I can come tomorrow.”

Ursula sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes briefly.

Opening them again, she said, “I have to tell you something. A story.”

Faith nodded.

“It’s about something that happened a long time ago.”

“To you?”

Ursula ignored the question. “We’ll need a lot of time. It’s a long story and I must start at the beginning. When we get to the end, I will need your help.”

“Anything,” Faith said, softly stroking Ursula’s hand.

“And Faith, you can’t tell my family what I say.”

“Not Pix?” Faith was surprised.

“Especially not Pix.”

Chapter 2

“N
o, Pix, you will not need these.” Faith plucked a pair of extremely worn sneakers from her friend’s hands.

“They’re in case I get a chance to go bird-watching in a marshy area. My other sneakers are too good.”

Having packed the other sneakers herself, Faith would have employed another description. She’d gingerly wrapped them in tissue to keep them away from Pix’s mostly new apparel and accessories.

“There are stores in South Carolina. If you go wading in any marshes”—Faith shuddered slightly at the thought—“you can make the ones already packed your ‘marshy’ sneaks and buy new ones to wear other places.”

Pix looked at the two suitcases, filled to the brim, and ran her hand through her hair, a gesture she had been repeating frequently since Faith arrived to help her finish getting ready for the trip South. Her thick, short locks now resembled a pot scrubber.

“I really don’t think I need to bring this much stuff. I’m sure I can get away with one suitcase. Sam is.”

“Sam is staying less than a week and men can get away with less—nobody notices that they’re wearing the same pants, and a navy sports jacket is all he needs for dinner so long as he brings a few different ties. Plus, he’ll be on the golf course with Becca’s father most of the time.”

“It’s very expensive to check bags these days.” Pix’s mouth curved down.

Faith repressed a sigh. “Samantha has checked all three of you in online, so you saved some money—and, in any case, it’s nonrefundable.”

That did it and Pix glanced about the room looking for something else to tuck in now that the money had been spent: her good bedside reading lamp? Some of the forest of framed family photos that covered every flat surface? An afghan?

Meanwhile, Faith was zipping the cases shut. Even though Pix was frugal—and generous—it wasn’t the baggage fee that was upsetting her. It was leaving Ursula, hence Faith’s inward sigh. She knew how Pix was feeling, how torn her friend was, and wished the timing for the trip had been earlier or later.

“As soon as the cab leaves, I’ll head over to your mother’s. I promised her I would wait to see you all off.”

As Faith said that, she wondered why Ursula had been so emphatic that Faith witness Pix’s departure. Did she think Pix would cancel at the last minute?

“And you’ve promised me that you’ll call instantly if you think I should come home,” Pix said. “Though she was looking better last night when I went to say good-bye.”

“It’s not going to happen; you’re not going to have to come back, but you know I’d call you. And yes, when I saw her yesterday I thought she looked good and so did Tom. He stopped in at noon. He said he particularly noticed she wasn’t as pale as when he’d last visited. She was quite cheerful—telling him that she planned to wear the same dress for Mark’s wedding that she’d worn for yours.”

Pix laughed. “We were married in December, so I’m not sure how appropriate garnet satin is for June. She can still fit into it is the point she’s not so subtly making. My mother
does
have a streak of vanity.”

“And with ample reason. She’s beautiful still, but from the pictures, I can see she was a knockout when she was younger,” Faith said. “Now, Ms. Mother-of-the Groom, you’d better get going. Look in that pocketbook of yours once more and be sure you don’t have anything that airport security could mistake for a weapon—your Hiker Swiss Army knife, for example.”

Sam had given it to Pix on their last anniversary and it had everything save the keg that a Saint Bernard carried. While Faith’s notion of anniversary gifts ran more to things with carats, it had been exactly what Pix wanted and she toted it everywhere.

“It’s in my suitcase.”

Samantha came running into the room.

“The cab is here and Dad’s already outside. Go to the bathroom and I’ll tell them you’re on the way!”

“I thought I was the mother,” Pix said, heading for the toilet nevertheless.

Faith and Samantha exchanged glances and a hug.

“You’ll have a wonderful time. And everything here will be fine,” Faith said.

“I know. Becca’s great. I’ve always wanted a sister and, even though she has two of her own, she’s made me feel like one more already.”

Pix emerged and grabbed her suitcases. She’d obviously glanced in the mirror and her hair was back to normal, but she’d forgotten lipstick. Faith decided now was not the time for makeup advice.

“Where are your bags?” Pix asked her daughter.

“In the cab, and let me take one of these. We have plenty of time, Mom, don’t worry.”

“Again, it’s too early for role reversal. You’ve got a few more years to go.” Pix had recently read an article about this female child/parent phenomenon and told Faith to be ready when Amy hit her twenties. The good news was that with such dutiful daughters, they would both have someone to do things like cut their toenails when they hit their twilight years.

“And I’m not worried, just being practical. There could be traffic on the Mass Pike.” With that she squared her shoulders and set off down the hallway.

Soon Faith was standing in the driveway watching per Ursula’s instruction. The cab turned out of sight onto Main Street and she ducked through the opening in the boxwood hedge shared by the Millers and the Fairchilds. Over the years, the space had been widened by numerous crossings between the two yards. She went straight to the garage. Tom was doing parent duty at the kids’ soccer games, so Faith got in her car and drove the short distance to Ursula Rowe’s.

A story. A long story, Ursula had said. She could hardly wait.

U
rsula was out of bed and in her chaise, tucked under a duvet. Before she left, Dora had brought a glass of some sort of smoothie that she set on a small table, admonishing Ursula to finish “every last drop.”

“It’s my special protein shake,” she’d told Faith. “She loves them.”

Ursula had made a face, but as soon as the nurse was gone, she took a sip.

“If this is what it takes to get me up and around, I’d be a fool not to do it—however loathsome it tastes. I think Dora’s secret ingredient is chalk.”

Ursula took another swallow.

“I’m sure it will work Dora’s magic,” Faith said. “Let me get your water, so you can sip some after you finish. It might help.”

Faith got the carafe and glass from the nightstand next to Ursula’s bed. The preamble was continuing. Ursula was apparently waiting to start her story until after she’d finished the drink.

“Samantha wants me to get one of those cell phones. As if I needed one! There’s a perfectly good phone in the hallway. She says she’d like to be able to talk to me when I’m in bed.”

It was a good idea, Faith thought—and not just to talk to Samantha. Ursula had reluctantly given up her dial phones upstairs and down for touch-tones, but neither landline was a portable.

“I think the Millers have a family plan where they can add you as another number. It wouldn’t be expensive,” Faith commented, correctly guessing that Ursula was not only concerned with the newness of the technology, but the cost. While Faith knew Ursula was “comfortable,” which in Aleford parlance meant many pennies both earned and saved, she also knew Ursula did not like to spend those pennies except on things like presents for her grandchildren and a number of charitable institutions. Some of Ursula’s clothing, especially outerwear, had belonged to her mother: “Perfectly good tweed. It will last until I’m gone and then some.” Frugal—and generous—just like her daughter.

Soon Ursula had drunk “every last drop” and taken several sips of water. She started in immediately.

“I was born in Boston, as you probably know. Not at home, but at the old Boston Lying-in Hospital. My Lyman grandmother was apparently shocked. She was a bit of a snob, perhaps more than a bit, and thought it rather common not to have the doctor come to you in the sanctity of one’s own boudoir. Thank goodness my parents had more sense. Apparently I gave my mother a rather difficult time and there were no more babies after me.

“My father was in business and we lived on Mt. Vernon Street on the South Slope of Beacon Hill—the only side, again Grandmother Lyman’s opinion. Sundays we walked up and over the Hill, past the State House with its big golden dome, to church at King’s Chapel. Boston has changed enormously since I was a girl, but not that walk, I fancy. The rest of the town is barely recognizable to me today. In my early years, there was no skyline. Just one skyscraper—the Customs House Tower. You can barely make it out now, so many buildings have risen up around it, and we certainly never imagined that anything as tall as the new John Hancock building could exist except in the imagination. Father’s office was down the street from the Customs House. Peregrine falcons nested in the tower—and still do. I imagine they find it more aesthetic than some of the other buildings nearby. Father always grumbled about the clock on the tower—it never kept accurate time. This was the sort of thing that mattered to him, and his associates, I dare say. The area was, and is, Boston’s financial district, convenient to the wharves, although the old buildings are expensive hotels and condominiums today, not a bit like the places where we’d go watch the ships dock. Father would sometimes take me with him when he went in on a Saturday and we’d go down to the harbor after he’d finished whatever it was he had to do.

“He used to joke that if the wind was right, we could smell molasses. I’m sure you’ve heard about the terrible Molasses Flood in 1919. The tank where it was stored exploded and killed more than twenty people. Over two million gallons spilled out in a wave that was over thirty-five feet high. Father always mentioned the statistics. Ten years later—the story I’ll get to eventually starts in the summer of 1929—people would still claim some of the downtown alleys got sticky when it was hot, and perhaps it was the power of suggestion, but I
did
think I could smell it on those long-ago walks.

“Father was always so well turned out. Not dapper, never that. I could tell the change of season by his hats—homburgs turned into straw boaters with broad black bands in the late spring and summer. Top hats for evenings out. His shoes came from London. I believe a man actually came to the house to show him the styles and measure his feet. He had a gold watch that his father had given him for not drinking or smoking until he was eighteen, not that he did much of either afterward. One of my first memories is of listening to the watch tick at the end of its long, gold fob.

“Mother didn’t work, of course. Women of her class didn’t then. But she was very busy running the household. Unlike many of her peers, she had been an ardent suffragist, although I’m not sure my father was altogether happy about it. It’s odd to think that I was born before women could vote. Although Mother could never have been described as a radical, she raised me to believe that men and women were equal and entitled to the same rights. She did a great deal of charity work and was an active member of the Fragment Society, the oldest continuous sewing circle in Boston. It was started during the War of 1812. Pix and I are members, too—although what we do is quite different from Mother’s day. Mother might not have been able to do more than boil water for tea, but she did beautiful handwork, and I’m sure the indigent new mothers who received what she made for their layettes were thrilled.

“She had been a well-known beauty in her time and had a delicious sense of humor. She always smelled of lilies of the valley. It was the only scent she used. The only cosmetic. My father wouldn’t have stood for rouge or even rice powder. I don’t think she much cared. She was very interested in what she wore, though. Father had given her a pearl collar similar to Queen Mary’s for a wedding gift and the pearls became Mother’s signature jewelry, too.”

Ursula paused before taking up the thread again.

“You’re sitting here so patiently and I know you’re wondering where I’m going with this, but I promise you, it’s going somewhere. My story has a number of pieces, which will come together at the end. Just now with this piece, I’m trying to give you a sense of what it was like in Boston—for my parents and for me. They grew up in another century and the changes the twentieth brought were rapid and must have been bewildering to them at times. Especially the changes during the 1920s. I’ve often thought this was the beginning of the notion of a generation gap. Young people in the Jazz Age were so very different from the kinds of young people their parents had been in what was still the Victorian Age. Maybe it’s a little like Samantha and her cell phone—all this new technology. We had ‘talkies’ and Lucky Lindy flying across the Atlantic. Pix thinks Samantha’s frocks belong in the rag pile and the flappers’ mothers must have thought the same way. Despite everything that was going on around me, though, as a little girl, my day-to-day life wasn’t so far removed from that of my mother’s growing up.

“We skated on the Frog Pond on the Boston Common in the winter, and the arrival of the swan boats in the Public Garden was the first sign of spring for us, along with snow drops in Louisburg Square. My brother and his friends sculled on the Charles River straight through until late autumn when the water started to freeze.”

Ursula looked straight at Faith.

“Pix has never mentioned an uncle, has she?”

Faith shook her head. Ursula drank some water and leaned back again on the large down European square pillows Dora had arranged for her patient’s comfort.

“My brother Theodore. He was always called ‘Theo.’ ”

“Come on, Sis. All you have to do is slip downstairs once the mater and pater are asleep and unlock the side door. I’ll lock it up again. Don’t worry. I’m not about to risk the family plate.”

Ursula Lyman cocked her head to one side and pretended to think. She knew—and Theo knew—that she’d do anything her adored big brother asked.

“Once the break is over and I’m back on campus, I won’t have this kind of bother.”

“Just the regular kind of bother—your studies.” Ursula tried to look stern. Theo’s first-semester grades at Harvard hadn’t even been gentlemen’s Cs. Their father had threatened to cut off his son’s allowance if they didn’t improve markedly. He’d stopped short of demanding that Theo move home. Leaving Westmorly Court, one of Harvard’s “Gold Coast” houses on Mount Auburn Street, which Theo had opted for over the more plebian, and shabbier, freshman housing in the Yard, would make Theo’s failings too public.