The Body in the Sleigh (8 page)

Faith's eyes were definitely closing now. She'd been stretched out on the couch. That long-ago Mary—so young, her first baby, and all those heavenly hosts plus the Magi and shepherds. It must have been a comfort when the Queens finally arrived, Faith thought drowsily. Women who would have some idea of what she'd been through and what she needed most. Yet, she always looked quite calm and collected in all those Adoration paintings. Serene, and beatific. Much the way Mary Bethany had looked this morning when Faith had left her holding Christopher, the newborn from another manger.

She got up and moved everyone along to bed. Christmas was over; the New Year beckoning Janus-like backward and forward, past and future wrapped in one unknowable present.

It didn't make sense. Although, Faith thought, sense was a rare commodity. She was trying to fit the square facts she had into a sensible schema—only, as usual, it was round.

Today was Boxing Day. She knew that the British tradition dated back to the Middle Ages when the lower orders received a pittance from their lord and masters for the year's arduous labor. “Box” was literally a box of goods or later a sort of piggy bank. Nowadays, Boxing Day might bring a more substantial bonus from an employer. For most, though, it meant exchanging another gift or two, eating up the Yuletide leftovers, and going to the sales. This morning the Fairchild family was observing the holiday with eggs, bacon, mouthwatering cinnamon rolls, and the Christmas crackers that Faith had brought from Aleford and forgotten to put out yesterday morning.

She looked around the table at her family wearing brightly colored tissue-paper crowns. Ben was in a fit of laughter over his riddle from the cracker—typical British humor that he read over again:

Amy still had a tentative expression on her face from the first go-round, indicating that she thought she understood the joke, but wasn't sure.

All in all, a typical meal—although the headgear was novel.

Tom and Ben were heading out with their snowshoes for a ramble in the Tennley Preserve, acres of shore and woodland donated by a doctor's family in his memory. The trails would be buried under the snow, but Tom thought they could find their way using the markers the preserve had nailed on the trees. In any case, he was so familiar with the place, he was sure he wouldn't get lost even without them. Ben had filled his knapsack with granola bars, water, extra gloves—and a compass.

“It's not that I don't trust your memory, Dad,” he said, grinning.

“It's that you think I don't have one to start with,” Tom finished for him, reaching across the table for the last piece of bacon.

“Hey, I wanted that!” Ben complained.

“I guess I forgot,” his dad said, breaking it in half and handing it over to soften his words and deed. “Let's clean up and go. The day's almost over!”

Faith had learned early on that the Fairchild family considered the day wasted if it didn't actively start at 7
A.M.
—or earlier. It was comfortably past eight now. For once, she agreed with Tom. She wanted to get going too. First she was dropping Amy off at the Marshalls'. She'd been invited to spend the day with them as company for their granddaughter on a family outing to Ellsworth. They were going to swim in the pool at the Holiday Inn, check out Marden's, and go to the movies. Amy had been anticipating December 26 even more than December 25.

As for Faith, she was eager to get back to Mary's. A brief conversation last night revealed that Mary was literally getting the hang of baby care. “I've rigged up an old tablecloth as a sling and I'm carrying him around on my chest when he's not in his basket or being fed. I saw a young mother with something similar at the farmers' market last summer and her baby looked pretty content. This way I can milk too. The nannies are always so happy when I start to pull their teats that they'd never kick. Real cooperative,” she'd told Faith. Faith had answered that Mary had probably seen a Maya Wrap, a cotton baby sling with adjustable rings that made a pouch. She wished it had been around when her children were infants. It was apparently a lot easier on the back than the baby carriers of yore. Mary had invented it on her own and Faith was impressed once again by the woman's intelligence and ingenuity. Finding Christopher's mother was a far greater challenge, however. Women had been coming up with ways to carry infants close to their bodies, leaving their hands free for work, since humankind first walked the earth. Something like locating a young woman, who'd recently given birth, with only a hair to go on, was like searching for the proverbial needle.

She sighed. Tom, scraping plates, heard her.

“What's up, honey? Why don't you come with us? Or,” he added, correctly interpreting his wife's level of enthusiasm for hours of snowshoeing and eating granola bars in the wild, “we can do something else. The three of us.”

“No, go.” Faith was very happy that Tom's energy was returning. And the last thing she wanted to do was go snowshoeing. She didn't mind cross-country skiing. She loved the soft swishing sound the skis made through the silent forest. Snowshoeing was less aesthetic—and harder work.

“I was just thinking about Mary.” This was true, but the woman herself was occupying only a portion of Faith's thoughts.

“I'm sure her niece won't leave the baby with her for too long.”

“That's not it. Mary would keep the baby forever, I'm sure.” And I hope she will, Faith said to herself. “I guess I wish she weren't so isolated. So much on her own.”

Tom gave her a kiss. “You're a very good person, but no, we can't adopt Mary and her entourage. The parsonage is barely large enough for us. Have fun playing with the baby—and the goats.”

Faith kissed him back and hastened Amy along. As soon as she dropped her daughter off at the Marshalls', Faith had two stops to make before going to Mary's.

It was only when Amy had been delivered and Faith had refused coffee and pie from Nan—they were having a second breakfast before setting off for Ellsworth—that the thought nagging at her since the previous day pushed everything else she'd been dealing with aside. The thought that had evoked her earlier sigh.

Could Norah Taft have been Christopher's mother?

This was the square peg she was trying to fit into the round hole. The facts that fit: Norah was involved with drugs and therefore could have been around the amount of money in the paper bag; also, like everyone else her age, she would have known how to use a computer to type the letter; plus the pointed directive to “raise him to be a good man”—perhaps a reference to her father? Not a good man? The facts that didn't: Norah had short, blond hair, so where did the long dark strand come from; Mary hadn't seemed to know Norah, so why did the girl choose to leave the baby with her; and most glaring of all—how could Norah have put Christopher in Mary's barn on Christmas Eve? At that point the girl had been dead for six days.

But maybe her newborn son was why the girl had come back to the island. She could have been bringing her baby to someone to take care of and that someone decided afterward that she, or he, couldn't handle the responsibility. Again, though, why Mary? Her reputation on the island so far as nurturing went only applied to
goats. And if Norah had brought the baby to her mother, which would have been the likeliest course of action, Darlene would never have given him up. Or let Norah out of her sight.

The proximity of the two events—Norah's death and Christopher's birth—was haunting Faith. She grasped at what was admittedly a tenuous thread and knew she
had
to find out whether Norah had given birth to the baby in Mary's barn. And Faith knew there was only one place to go for the answer.

Two stops. She had to pick up supplies for Mary at the market—Huggies and formula. Mary had told her not to bother with baby wipes—she bought them by the carton to keep the nannies' udders clean, and as for Vaseline, Bag Balm, also for her cosseted herd, would do the job better. Mary's hands were as soft as the finest French leather gloves. Faith had never milked Mary's goats, but she imagined their udders felt the same. Christopher's pelt would never suffer.

But the market could wait. Her first stop was Maine State Police Sergeant Earl Dickinson's house in Sanpere Village. A basket with some more of Faith's cinnamon rolls, wild strawberry jam put up last summer, and a spread she'd made with some of Mary's fresh chèvre, dill, and a touch of dry mustard, was resting on the back seat. She'd called before leaving the house to ask whether this was a convenient time to drop off a little Christmas cheer. The cheer part nestled next to the basket in the form of a bottle of Shiraz from a South Australian winery. It was called “The Victor” and whether that referred to a person or event, Faith didn't know, but she enjoyed the name as much as the wine itself—mildly spicy and very good with lamb dishes. The case in the cottage's basement left from the summer had gone untouched since the Fairchilds were members of the Cold Water Army these days while Tom was on the mend.

She'd intended to bring some of her jam to Jill and Earl last fall, Faith reminded herself to alleviate the slight twinge of guilt
she was feeling. The old gift-basket ploy. Ah, what a tangled web we weave…

After their marriage several summers ago, Jill and Earl had moved into Jill's apartment above her store, the Blueberry Patch, knowing they would have to find another place to live—quickly. It wasn't just that Jill was tiny and Earl a six-footer, but the living quarters, which had been the loft of what was once Jill's great-grandfather's cobbler shop, tended to let in refreshing breezes in summer and arctic ones in winter. Before her marriage, Jill had lived in Portland during the school year, where she was a speech therapist, a fact that never failed to amuse Faith since Jill was the quietest person she knew. And one of the prettiest. In another day, she'd have been known as a pocket Venus, perfectly proportioned with shoulder-length rich brown hair, smooth bisquelike skin, and large, dark brown eyes. These eyes were sparkling now as she opened the front door before Faith had a chance to knock.

“Come see the dining room. I just finished painting it yesterday!”

The Dickinsons' house was one of those on the island where visitors
did
use the front door, first climbing up some wide granite steps that led to a porch that stretched grandly across the front of the Victorian house. Captain Ellis Reed, who owned a fishing fleet and the shipyard, had built it. In his day, he was the wealthiest man on Sanpere and constructed a dwelling to flaunt this in a discreet New England manner, but flaunt it still. The original house had two wings topped by turrets and enough gingerbread for several Hansel and Gretel witch cottages. It stood on a high knoll overlooking the harbor. The barn and outbuildings stood on one side, set far back from the road. There had been an orchard and well-kept gardens behind the house, sloping down to the millpond. Reed owned the mill too. A fire in the 1960s had destroyed the barn, sheds, and one of the wings. It devoured most of the orchard too and for years a blaze of bright pink fireweed growing
in the ash-laden soil was the only clue that anything else had ever occupied the spot. Various owners made attempts to repair and restore the Reed house, but when Jill and Earl went house hunting, it had been empty for some years. Water had seeped in through the roof and broken windowpanes; several feral cats were living in the kitchen. The newlyweds made a ridiculously low offer and were surprised and—Jill later told Faith—a little scared when the owner, eager to set out for his trailer in St. Pete, accepted it. Since then, they had brought the house back, if not to its former glory, to something very close. The gardens and replanted orchard were their particular pride and joy.

Faith entered and hung her parka on an elaborately carved hallstand, complete with beveled mirror. Her cheeks were red with the cold, and next to her, Jill looked like an ice maiden.

“This is for you and Earl,” Faith said, handing over the basket.

“Oh, thank you! I've been so busy trying to finish the house for New Year's that I'm afraid we've been living on frozen dinners and pb and j's.”

Faith winced. Nothing wrong with the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich, especially with the right peanut butter and jelly, the bread lightly toasted, but frozen dinners! Later she'd drop off some of the Portuguese sausage and kale soup she'd made. There were some sacrifices that even home décor—besides the Food Channel, Faith was devoted to HGTV—did not justify. Admittedly, they had a time limit. The Dickinsons were giving an old-fashioned New Year's Eve party for all ages. The Fairchilds planned to be there, then take off for the five-hour drive to Aleford the next day.

“Come see. Earl's on the phone. He'll be with us in a moment. You'll have coffee. We have that. Also some of Kyra Alex's scones. I ran up to Lily's early this morning. Thank goodness Kyra doesn't close when we need her most—these dark winter days! There are maple walnut and raspberry lemon, just out of the oven. Maybe a
blueberry left. Earl has already started in on them.” In her enthusiasm, Jill was practically a chatterbox. She tugged at Faith's hand, pulling her in the direction of the dining room. Coffee and scones sounded good. More to the point, while Jill was getting things ready, Faith could talk to Earl alone. She followed her into the next room and stopped in the doorway.

“It's perfect!” Faith said. “I never would have thought to paint the walls this color, but it works. And I love the trim.”

The dining room was substantial, with a three-sided bay window overlooking Sanpere Village and the harbor beyond. There was a fireplace on one wall. The Dickinsons had refinished the mahogany mantel and the oak floors. They gleamed in the pale sunlight streaming in through the windows, over which Jill had hung simple deep rose damask valences. What made the room especially striking now was the color on the walls—a dark teal that popped in contrast to the cream baseboards and other trim.

“Instead of a mirror over the fireplace—everybody does that—I'm going to put one we bought at an auction up in Bar Harbor last summer at the end of the room between the doors, so the table, and the view out front, will be reflected. The mirror goes almost from the floor to the ceiling. I have a great still life of gold chrysanthemums in a Chinese vase with a porcelain figurine on a surface draped with one of those paisley shawls ship captains used to bring their wives from India that will just fit above the mantel. It picks up all the colors in the room, almost as if it were painted for it.”