The Body in the Gazebo

Chapter 3





Normally Faith liked the Sunday morning service, which was a good thing since she seemed to have been destined to sit through endless numbers of them starting in early childhood. Unlike First Parish, her father’s church didn’t have child care until relatively recently, so her mother had had to tote Faith and Hope with her, settling in the last pew on the right with books, puzzles, and boxes of animal crackers to keep her children occupied and quiet. It must have been nice for Jane Sibley when her daughters were finally old enough for Sunday school and she could enjoy the service without worrying about crumbs on the pew cushions. Faith’s first Sunday after arriving in Aleford as a new bride, she had instinctively zeroed in on the same pew, only to be escorted to the front left by the Senior Warden. “This is where the minister’s wife always sits.”

Today she was glad she couldn’t see the faces behind her, although she imagined any number of eyes were boring holes in her back as she prayed for the hour to go quickly. What had happened at last night’s meeting should be only from the vestry to God’s ear, but more likely it was from the vestry to Aleford’s.

She wanted to get Tom back home. He’d been up and out of the house before she’d had breakfast on the table, grabbing an apple cinnamon muffin she had just taken from the oven and resisting her plea to sit down and eat. She’d watched him striding over to the church, his unfastened dark robe billowing behind him. He reminded her of that cartoon character in Li’l Abner with a permanent rain cloud over his head.

She struggled to keep her mind on what was going on in the pulpit. The New Testament lesson. Sherman Munroe was the lector this morning. His ruddy, vulpine face shone with righteous well-being and he licked his lips before starting. She suppressed a shudder. It was like watching some sort of animal stalking its prey. Tom, in contrast, was pale and his face was drawn. He looked as if he needed to lie down.

“The Gospel lesson for today is from John, Chapter six, verses four through fifteen.”

Sherman read well. It was the familiar story of the loaves and the fishes. Tom was using this reading as the reference point for his sermon. Late last night he’d given it to her to read—something he rarely did. They had been pretending to watch television—a DVD of the British comedy series The Vicar of Dibley. When he hadn’t laughed even once—it was the Easter Bunny episode—she’d suggested bed. He’d switched off the set and asked if she’d “look over” what he’d written for the morning. She’d poured herself a glass of merlot and made him a steaming mug of cocoa. She knew he’d wanted to make sure there was nothing in the sermon’s references to the miracle—multiplying much from little—that could be misconstrued. Of course there wasn’t and this reassurance seemed to be what he needed to finally fall asleep. She lay wide awake, shaken by what this accusation, not even made directly yet, was already doing to her husband.

The sermon touched upon the question of what it is that sustains us—those material and nonmaterial things that feed our lives. What goes into our individual loaves and fishes, and how we can use our faith to nourish not just ourselves but others—making those five barley loaves fill twelve, and even more, baskets. Tom was an able and often eloquent preacher. There were people in church every Sunday, not members either of First Parish or the denomination, who came solely for the sermons, which was fine with him. That his words could inspire, comfort, provoke thought, or simply interest someone was gratifying. It was one of the things he’d hoped his ministry might accomplish over the years. His own brand of loaves and fishes.

Today, though, Faith feared his words would be minimized by a delivery that was not up to his usual. He had stumbled during the Call to Worship and again when reading the General Thanksgiving. She only hoped he could get through the entire service.

Sherman was done and stepped down, resuming his seat across the aisle from Faith. Front row right. He glanced her way and lifted an eyebrow.

She hated him.

It had been his idea to hire an independent CPA who specialized in nonprofits to do the annual financial review. It had always been done in house prior to this year. She found herself wondering why he had not merely suggested it, but insisted on it. “Good business practice” was his oft-repeated rationale. But a church wasn’t a business! During those discussions, Tom had come home from vestry meetings alternately furious and exhausted. “It’s a total waste of money! What does the man think? That Mr. Brown has a Swiss bank account?” Mr. Brown was the sexton.

Sherman prevailed. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d been such a successful CEO and now here were the results.

Faith directed her gaze to the early spring flowers—jonquils, tulips, and daffodils in pale yellows and ivories—that graced the altar in memory of Ursula’s late husband, who had died at this time years before Faith had come to Aleford. She was sorry neither Ursula nor Pix could see them. Especially Pix, she thought, feeling a bit selfish. A terrible time to be away. Sam Miller, one of Boston’s most esteemed lawyers, would make quick work of this mess. Well, he’d be back in less than a week and surely nothing would happen that fast. She thought about that raised eyebrow and the smug look on Sherman’s face as he left the pulpit. Maybe Tom should call Sam. But it would spoil the family’s happy time meeting the new in-laws. No, better to wait, unless things took a turn for the worse. The whole business was preposterous. Her emotions seesawed between extreme anger and extreme fear. In her anger mode, she wanted to leap across the aisle and smack that self-satisfied smile off Sherman’s face. The fear mode was keeping her seated. She had no doubt the man was a formidable enemy. He’d be charging her with assault and battery as soon as her hand had left a mark.

Charges. Embezzlement was a crime. It all came down to that. Last night Tom had tried out a number of scenarios to account for the missing money and none of them worked. It all came down to him.

Sherman. Was it mere coincidence that the discrepancy turned up this year after his push for the independent audit? Could he possibly be involved in some way? A move on his part to discredit—and get rid of—the minister?

She began going over everything once more, her mind only partially on Prayers for the People.

Each year the church allocated a certain amount for the Discretionary Fund to be used as the minister saw fit. At the end of the fiscal year, the minister reported what had been dispersed and how much was left to be rolled over. The only other church record kept was a list in the minister’s files of the amounts, but the list did not include to whom funds had been given or for what.

Faith had a pretty good idea of some of the recipients. A phone call would come; Tom would take off for a hospital, sometimes even a police station. Money for medicine and medical emergencies not covered by insurance, a family member who needed bail, a mortgage payment to avoid foreclosure, and money for the basics of life—fuel and even warm clothing during the bitterly cold months, food always. Some of the money came back; some didn’t. All the transactions were completely confidential.

Besides the church’s contribution, individuals made gifts to the fund in memory of a loved one or in celebration of an event. The Discretionary Fund account was separate from all other church accounts at the bank. Only Tom could sign the checks or use the PIN-protected ATM card.

He had no idea what could account for the huge gap between what he reported and what the bank reported as the total in the account for the last fiscal year. At the meeting, the vestry had asked him to go back over his lists of dispersements for five years. More if he was so inclined. They hoped he would be able to report to them in two weeks. It was Sherman who had suggested the deadline. “So this thing doesn’t drag on too long.”

She stood up for the hymn. “O star of truth, down shining / Thro’ clouds of doubt and fear.” The music filled the church valiantly, and tunefully—except for the inevitable warbling, off-key sopranos. “Though angry foes may threaten”—Faith’s eyes shifted across the aisle. Sherman was adding his alto, that moist red mouth shaped in a perfect oval. Sundays meant three-piece suits from Brooks with a club tie. The few times she’d encountered him on a weekday, he hadn’t strayed far from the fold—khaki pants with knifepoint creases, V-neck sweaters, and casual shirts all with the logo, a plump sheep dangling from a ribbon, the emblem of the Knights of the Golden Fleece, adopted for his store by the first Mr. Brooks in 1818. Sherman Munroe: a wolf in sheep’s clothing?

“I must not faithless be.” Behind her the organ music swelled as it brought the hymn to a close.

“Faithless.” Not a problem. She sat down and turned her face up toward her husband’s as he started his sermon.

She stopped thinking about the rumors that she had earlier imagined building up steam among those seated behind her, ready to envelop Faith and her family.

She stopped thinking about the odious man across the aisle.

She stopped thinking about Ursula and her story; about Niki and her problems; Pix and her insecurities.

She simply listened.

Pix was feeling loopy. She wasn’t used to champagne at breakfast, but the resort was renowned for its champagne brunch, so champagne it was. Mimosas. And the food. She was a little drunk on that, too, starting with dinner last night—crab cakes the size of baseballs for starters followed by chateaubriand and ending with Turtle pie for dessert. The chocolate-pecan variety, not box or snapping ones.

Next to her, Sam was making quick work of eggs Benedict with smoked salmon instead of ham and Dan had asked for seconds on his brioche French toast with caramelized bananas, in addition to all sorts of other delicious things. He’d given his mother a bite and she could taste walnuts plus something else, a hint of rum? She’d opted for her favorite—two eggs over easy—but here served with Timms Mill cheese grits and a local hickory-smoked sausage. She loved breakfast food, but usually her meal consisted of hastily consumed yogurt, some fruit, and toast.

The men were all heading for the golf course and the women were due at the spa for a full day of manicures, pedicures, facials, and massages. Pix kept her nails short, and the last time they’d seen polish was for Sam’s sister’s big anniversary party last fall. They were clean, though. She’d never had a massage and wished she could ask Faith what to expect. She assumed she’d have to get fully or partially undressed and she’d hate to make a mistake. What if you were supposed to take only some things off and she was in the buff? At this thought she realized the champagne had definitely gone to her head. A massage mistake? She’d just do whatever Samantha did. Samantha would know. Her glass had been refilled by an unseen hand and she almost drained it before she remembered the alcoholic content of what she was starting to believe was the best orange juice she’d ever had. Fizzy.

The bride and groom—or was that the bride- and groom-to-be?—looked so happy. They’d both ordered huevos rancheros. Obviously they were meant for each other.

She looked at her watch. Twelve-thirty. Faith might be home from church if she’d cut her appearance at coffee hour short as she occasionally gave herself permission to do.

“Will you excuse me a moment? Please don’t get up,” she said.

Southern men had such beautiful manners and it had instantly rubbed off on her own husband and sons as soon as they’d arrived at the resort. Doors were opened, chairs pulled out, and when she or any of the other women rose, they all rose as one. A girl could get used to this stuff, Pix thought.

Heading for the ladies’ room, she ducked instead into an unoccupied hallway leading away from the main dining room and pulled out her phone. Bless Samantha and her insistence on the family calling plan when she’d left for college. Pix couldn’t imagine what she’d done before she had a cell phone. She’d already talked to Dora twice since arriving and was reassured that Mother was doing fine. Faith had called after her visit yesterday to report the same. And it was Faith she speed-dialed now.

But she didn’t want to talk about Ursula. Or what one wears for a massage.

The parsonage answering machine picked up. Drat. Faith must still be at church.

“Hi, um, it’s me. Or I, whichever.” Pix hated leaving messages. She always felt self-conscious. “Anyway, give me a call when you get a chance. Everything’s okay. Just, well, call me.” She realized she’d been whispering. Very Deep Throat.

She returned to the table after going into the ladies’ room and washing her hands. To do otherwise would have been dishonest, and there wasn’t a deceitful bone in Pix’s body. Although, as Faith had told her soon after they realized they were going to be best friends not just forever, but since they lived next door, for every day, “You couldn’t tell a lie to save your face, just the rest of the world’s.”

The men stood up. Dan pulled out his mother’s chair, first picking up the napkin the waiter had refolded and handing it to her.

Yes, a girl could get used to all this, but it could also get to be a little weird. “Weird” didn’t even begin to cover it. She knew the champagne was muddling her thoughts. There were a lot to muddle.

Outside, the view looked as if the South Carolina Tourist Board had ordered it up. The sea and sky had been painted with one brush, a brush dipped in shimmering aquamarine. There wasn’t a single cloud in the sky. Instead it seemed they’d all descended in a blinding white layer on the smooth curve of the beach at the foot of the lawn that stretched out from the resort’s veranda, which was adorned with a long, beckoning row of rocking chairs. Pix thought about the dreary landscape she’d left, when? Just yesterday? Driving past palms and flowering shrubs from the airport, she had relaxed for the first time since the doctor had called with the news about her mother. The Harbour Town Lighthouse, striped like a fat candy cane, looked like a child’s sweet. The Cohens had booked it for a sunset reception for the last night. Friends and family were driving from Charleston and other places to officially toast the betrothed couple. Pix was sure the view would be spectacular. The weather was cooperating and the forecast promised not a drop of rain. She sighed when she thought about all the preparations that were going into this wedding celebration. Maybe Samantha would elope.

The Millers had arrived before the Cohens, and Pix had stretched out on the chaise on their own private patio while everyone else had hit the beach. She wished Faith could see the room—a bed that must be larger than a king with a tentlike canopy and plenty of comfy, overstuffed armchairs piled with bright pillows. The bath was the size of one of her kid’s bedrooms, complete with a rain forest shower and a whirlpool, both of which she intended to try as often as possible. But first she had closed her eyes just for a minute. . . .

There had been a scramble to get dressed and down to dinner. All her dread at meeting her future in-laws had returned and fortunately Samantha had stopped by, since Pix had completely forgotten to change her flats for heels.

Miles away from last night and at the brunch table, Pix absentmindedly drained the rest of her mimosa.

“Surely you aren’t going to ignore the chef’s famous sticky buns, Pix? You’re in pecan country now,” said Mrs. Cohen. No, it was “Cissy.” They were all on a first-name basis as soon as they’d greeted each other. Apparently “Sister” was a common nickname in households like Mrs. Cohen’s where she’d been the only girl growing up with two brothers. And her given name was Cynthia. It certainly wasn’t any more unusual than “Pix.” She had been tiny at birth, and Pix’s father had referred to his new baby girl as his little pixie, a name promptly adopted by everyone and soon shortened to Pix. It no longer applied by the time she was two, and by the time she was fifteen and grazing the six-foot mark, it was ludicrous, but it had stuck. Given that Ursula had named her daughter Myrtle after both a favorite aunt and the ground cover with tiny purple blossoms, Pix had opted for the lesser of two evils, jealous of the Debbies and Margies in her class.

“Another mimosa to go with the bun?” asked Dr. Cohen, ever solicitous. His bedside manner was faultless. Pix put her hand firmly over her glass at the thought. At all her thoughts.

“No, thank you, Steve, I’ll pass,” she said, aware that she was speaking very distinctly. Loopy, yes, she was loopy and it was starting to give her the giggles.

Stephen Cohen, M.D. Her son’s father-in-law-to-be. She glanced at her watch. She should have left the message on Faith’s cell instead of the parsonage phone.

Stephen Cohen.

Steve. Her Steve.

Most Sundays, whether by prior invitation or as a result of an impulse on Tom’s or Faith’s part, the Fairchilds had guests at their Sunday dinner table. Happily, thought Faith, today was an exception. The other exception was staying at coffee hour until the bitter end. And if the coffee was anything to go by, the bitter dregs. She’d sent Amy home with Ben as soon as Sunday school had let out, ushering them through the side door and watching them cross the cemetery until they disappeared into the parsonage through the back door. Ignoring their disappointment at having to forgo the tomato juice and Ritz crackers offered up for First Parish’s smaller fry (she had not managed to make even the slightest change in coffee hour from this to the choice of Triscuits and orange cheese or Vanilla Wafers for the grown-ups), she resolutely stood by her man and smiled until her mouth hurt.

At last, Tom and she walked out into the fresh air. She took his hand.

“For the moment, two choices. After some lunch, we can sit down and start trying to figure this all out. Or we can go off somewhere with the kids and try to forget it for a few hours. Which one?”

“Door number two,” Tom said, pulling her closer to his side as they made their way between the rows of headstones with their lugubrious epitaphs. She always walked quickly by “As you pass by / And cast an eye / As you are now / So once was I” and slowed to consider what “She did what she could” might have meant to the survivor who commissioned it carved on the plain slate devoid of the angels or ghoulish figures so popular with those who practiced the art of gravestone rubbing. Faith did have a favorite epitaph, a more modern one. Her father had sent it to her after a parishioner had come across it on a trip: “Here lies an Atheist / All dressed up / And no place to go.”

They’d reached the parsonage and stopped before going in.

“In any case,” Tom said, “until I talk to the bank, all our speculation is just that. I need to compare my records to theirs.”

“Okay, where to?” Faith was relieved that Tom had picked what she thought was the better course of action. She intended to get to the bottom of all this, but she needed more information. The first thought that had crossed her mind after Tom’s announcement was that somehow the theft had occurred when Tom was ill. It was where she planned to start, anyway. She was already making a list in her mind. Who had taken over what?

“It’s a good day for kites. Crane Beach?” he suggested. “Bring Frisbees, too?”

Crane Beach was a wonderful nature preserve up on the North Shore in Ipswich. The kites would soar with terns and other seabirds. As for the Frisbees, it would be a fun challenge tossing them in the wind and keeping them from the waves.

“Perfect. I’ll pack snacks while you and the kids have some of the borscht I took out of the freezer last night. We just need to heat it up. There’s still some of that dark rye to go with it.”

Faith had made vats of borscht last August with the succulent beets from the garden of her Sanpere neighbor Edith Watts. Faith’s secret was using red onions and adding a red bell pepper. The color of the soup was glorious and she’d swirl some low-fat sour cream on top in the spiderweb pattern the kids loved. The Fairchilds had altered their diet somewhat since Tom’s illness and Faith found there were things, like regular sour cream, that could be replaced with low fat or low sodium without a loss in flavor. Not butter, though. Real butter. She was with Julia on that one.

She noticed the light on the message machine was blinking and she was tempted to ignore it. Her clerical training was too strong, however, and she pushed the button. Being a man or woman of the cloth meant you were always on call.

It was Pix and she sounded as if she were phoning from the bottom of a well. Faith increased the volume and played the message again. It was typical Pix Miller. Much hemming and hawing and no information. This one was unusually cryptic, though. Faith knew Ursula was fine and Pix had made a point of saying that everything at Sea Pines was okay when she’d called after her arrival. Probably a sudden need for wardrobe advice. Except Samantha was there. Faith took out her cell and called.

“Hi, I just got your message. What’s up?”

“Everything’s great and this place is really lovely—the views, the room, and you would love the food. We just finished a fabulous brunch.”

“You’re with people, right?”

“Absolutely. And the guys are all about to hit the links, what ho, while we womenfolk get massages, the works.”

Pix was sounding like a cross between P. G. Wodehouse and Zane Grey. “The links, what ho”? “Womenfolk”?

“Mimosas at brunch?” Faith asked.

Pix was an even cheaper date than Tom when it came to booze and had been known to get slightly tipsy on her mother’s rum cake.

“Yes, several.”

“Well, you certainly sound cheery. Now, maybe I can guess why you’re calling. The massage? I don’t think you’ve ever had one, have you?”

“That’s right, and yes, Samantha is going with us.”

“So that’s not it.”

“Nope.”

“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”

Entertaining as the conversation was, Faith wanted to get going.

Pix lowered her voice. “Much, much bigger.”

“Ah, a person. And he or she is there, so call me when you can talk. We’re off to Crane Beach to fly kites.”

“Keep an eye out for a snow owl. They might still be there.”

“Of course,” Faith assured her friend, although this had been most definitely the furthest thought from her mind. But it was the kind of thing Tom got excited about. Bird-watching. A New England trait inbred along with a love of Indian pudding and touch football. She made a mental note to tuck some binoculars and the Sibley bird guide in the canvas tote she’d packed.

“Coming,” Pix called to her unseen companions. “I’ve got to go, but . . . well, I’ll call later.”

“Have fun, sweetie,” Faith said, “and I hope they keep the champagne flowing. You deserve it.”

Although the weather was fine and a pale sun shone, the sky and sea at Ipswich were a single shade of gray, almost indistinguishable from the color of the sand as the tide ebbed. The children’s kites joined others, rising and falling in brilliant streaks. Tom and Faith walked along the tidemark toward a rocky outcropping in the direction of Castle Hill, a magnificent early-twentieth-century estate open in the warmer months for tours and concerts. Faith had catered events there and it was an exquisite setting, especially at night, the house sitting high on a bluff above the sea, with long views of the North Shore coastline.

Crane Beach was no Sanibel, but soon Faith’s pockets were filled with tiny whelk shells and bits of beach glass.

There had been no sign of any snow owls, but plenty of the terns, gulls, and plovers. Tom had the binoculars around his neck.

After determinedly talking about everything except that which was uppermost in their minds, Tom finally said, “Okay. I’ve gone over and over the past year, all the money I’ve given out—it’s not hard to recall things that are emergencies like this—and I keep coming up with the figure I gave them. No more, no less. Well, we won’t discuss it now.”

Faith stopped and faced him, forcing him to a standstill also. “It’s like a sore in your mouth. You want to keep your tongue from touching it, but you always do. And it’s always still there. I think we should be discussing this whenever we feel like it and especially as soon as you get back from the bank tomorrow morning.”

“Someone there may be able to shed some light on the whole thing, I hope, but we’ll have to wait to talk it over. It’s one of my days at the VA hospital,” Tom said. He took his wife’s hand and they turned around, walking slowly back toward Ben and Amy, eyes still trained on the sand the way people do when they walk on a beach.

Faith had forgotten about the VA. Tom was one of the volunteer chaplains there.

“It could be someone at the bank. And he or she could be dipping into more accounts than just yours,” Faith said.

Tom shook his head. “I suppose it’s possible, but somehow I don’t think that’s it. Everyone’s been there for ages and—well—they know their clients.”

Hawthorne Bank and Trust did have branches in several localities, but was scarcely on a scale with Bank of America. There was a bowl of Tootsie Pops on the counter in front of the two teller windows and the bank sent you a birthday card each year signed by everyone at the branch. You were greeted by name. But Faith wasn’t so sanguine. It didn’t mean the individuals who worked there were immune to corporate greed, although there had been no signs of any bailouts, which seemed to be the signature of this sort of activity these days.

And as for knowing their clients, that might be why Tom’s account had been selected. Tom, well respected in the community, a safe target. Or simply because of the nature of the account. This wasn’t the first time that Faith had marveled at her husband’s innate trust of his fellow man and woman. As for herself, she planned to stop by and start a conversation about vacation destinations. See who’d been on a cruise lately or planning one of those expensive tours of Egypt. The Boston Museum of Fine Arts had mounted a blockbuster Egyptian exhibit, “The Secrets of the Tomb,” and suddenly half the population of Massachusetts seemed to be heading for the Nile and the rest were reading or rereading Alan Moorehead.

“The big question is whether the money was taken in cash from the ATM or in checks,” Faith said.

“I’ve been thinking that, too. I get a copy of any checks cashed with my statements and they’re all in a binder locked in one of the file cabinets in my office. When I need to distribute some cash, I go to the machine, but there’s a record of that, of course, and I save the slips in the same binder attached to the appropriate statement.”

“Tom, when is the last time you went over the statements?”

He looked up—and then down. “I’ve been meaning to . . .” His voice took on a defensive quality. “So much piled up when I was sick and there’s never been a problem with the account. In the past I used to go over them for the end-of-the-year report and maybe a few times in between.”

“And it wasn’t something you could delegate to the parish assistant.”

“No.”

Soon after Tom’s arrival, the parish secretary had been renamed the parish administrative assistant. For many years the post had been ably filled by Rhoda Dawson, who moonlighted on her days off as Madame Rhoda, Psychic Reader. Where was she now when they needed her? Faith wished ruefully. The last she’d heard Rhoda had moved to Sedona and had branched out into aura photography. The post was then filled by Pat Collins for several years. Last winter she’d joyously announced her engagement. She got married soon after and accompanied her military spouse to his new posting at Fort Drum in New York. This year’s Christmas card had brought news of a baby due in July. Neither woman would have had access to the particulars of the fund, but somehow Faith’s instinct told her that they’d know what had happened—or it wouldn’t have happened in the first place. Maybe.

Most men are very bad with change and her husband was no exception. Tom grumbled even as he toasted Pat at the party the Fairchilds threw for the couple. An ad was placed and the Aleford grapevine alerted. Tom hated all the candidates. They weren’t Rhoda or Pat. Finally a friend at the Harvard Divinity School, where Tom had taught during a sabbatical several years ago, told him about Albert Trumbull.

Albert had been in one of Tom’s classes and he’d liked the young man—bright and headed for a parish ministry. They’d kept in touch for a while after Tom left. The last Tom had heard Albert had decided to get a doctor of theology degree. And then, he’d abruptly applied for a leave. He’d been looking for a job other than at CVS while he tried to decide what his calling really was.

Tom had gotten in touch with him immediately. No better place to be while you decided whether you wanted to be in a parish than actually in a parish. Albert had arrived and stayed.

“Albert is going to be very upset about all this,” Tom said.

“Should you call him when we get home? Give him a heads-up? He’s bound to hear the moment he comes to work tomorrow.” Faith didn’t know the young man very well. He lived in Cambridge and had continued to attend Memorial Church in Cambridge with the minister the Reverend Peter Gomes, limiting his First Parish contact to workdays.

“You’re right. I hate to do it by phone, though.”

“Tell him what’s going on briefly and have him come in early. You can head over to the Minuteman Café to drown your sorrows in coffee and buttermilk pancakes. You’ll need plenty of sustenance before you go to the bank.”

Tom slung his arm over his wife’s shoulders. He was feeling better and he could tell from her suggestion that she was, too. When Faith’s thoughts turned in their natural direction—food—he always knew she was okay. A mix-up of some sort. That’s all this would turn out to be. He was beginning to think it was a good thing Sherman had brought in the outside CPA and this had come to the vestry’s attention. Keep church business on the up and up. It would all get straightened out tomorrow.

They were both reluctant to end the day and sat watching the kids.

Faith had told Tom a little of what Ursula had related the day before and they talked some more about it, both agreeing that Faith should try to spend as much time as possible with her while Pix was away. Wherever the story was going, it was obviously of great importance to Ursula, and it could only help her recovery to have a sympathetic listener. Tom had been as surprised as Faith to hear that Ursula was not an only child. She had often mentioned her parents to Tom, as well as cousins she’d been close to, all of them gone now, but never a brother.

Their conversation turned to Niki.

“I’m worried about her,” Tom said. “I wish she’d tell Phil right away. Okay, it’s not the best time to break the news, but the longer she waits the worse he’s going to feel when he does find out. If it were me, I’d be upset that my wife didn’t think I could handle it all. And this isn’t macho stuff. Partners, best friends, plus all those words that get said at the altar. You don’t keep secrets from each other.”

Faith had a very fleeting moment of remorse, remembering secrets she had kept from Tom, mostly having to do with dead bodies, but never secrets about things like a future visit from the stork.

“Absolutely, honey,” she said.

The next morning Amy missed her bus again, and after dropping her off at school, Faith arrived at work feeling annoyed with her daughter. This was happening more and more frequently. Amy seemed to have no concept of time, and Faith hated playing the heavy, telling her to hurry up over and over again each morning.

The Ganley Museum Café was closed, like the museum, on Mondays, but Faith wanted to make up two soups—squash with apples and mulligatawny—for tomorrow. Other than the Ganley, the only obligation the catering firm had until the weekend was a dessert buffet for a library fund-raiser. Have Faith was doing it at cost. Libraries were a special passion of Faith’s starting in childhood with her neighborhood branch in Manhattan and continuing to the present with Aleford’s superlative library. Cutbacks both on the state and town level meant that the library had taken a hit, hence the pressing need for fund-raisers of all sorts. The tickets for the event Thursday night included desserts, beverages, and the opportunity to mingle with a number of local authors who would be signing their books—a portion of the sales would go to the library, too. Exposure for the writers, money for the library—win, win. And it wouldn’t hurt Have Faith, either. They’d been prominently featured in the advertising. Niki was planning to feature several trays of rich butter cookies shaped like volumes and brightly iced with the titles of well-known books, including those by the attending authors. She was also doing several kinds of cakes that would look like fanned-out pages.

Niki was at the counter surrounded by springform pans. She greeted Faith with a grin.

“Never let it be said that my mother shirks from any opportunity to help her children. And said help has resulted in a multitude of orders for cheesecakes. Saturday night was Ladies’ Night at bingo. I don’t even want to think about how she got these orders, but I understand threat of the evil eye may have been involved.”

Faith was relieved to hear the old Niki, and her lighthearted tone must also mean she’d told Phil the news.

“I’m sure Phil was overjoyed about being a dad. What did he say? And any nibbles from the networking golf? That’s not the right word, but I don’t know what else to use. Divots?”

“Turns out the guy is about to lose his job and he was hoping Phil had nibbles, divots, or whatever, for him.”

“Oh dear,” Faith said, hanging up her jacket.

“And I haven’t told Phil yet,” Niki mumbled.

“Oh dear,” Faith said again. She pulled a stool over to the counter and sat down.

“You don’t understand,” Niki said. No mumbling now. She spoke defiantly. “A Greek man’s whole identity is based on his work, his being able to take care of his family. At the moment, Phil only has a wife—an employed wife—so, not so much pressure. I’m not going to burden him with this until he at least has a viable offer.”

“Not to be pessimistic, but you’re the one who said how bad the job market in the Boston area is right now for MBAs. It could be a while. And what happens when he finds out that you’ve kept it from him all that time?” Faith recalled what Tom had said. “You’re supposed to be partners—for better or worse. How will he feel when he discovers you’ve been going solo?”

“I don’t know and I’m not thinking about it now! I’m just going to make and deliver these cakes!” Tears were streaming down Niki’s cheeks. “Damn. Can you get me a Kleenex? I don’t want salt dripping in the batter.”

Faith pulled a carton from under the counter and moved the bowl away.

“I cry all the time when Phil isn’t around,” Niki admitted.

“Hormones,” Faith said, stirring. It was hormones, but it was also Faith’s words. She’d made her friend cry. “Look, you do what you think is best. I shouldn’t be pressuring you. You know what’s right for the two of you. Maybe it’s a Greek thing, maybe not—”

Niki interrupted her. “Forget ‘best.’ I have no idea what I’m doing, boss. And don’t shut up. Besides being creepily unnatural for you, I need to hear the other side. You could be right. You’re probably right. Oh, I don’t know.”

“Go wash your face and I’ll help you finish the cheesecakes and then we can get the Ganley stuff for tomorrow squared away. I’m spending the afternoon with Ursula.”

“How is she doing?”

“Much better, and I’m hoping by the time Pix comes back, she’ll be on her feet again.”

“Pix at Hilton Head. It sounds like some kind of book. You know, like The Bobbsey Twins at the Seashore. My mother bought the whole series at some rummage sale when she first got here. She thought it was what American girls should read. I’m surprised I’m not named Nan or Flossie.”

“I talked to Pix on the phone yesterday. She’d left one of her cryptic messages on the answering machine. I still don’t know what it’s all about. She couldn’t talk and was going to call back, but so far no word from the South except that she’d been drinking mimosas, was going to have her first massage, and had encountered something larger than a breadbox, most likely a person, that she wanted to tell me about.”

“Mimosas,” Niki said wistfully. “No booze for the next eight or so months. You hear that, kid? Mommy’s already sacrificing.” She paused. “Omigod, I sound just like my mother.”

It’s a great deal to ask, Ursula Lyman Rowe said to herself as she waited for Faith Fairchild to arrive. She thought of the envelope tucked under the cushion of the window seat opposite her bed. She fancied she could see its shape outlined in the William Morris fabric slipcovering, and if she stared at it long enough she might make the paper rise, burning its way through the linen to the surface.

There’s no turning back now, though. She knew Faith. She wouldn’t let Ursula stop the story. She knew it was something important. Yet, what she didn’t know was that at the end she’d have to make a decision herself.

Ursula sat up straighter. Tomorrow she’d insist that Dora let her sit up in her chair. The overstuffed armchair that Arnold had lugged home from an auction downtown. “A perfect reading chair,” he’d said. And so it had been, by oneself or to a child curled comfortably on one’s lap.

She was feeling better. Saturday night she had slept straight through until morning, not needing Dora to help her to the bathroom and especially not awakening unable to return to sleep—her mind filled with upsetting images.

She heard light steps in the hall. Faith had come.

“Hello, dear. It’s so good of you to give up your time this way.”

Faith bent over to kiss Ursula’s cheek.

“It’s a pleasure,” she said, and meant it. She’d been looking forward to stepping back into Ursula’s long-ago world all day, and not simply as a distraction from the preoccupations of this one. Tom had called to tell her briefly there wasn’t much to tell. He’d go over it with her later.

“Open up my top dresser drawer,” Ursula said. “At the bottom of my handkerchief box, there’s a folder with a photograph. Would you bring it here, please?”

Faith did as she was asked. The box was square and covered in quilted satin that must have once been a brighter rose. A long narrow box that matched it was on the other side of the drawer. Gloves.

She lifted the lid and then carefully removed the stack of embroidered Irish linen handkerchiefs Ursula kept there, along with one of the sachets she and Pix made each summer from the lavender they grew in their herb garden at The Pines on Sanpere. Underneath was the flat cardboard folder with the name of a Boston photography studio in fancy script across the front. Faith took it out, replaced everything, closed the drawer, and walked back over to Ursula.

“Open it up,” she said.

Inside was a sepia oval portrait of a man. Just his face. His hair was carefully parted in the middle and he was staring straight at the camera. Although he wasn’t smiling—it looked to be a graduation shot or some other momentous occasion—the curve at the corners of his mouth and a glint in his eye suggested that the moment after the shutter snapped, he’d jump up laughing. There was a subtle energy in the face. He was very handsome—and very young.

“That’s Theo,” Ursula said.

Her next words took Faith completely by surprise.

“Have you ever been to Martha’s Vineyard?”

Bewildered at Ursula’s sudden change in topic, Faith answered, “Yes, I’ve been to Martha’s Vineyard, but I don’t know it well.”

Fleeting images of freshly painted white clapboard, bright red geraniums in hanging baskets, wicker porch furniture, American flags, and a genuine Coney Island carousel where she once snatched the brass ring passed through her mind, as well as the Vineyard’s “Hollywood East” reputation.

“That’s where it happened. On Martha’s Vineyard. In a gazebo.”