The Body in the Gazebo

The Body in the Gazebo - By Katherine Hall Page



Chapter 1





The first letter arrived on a Tuesday. Ursula Rowe had no need to read the brittle, yellowed newspaper clippings that were enclosed. She knew what they said. But the few words on the single sheet of white stationery in the envelope were new. New and succinct:

Are you sure you were right?





She went upstairs to her bedroom—hers alone for too many years—and sat down on the antique four-poster bed they’d bought when, newly married, they’d moved into this house. The bed had pineapples carved on the finials—symbols of hospitality. She reached up and traced the intricately carved wood with her fingers. Pineapples. A great luxury for those early colonists—her long-ago ancestors. How had such exotic fruit made its way to New England? She’d never considered this before. Wouldn’t they have rotted in the hold of a ship on the voyage from South America? Perhaps the pineapples came from the Southern colonies. That must have been it.

Her mind was wandering. No, her mind was trying to take her away from what was clutched in her other hand. The letter. She closed her eyes. Arnold had joked that the pineapples were fertility symbols. Certainly the bed had borne fruit—two children—and been the site of years of pleasure. He had been gone for such a long time, but she could still recall his touch, his whispered endearments, the passion. She’d never wanted anyone else.

Ursula read the words again—a single sentence written in a shaky hand. You couldn’t duplicate it; it came only with age. So, the writer was old. She looked at her own hand. The raised blue veins were so close to the surface of her powdery, thin skin that it seemed they would burst through. Her fingers, once long and straight, were knobbed and for some years she’d removed all her rings except her wedding band, worn thin. An old woman’s hands. The change had come so gradually—the brown spots first appearing as summer freckles to her mind—that even now she could scarcely believe her age. She loosened her grip and put everything back in the envelope, tucking the flap in securely.

Where could she hide it? It wouldn’t do to have her daughter come across it. Not that Pix was nosy, but she sometimes put Ursula’s wash away, so the Sheraton chest of drawers was out. And the blanket chest at the foot of the bed that had been her grandmother’s was out, too. Pix regularly aired the contents. There wasn’t much furniture in the room. Some years after Arnold died, Ursula had removed his marble-topped nightstand—the repository of books, eyeglasses, reading lamp, alarm clock, and eventually pill bottles—replacing it with a chaise and small candlestick table, angled into the room. It felt wrong to get into bed during the day, but she’d wanted a place to stretch out to read and, increasingly, to nap. Somehow the chaise made her feel a bit more like a grande dame than an old one. There was a nightstand on her side of the bed, but her granddaughter, Samantha, often left little notes in the drawer and might notice the envelope. Ursula always saved the notes—bits of poetry Samantha liked or just a few words, “Have sweet dreams, Granny.” Generally Ursula did. Her days had been good ones and she felt blessed. Arnold, the two children, although Arnold junior lived in Santa Fe and she only saw him and his wife during the summer in Maine and on her annual visit out there. Three grandchildren, all healthy and finding their ways without too much difficulty so far. But you never know what life will hand you. She stood up, chiding herself. The six words—“Are you sure you were right?”—had entered her system like a poison, seeping into the very marrow of her bones and replacing her normal optimism with dark thoughts.

The mail had come at noon when the bright sun was still high in the clear blue sky. She walked to the arched window that overlooked the backyard. It was why they had chosen this room for their own, although it was not as large as the master bedroom across the hall. Each morning this uncurtained window beckoned them to a new day. And it had a window seat. The window seat! She slid the envelope under the cushion. Done. She gazed out the window, feeling herself slowly relax. The yard sloped down to the Concord River, which occasionally overflowed, flooding the swing set that was still in place. Arnie and Pix had gleefully waded out to it as children, getting gloriously wet sliding down the slide into the shallow water. The family had always kept canoes there, too, under the majestic oak planted by design or perhaps a squirrel. It didn’t matter. The tree was perfect for climbing, and a succession of tree houses. The grandchildren had added kayaks to the fleet and given her a fancy new one for her eightieth birthday, or had it been her eighty-fifth? Today the river flowed gently, its slightly rippled surface like the glass in the windows of Aleford’s oldest houses. A good day to be on the water. However, she’d promised Pix never to go out for a paddle alone. Perhaps she’d do some gardening. Yes, that was the thing. Start to clear some of the dead leaves left by winter’s ravages from the perennial border around the gazebo that Arnold had insisted they build near the riverbank. She’d been reluctant about it—no, not reluctant. That was the wrong word. Too mild. “Opposed.” That was more like it.

Ursula had never wanted to see another gazebo again, not after that earlier summer. Not after the image that had still appeared unbidden and unwanted in nightmares—and her waking thoughts. Arnold had told her this one would replace that other gazebo. It would be a symbol of their new life and their future together, blotting out the horror forever. She could call it a pergola or a garden house instead if she liked. She’d given in. And he’d been right, of course. It had brought the family much pleasure—especially, screened in, as a refuge from the mosquitoes and other insects that living by the river brought. The grandchildren loved it, too.

Yet, Ursula had never loved it.

She left the room and went downstairs, heading for the back of the house and her gardening trug in the mudroom. She stopped outside the kitchen door. Suddenly she didn’t feel like gardening or going outside at all. Suddenly she felt sick to death.

“My mother is never ill! I can’t possibly leave now.” Pix Miller was sitting in the kitchen of the house she’d grown up in; her friend and neighbor Faith Fairchild was across the table. They were both clutching mugs of coffee, the suburban panacea.

“I’ll be here and you know Dr. Homans says the worst is over. That there’s nothing to worry about. Never really was. A bad bout of the flu.” Faith found herself imitating the doctor’s very words and clipped Yankee tone.

“Dora will keep coming nights for as long as we want.” Pix was thinking out loud. Dora McNeill was an institution in Aleford, Massachusetts, the small town west of Boston where Pix, Faith, and their families lived. Dora, a private-duty nurse, had cared for Aleford’s populace for as long as anyone could remember. Her arrival at a bedside brought instant comfort, both for the patient and kin. “Dora’s coming” was tantamount to a sickroom lottery win.

“I’ll keep bringing food. I know she makes breakfast and what she thinks Ursula can tolerate for other meals, but Dora needs heartier fare.” Faith was a caterer and her thoughts normally turned to sustenance before all else.

“Maybe I should skip Hilton Head and just go to Charleston. I could go down for the shower—it’s in the afternoon—and come back the next day.”

“Let’s start with the fact that Ursula would be very upset if you didn’t go for the whole time, which means both places. You wouldn’t be able to tell her—she’d send you packing instantly—so the only way you could see her would be when she was asleep, or by sneaking a peek through the door. So, there’s no point to staying on her account.

“Besides, she’ll want a blow-by-blow description of everything. Sometimes I think she’s more excited about the wedding than you are.”

“I’m very excited about the wedding,” Pix said defensively. “Our firstborn—and Rebecca is wonderful. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter-in-law. Sam thinks so, too.”

“Her parents will be wonderful, as well.” Faith knew Pix was worried about meeting her prospective in-laws, even with her husband and offspring by her side. “They couldn’t have produced such a lovely daughter if they weren’t the same.”

She then rushed on before Pix could come up with all the exceptions to this parent/child rule they both knew.

“You can’t skip either week. Hilton Head is the whole bonding thing. They’ve even planned it so you’re going during Dan’s spring break from Clark. Samantha can work on her thesis anywhere, but Mark and Becca have been making all sorts of arrangements so they can take the time off.”

Mark Miller worked on the Hill as a congressional aide; Becca, or rather Dr. Rebecca Cohen, was an environmental scientist with the EPA. A blind date had very quickly moved into a lifelong commitment with both sets of eyes wide open. Pix had thought the oldest of her three children would follow the pattern of so many of her friends’ offspring and postpone marriage treacherously close to ticking clocks. Tying the knot at twenty-seven might mean grandchildren much sooner than she had imagined. It was one of those thoughts that was helping her to cope with the wedding.

“I’m sure we will enjoy spending time with Becca’s parents and the rest of her family.” If the sentence sounded as if she were reciting it by rote, it was because it was one Pix had repeated to herself many times.

“You’re not still thinking about that picture, are you?” Faith said sternly. “Yes, her mother is younger than you are and, yes, she dresses well, but I’m sure she’d kill for your gorgeous long legs, and don’t forget all the new clothes we bought. You’ll look terrific, too.”

Cynthia Cohen, “Cissy,” was a petite brunette, and at first glance it was hard to tell the mother from her three daughters. The photo had been taken during Mark’s first visit to the Cohens’ in Charleston and he was in the center of the group beaming. Becca’s father was presumably behind the camera. Mark had e-mailed it to his mother, who had promptly printed it out to show Faith what she was up against.

“Her makeup is perfect.”

It had taken Faith a number of years to move her friend away from a dab of lipstick for formal occasions to mascara, eye shadow, blush, and gloss. Pix still favored nothing more than a swipe of Burt’s Bees gloss on her lips for everyday.

“So is her hair.”

“She’d probably just had it done—the picture was taken during the holidays—and besides, you have lovely hair,” Faith said loyally. Pix did have good hair—chestnut colored and thick. She kept it short, and the only problem was its tendency to stand on end after she’d run her hand through it while engaged in contemplation, a habit hard to break.

“I still don’t think I needed all those clothes. And you’ll have to go over what goes with what again. At least I don’t have to worry about where to get something to wear at the wedding. They want to use the same place for my mother-of-the-groom dress as the rest of the bridal party’s attire, so that’s settled. I have to make the final choice, though, and you know I hate to shop. Plus I’ll be shopping with strangers.”

“Samantha will be with you, remember.”

“Thank God, I’d almost forgotten,” Pix said, grasping at the lifeline her daughter’s presence would afford. Samantha, her middle child, had always been the calmest, plus she was wise in the ways of the world of fashion, often to Pix’s bemusement. The last time she’d had lunch with Samantha, Pix had offered to sew up the rips in her daughter’s very short dress only to be told that they were on purpose. She was wearing it over a kind of leotard. Pix could not believe someone would pay money to buy what would be a dust cloth in her household.

Faith looked at her friend, drank some coffee, and wished she could grab Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility to accompany skittish Pix. Meeting new in-laws was nerve-racking, but it would be beautiful at Hilton Head this time of year and better to meet now than at the wedding, where there wouldn’t be a chance to get to know one another with all the inevitable commotion. Faith should know—she’d catered enough of them. After the week at Hilton Head, everyone who had to get back to work was leaving, but Pix and Samantha were continuing on to Charleston for fittings, wedding plans, and a bridal shower. It was late March and the wedding itself would be in early June—before the real heat set in. Pix had to check out the place Faith had helped her find for the rehearsal dinner—as well as make the final arrangements for all the out-of-town guests from Mark’s side of the family. Considering this was a woman whose idea of a good time was birding at dawn in Aleford’s Willards Woods and dressing up meant exchanging L.L.Bean khakis for a Vermont Country Store wraparound skirt, her nervousness over the nuptials and face time with belles from the South was understandable.

“You’ll love Charleston, and I know the street their house is on—Hasell Street. It has to be one of the old houses, since Mark told you the family has been in Charleston for generations.” Faith was grasping for any straw she could find. Charleston’s fabled cuisine—the thought of chef Jeremiah Bacon’s shrimp and grits with andouille gravy at Carolina’s was making Faith salivate slightly—would cut no ice with Pix. Much as she adored her friend, there remained a huge gap in their respective food tastes. Pix’s kitchen cabinets and freezer were filled with boxes that had “Helper” printed on them, while Faith’s were jammed with everything but. Pix worked for Faith at her catering company, Have Faith, but kept the books. She’d accepted the job some years ago with the understanding that it would involve no food preparation of any kind except in dire emergencies such as pitching in to pack up cutlery, china, and napkins for an event.

Faith soldiered on. “You’ll find out about the house when you get there. And don’t forget the gardens. You know you love gardens. . . .”

Faith suddenly felt as if she were trying to convince a toddler to eat spinach.

“Anyway, everything will be fine,” she concluded lamely.

“Except for my mother. She might not be fine.”

She’d said it out loud, Pix thought. The dread that had been with her ever since she’d gotten the phone call from Dr. Homans that Ursula had suddenly spiked a high fever and was severely dehydrated. He was admitting her to Emerson Hospital for treatment, fearing pneumonia. It wasn’t pneumonia, thank goodness. He’d discharged her as soon as possible—so she wouldn’t pick anything else up—but she had been quite ill and still hadn’t recovered. Pix knew her mother would die someday. It was all part of the plan and she didn’t fear her own death. She just didn’t want her mother to die.

Reading her friend’s thoughts, Faith reached over and covered Pix’s hand with her own, marveling as always at her soft skin treated with nothing more than Bag Balm. Faith felt a momentary pang of guilt at all the expensive creams of Araby that filled her medicine chest, but efficacious or no, Bag Balm was the cosmetic equivalent of a New England boiled dinner—lines she would not cross.

“I’m going to see if Mother’s still sleeping,” Pix said.

“If she isn’t, I’ll say a quick hello. I have to pick Amy up and take her to ballet.” Amy Fairchild, a third grader, and her older brother, Ben, in his first year of middle school, both required a great deal of chauffeuring, and Faith had not taken kindly to this suburban mother’s chore—although the fact that Ben would be driving himself in a little over two years filled her with dread.

“I’m sure she’ll want to see you. She’s been asking for you,” Pix said.

“Tom told me the same thing when he came home last night.”

Faith’s husband, the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, was the minister at Aleford’s First Parish Church. Ursula was a lifelong member, as were the Millers. Faith was a more recent arrival, born and raised in Manhattan. The daughter and granddaughter of men of the cloth, she and her younger sister, Hope, had sworn to avoid that particular fabric and the fishbowl existence that went along with it. Over the years they had observed congregations—composed of ordinarily reticent individuals—who felt perfectly free to comment on the way the minister’s wife was treating her husband and raising her children. At First Parish there were a number of women Faith termed “Tom’s Groupies” who were sure they would do a far better job than Faith at keeping him in clean collars and doing other wifely chores. They regularly dropped off dubious burnt offerings—casseroles featuring canned soups and tuna fish. Faith ceded the collar cleaning—amazing how hard it was to keep track—but stood her ground on the culinary front.

The fact that she succumbed to the Reverend in the first place was due to good old love at first sight. He was in New York to perform the nuptials for his college roommate and Faith was catering the reception. Shedding his ministerial garb, Tom had been in mufti by the time the poached salmon and beef tenderloin appeared on the buffet tables along with Faith bearing pâté en croûte. Whether it was the platter she was carrying or her big blue eyes that attracted him was soon moot. Later that evening in Central Park, during a ride in one of the touristy but undeniably romantic horse-drawn carriages, when she discovered his calling—he’d assumed she knew—it was too late. The heart knows no reason.

She left the Big Apple for the more bucolic orchards of New England and, like Lot’s wife, looked back—often. Faith, however, did not become a pillar of salt, even the delicious French fleur de sel from the Camargue kind. What she did become was a frequent traveler back to the city for visits to the three Bs: Barneys, Bloomingdale’s, and the late great Balducci’s, as well as the lox counter at Zabar’s.

“Maybe she wants me to cook her something special,” Faith said, although, she thought, Ursula could have given the message to Tom, or Pix. More likely it was a request that Faith urge Pix not to change her trip plans. Pix was as easy to read as a billboard and Ursula had, no doubt, picked up on her daughter’s reluctance to leave.

As they moved out of the kitchen to go upstairs, the doorbell rang.

“I wonder who that can be?” Pix said. “I’m not expecting anyone.”

She opened the door and Millicent Revere McKinley stepped into the foyer. She was carrying a brown paper bag similar in size and shape to those sported by individuals in New York’s Bowery before it became a fashionable address. Faith knew that Millicent’s did not contain Thunderbird or a fifth of Old Grand-Dad. And it wasn’t because Millicent had joined the Cold Water Army around the time Carry Nation was smashing mirrors in saloons. No, Faith knew because Millicent’s earlier offerings still filled the shelves in Ursula’s refrigerator. The bag contained calf’s foot jelly, the Congregationalist equivalent of Jewish penicillin, chicken soup.

Pix took it from her.

“How kind of you. I know Mother appreciates your thoughtfulness,” she said. “Let me go up and see if she’s awake.”

“She doesn’t need a roomful of company. That’s not why I’m here, but you go check on her and I’ll talk to Faith.”

Pix handed Faith the bag. Millicent led the way back into the kitchen. She knew Ursula’s house as well as her own, a white clapboard Cape perched strategically on one side of Aleford’s Green with a view from the bay window straight down Main Street. Not much got past Millicent, who had been admitting to being seventy for many years now. Her hairstyle was as unvarying as her age. She’d adopted Mamie Eisenhower’s bangs during Ike’s first term and stuck to them. Millicent’s stiff perm was slate gray when Faith met her and it now appeared as if she’d been caught in a heavy snowfall—yet a storm that left every hair in place.

Although not a member of First Parish, Millicent behaved like one, freely offering Faith advice she didn’t want. Their relationship was further complicated by several incidents. The first occurred when Faith, early on in Aleford, had discovered a still-warm corpse in the Old Belfry atop Belfry Hill. With newborn Benjamin strapped to her chest in a Snugli, Faith did what she supposed any sensible person would do. She rang the bell. It produced immediate results, although not the capture of the murderer. That took Faith a while and came later. The most long lasting of these results came from Millicent, who was appalled that Faith had dared to ring the venerable icon—cast by Paul Revere himself, Millicent’s many times removed cousin. It had sounded the alarm on that famous day and year. Subsequent peals were restricted to April 19, Patriot’s Day, that curious Massachusetts and Maine holiday; the death of a President; and the death of a descendent of one of those stalwarts who faced the Redcoats on the green. None of these categories, Millicent was quick to point out, applied in Faith’s case. Rapidly running down the hill screaming loudly would have sufficed.

The other incidents involved Millicent’s saving Faith’s life not once but twice. Since then, Faith had labored in vain to repay this debt, hoping to drag Millicent from the path of an oncoming train—the commuter rail passed through Aleford—or else surprise a desperate burglar intent on purloining Millicent’s collection of Revere McKinley mourning wreaths, intricately woven from bygone tresses.

For the moment, all she could do was follow her savior into the kitchen if not meekly, then obediently, and put the Mason jar of jelly in the fridge.

“I’d like to give you the recipe, Faith, but it’s a treasured family secret.”

Faith could never understand why families that treasured their recipes wouldn’t want to share them with the world, but in this case, she would not expect otherwise. Millicent hoarded information like the Collyer brothers hoarded newspapers—and everything else. Prying anything out of the woman was well nigh impossible. Faith had tried with varying success. As for calf’s foot jelly, she had her own recipe. It called for a lot of boiling and straining, but when you added lemon juice, cinnamon, clove, and some sherry to the gelatin and put it in a nice mold, the result was quite pleasant. She’d recently come across the actor Zero Mostel’s recipe, which was similar. An epicure, he never met a gelatin or—judging by his girth—a pudding, he didn’t like.

Millicent got herself a cup and saucer from the china closet in the butler’s pantry. Miss McKinley—not Ms., thank you very much—didn’t do mugs, and poured herself a cup of coffee before sitting down. Faith had had enough caffeine for the day, but joined her at the table. She didn’t have to pick Amy up for another half hour. In any case, it was a command performance.

“I hope Pix isn’t upsetting her mother about this trip. The last thing Ursula needs is her daughter moaning about having to go away. Why these people want to spend all that time together with people they’ll rarely see after the wedding is another story. In my day you got married and spent one holiday with one set of in-laws and another with the others. None of this bonding business.”

Faith was interested in Millicent’s remarks. The woman had never been married—“never cared to”—but brought her eagle eye to the institution. There was something to what she said, Faith thought. Tom’s parents and her parents liked one another, but contact was limited to things like a grandchild’s christening. They did live far apart, but Faith sensed it would be the same if the Fairchilds were a few blocks away down Madison in Manhattan or the Sibleys on the other side of Norwell, the South Shore town where Tom had grown up and his parents still lived. Their children had bonded to the point where they got married and that was enough for their elders.

“It’s hard for Pix to go away now when her mother isn’t completely recovered, but she’s definitely going,” Faith said.

“Problem is she won’t admit Ursula is getting to the point where she may not be able to stay here. This flu business should be a wake-up call.”

Faith had thought the same thing herself. Pix had a severe case of denial when it came to her mother. Pix’s father had died suddenly in his early sixties, and for most of her adult life, Pix had had only Ursula. The idea that she wouldn’t be in this house forever, frozen at some age between seventy and eighty, was anathema to Pix. Faith had never brought up the subject of Ursula’s future. And Pix herself hadn’t. It was obviously too painful. She was the exception to Faith’s friends who were Pix’s age—in their fifties. The subject of aging parents had replaced aging kids, although Faith had learned some years ago from these same friends that you’re never going to be finished raising your children.

“She won’t be able to do those stairs much longer.” Millicent was complacently going down a list she had certainly reviewed before. “However, the staircase is straight, so they could get one of those chair-elevator things.”

Faith pictured Ursula regally rising up past the newel post. Not a bad idea. Millicent was barreling on.

“The place is big enough for someone to live in, but she’d hate that. Could turn the library into a bedroom, but you’d have to put in a full bath.”

“You seem to have thought this over pretty thoroughly,” Faith couldn’t help commenting.

“One does,” Millicent replied, looking at Faith sternly. “Semper paratus.”

Millicent’s bedroom was on the ground floor of her house. Faith doubted it was foresight. More likely just plain “sight,” as in looking out the window past the muslin sheers.

“She has a lot of friends at Brookhaven. She could go there,” Faith suggested, thinking two could play the preparedness game. Brookhaven was a life-care community in nearby Lexington.

“You know she’d never leave Aleford,” Millicent said smugly.

Match to her.

This was true, Faith thought, and a problem for many of Aleford’s older residents. A group had tried to interest Kendal, the retirement and assisted-living communities associated with the Quakers, in coming to Aleford. So far, nothing had happened, and if it did, it would be too late for Ursula. Faith almost gasped as she thought this. Not that Ursula would be gone soon. No! But a decision would have to have been made. She had to admit Millicent was right—an admission she generally tried to avoid. This last illness had shown that Ursula really couldn’t continue as she had. Faith had been shocked to see the change in the woman after she’d come home from the hospital. It was dramatic, especially when Faith looked back at last summer. Ursula had climbed Blue Hill in Maine with them, setting a pace that left several gasping for a second wind.

Blue Hill was close to Sanpere Island in Penobscot Bay, where the Fairchilds had vacationed, at the Millers’ urging, the summer after Ben was born—Pix was a third-generation rusticator. Eventually, enchanted with the island, the Fairchilds built a cottage of their own, an event that a younger Faith would never have predicted. “Vacation” meant the south of France, the Hamptons, Tuscany, and the Caribbean—balmy waters, not the rocky Maine coast’s subzero briny deep.

And Ursula had seemed all right for most of the winter. As usual, she’d participated in the Christmas Audubon Bird Count, snowshoeing deep into the woods to do so. But when Faith saw her when she was discharged from the hospital, Ursula looked years older, her face an unhealthy pallor, her thick white hair limp and lifeless. What was the worst was the change in her eyes—those beautiful deep topaz orbs had acquired a milky film.

“When Pix gets back from gadding about, you’re going to have to talk to her about all this.”

“Why me?” Faith protested. Millicent was the one with all the ideas—and probably brochures.

“It’s not my business,” Millicent said firmly.

Faith didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead she got up.

“I have to pick Amy up at school.”

Millicent nodded. “Yes, it’s her day for ballet. You’d better get going.”

The woman knew everything.

Pix came into the kitchen. She looked ill herself.

“She was awake, but she’s drifted off again. She seems to be sleeping so much of the day now. But she said to thank you for the jelly, Millicent, and Faith, she wants you to come spend some time with her. ‘A real visit,’ she said. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Faith said. “And Dora can let me know when. She has my cell or she can leave a message at home.”

“I’ll tell her,” Pix said. “But do you really think I ought . . .”

Faith nodded slightly toward Millicent.

“Don’t tell me you still haven’t decided whether to get those sandals we looked at for the trip.”

Momentarily nonplussed, Pix picked up on the signal.

“They were expensive and I’d never wear them in Maine. I don’t think I ought to get them.”

Millicent looked suspicious. She said, “Shoes,” sounding eerily like Margaret Hamilton as the Wicked Witch of the West saying “Slippers,” before Faith cut her off with a “Good-bye” as she left to get her daughter.

The parsonage was quiet. Both children were asleep. Faith realized the nights when Ben went to bed before they did were numbered. Even now he’d still be awake except for soccer practice. Nothing like a coach who believed in laps and lengthy practice drills. Bless her.

“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.”

Faith 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.”