The Body in the Gazebo

Chapter 6





Arnold Rowe?

The Arnold Rowe that Ursula Lyman married?

The Arnold Rowe who was the father of Pix Rowe Miller?

As Faith walked home, she took little note of the soft spring dusk with its swelling branches silhouetted against the diminishing daylight. She arrived at her own door without remembering the steps that had taken her there. It seemed as though one minute she’d been sitting in shock next to Ursula and a minute later here she was taking her keys from her jacket pocket.

She did recall a scene in between. Dora had come into the room—almost as if Ursula’s startling revelation had been a cue. She’d seemed to take in the situation with one swift glance and said in a firm nanny’s-here-to-take-charge tone, “Now, we’ve had a lovely long visit with Mrs. Fairchild, but it’s time for a bit of a rest.”

Then she’d walked closer and seen the tears that had filled Ursula’s eyes as she was describing the tragic scene she’d witnessed. She spoke even more sternly. “I’m sure it’s all been very nice, but I think we’ll take it easy tomorrow. I’m sure Mrs. Fairchild could come back Friday or Saturday.”

Faith had felt chastened, although at the same time she thought she hadn’t done anything. But who had? What had happened in the short time that young Ursula had been asleep? And an even more pressing question: What had happened in the days, months, and years following? It was absurd to think that somehow Ursula had met another man with the same name and married him.

She’d leaned over and kissed Ursula’s soft cheek before leaving.

“I’m fine,” Ursula had murmured. “Dora’s a benevolent despot, thank goodness, and if you could come back later this week, I’ll continue.”

“I’m afraid this is too upsetting for you.” Faith had been and still was concerned. Surely the tale had reached its climax and, hence, the end.

Ursula had shaken her head emphatically. “No, please. We have to finish. I need your help. . . .”

At that point Dora’s efficient manner propelled Faith out of the room, down the stairs, and onto the sidewalk before Ursula could say another word.

There it was again. The mention of needing help. But for what? Faith was mystified. The crime had occurred some eighty-odd years ago when Ursula was in her early teens. Still considered a child in that era, even more so because of her privileged and protected upbringing. Things were so different now. The other day when Faith had picked Ben up at school, there had been a group of girls—total fashionistas—waiting in front for rides. Some had adopted the Japanese schoolgirl look, complete with eyeliner to make their eyes appear as large as the waifs in manga. Others were going for Miley Cyrus as Hannah Montana with skimpy tees and plenty of pink glitter. Their cell phones seemed welded to their hands like some sort of new life-form appendages, and their pocketbooks were the size of steamer trunks. They didn’t carry knapsacks. What they did carry in common was an air of supreme self-confidence and independence. Faith wanted to believe that below the surface there was at least a little angst, but she wouldn’t bet on it. No one would ever describe these girls as children, and the fact that their counterparts were gracing the pages of Vogue and other fashion magazines at this tender age reinforced the image. An image she hoped she could help Amy avoid while guiding her through the rocky shoals known as adolescence. Even the geek girls—in their own tight group as far away from the others as possible—had their iPhones attached and requisite suburban goth garb. Faith thought of Ursula curled up asleep next to the gazebo as the horrific events of that night progressed. Today’s girl—wearing an oversized T-shirt instead of a long white cotton nightdress—would have called 911, tweeted, and posted on Facebook in a matter of seconds.

She looked at her watch. It was six-thirty, and stepping into the parsonage she was greeted with the scent of oregano. It signaled Tom’s standby meal and one he was always happy to have an excuse to order: a large pizza with extra sauce, roasted peppers, Italian sausage, heavy on the oregano, from his friend Harry at Country Pizza, Aleford’s one and only concession to fast food, and vastly superior.

“We’re in the kitchen, Mom,” Amy called out.

It was a happy scene. Faith got a plate and cutlery, and sat down, pleased to note that Tom, or one of the kids, had also made a big salad. What she wasn’t pleased to note was the line on Tom’s forehead that always surfaced when he was troubled.

“How’s Ursula?” he asked.

“When I got there she was sitting up in that big chair by the window and dressed.” Faith had been delighted to see Ursula in her habitual Liberty-print blouse and poplin skirt from Orvis. “Steady improvement these last days—by the time Pix comes home, she may even be out dividing her hostas or delving into some other planting chore.” Faith was a little sketchy about gardening schedules. Tom was the one who got his hands dirty, and when he was pressed for time, Pix pitched in, saying there wasn’t enough to do in her backyard, which was an out-and-out lie, since at the height of the season it resembled an outpost of White Flower Farm or Wayside Gardens. Faith’s knowledge of seasonal blooms was strictly governed by what appeared in the beds in Central Park or on the wide median strip down Park Avenue.

“It’s a busy week for me with the library fund-raiser tomorrow night and the Tillies on Friday,” she said. “I’m not sure when I’m going to be able to visit her again. We’ll see what Saturday looks like.”

This was one of those times when Faith wished early on she’d adopted the European custom of feeding the children first and whisking them off to bed, or homework at this stage. The weight of what Ursula had just told her was palpable and she needed to share it with Tom. She also needed to know what was causing his telltale furrow. The phone rang and he jumped up. “I’ll take it in my study.” Not a good sign.

It could be one of Tom’s groupies asking him to arbitrate on the crucial debate over the kind of flowers the Sunday school children should receive on Easter—pots of pansies or bulb plants?—or a parishioner complaining about last Sunday’s choice of hymns. Faith was hoping it was this type of call, ordinarily ones that caused her to wish Tom had opted for a different line of work, used-car salesman, insurance agent, tap dancer, anything but the clergy. Tonight she’d take the interruptions as a sign that all was still right with the world at First Parish. They wouldn’t be calling him if they thought he’d had his hand in the till, or rather collection plate. What she feared, however, was that it was one of the vestry, notably Sherman, with more bad news.

The kids were finished eating. “Put your dishes in the sink. I’ll clean up, so you can get a start on your homework. And Amy, please put out what you plan to wear tomorrow—it’s going to be a sunny day. No more missing the bus because you’re busy trying on outfits.”

“That’s not fair, Mom. I don’t do that. Much,” Amy protested, and left the room in a huff, unusual for her. Faith feared it was a portent of things to come.

Ben was lingering at the sink. “She really doesn’t do that. Did you ever think she might be missing the bus on purpose?”

Faith whirled around and looked her son straight in the eye.

“Benjamin Fairchild, what do you know about this? What’s going on with Amy and the bus?”

Ben shrugged. “I think you should ask her. Much better for parents and kids to have direct communication.”

Faith resisted the impulse to shake him. When had her son morphed into Dr. Phil?

“I intend to do that right away.” She dried her hands and went upstairs. Tom was still on the phone.

She knocked on her daughter’s door before going in.

Amy was sitting at her desk reading.

“What’s up, Mom?”

Her little face looked calm and happy. Maybe Ben was wrong.

“Sweetheart, is there some reason you don’t want to take the bus? Something going on during the ride?”

One look at her daughter’s face told Faith there was. It crumpled and Amy didn’t even try to stifle the sobs that erupted with the suddenness of a summer’s afternoon thunderstorm.

“Is it those girls? The ones on the playground? Are they on your bus? Let’s sit down over here.” Faith awkwardly edged over to the bed, holding her daughter, feeling like a hermit crab. As they sat down, Amy buried her head in her mother’s shoulder.

The sobs subsided; she hiccupped, raised her head, and nodded. Faith realized Ben was standing in the doorway.

“Josh’s brother is on the same bus and he told Josh and Josh told me, but Amy didn’t want you to know. I guess she thought you could just keep driving her in the morning, and you usually pick her up after school for dumb ballet or something.”

“I told you not to tell, Ben!” Amy shouted at this convenient surrogate target.

“I didn’t; she guessed. Kind of,” he said, and started to walk away.

“Wait a minute,” Faith said. “What else did Josh say?” She was pretty sure she wasn’t going to get very coherent answers from Amy for a while.

“Just that they’re these girls who think they’re very hot. Like they date and stuff already.”

“In third grade!” Faith was truly shocked.

“Well, not date date, but you know, go hang around where older guys are—sixth graders—and text stuff.”

Faith had heard all too much about the craze for “sexting” among teens—sending suggestive photos, some pretty innocent, of girls at a slumber party egging each other on; others not innocent at all.

“Stuff like what?”

Ben gave her a look that told her he knew exactly what she was talking about. After the incidents last fall involving cyberbullying, her son’s expertise in and knowledge of all things microchip was a given.

“Not that stuff. Stupid stuff like pictures of their dogs and cats wearing sunglasses and underwear. Supposed to be cool, but really lame.”

Having dealt with the side issue—upsetting and weird as the image of pets in panties or what-have-you was—Faith got back to the matter at hand.

“Okay, so these girls who think they’re so great, what are they doing to Amy?”

“Mom, I really have to do my homework. Amy will tell you. Just give her a moment.” And he was gone. That avatar who had replaced her son—whom she’d previously thought was clueless about social interactions—was a guy after all. She was going to have to rearrange these thoughts from now on. Ben had quite suddenly become very savvy. Faith gave Amy a moment.

“These girls are teasing you. Only you?”

Amy nodded.

“Do you know why?”

Amy took a deep breath. “None of my friends are on my bus. It’s just me. On the playground, there are more of us.”

Simple math.

“And what are they saying?”

“I don’t know. Well, like I smell bad and lately something else.” Amy’s voice dropped.

Faith waited.

“They keep saying that they watched me salute the flag in assembly and that I need a bra.”

“Mean girls” didn’t even begin to come close. Amy was as flat as a board, concave in fact, and here they were suggesting she was feeling herself up! Faith was ready to get names and get even. She tried to remember the yoga-breathing thing for calming down that her friend Patsy had taught her.

“A lot of girls in my class have bras, Mom.”

“If you want, we can go to Macy’s tomorrow after school.”

Amy brightened considerably.

“But,” Faith continued, “I’m not sure this will solve the bus problem.”

“I could let them see a strap,” Amy suggested.

Faith knew these girls even if her sweet daughter didn’t. “They’ll find something else, I’m afraid. How about tomorrow morning sit in the front seat right behind the driver?”

“I can try, but usually Stacy Schwartz is there and I don’t really know her. She’s in fourth grade.”

“Sit with her,” Faith said. Stacy was probably seeking protection, too. “And I’ll think about this some more.” Plus she’d call the school again.

“But we can still go to Macy’s?”

“We can still go to Macy’s.”

Leaving her children to their labors and thankful, as always, that she had left this sort of thing far behind, Faith went downstairs to finish cleaning up in the kitchen. The door to the study was closed. She put her ear to it and Tom was still on the phone. She hadn’t heard the phone ring, so it was the same call. While she hoped it was not a serious matter—death, disease—she also hoped for a minor crisis, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the Minister’s Discretionary Fund.

As she wiped the counter, she heard the study door open. Tom came into the kitchen.

“That was Sam. I left a message for him earlier to give me a call, asking him to call as soon he got back to Aleford.”

Faith was relieved. Sam must have had to come back early for some reason and now he could help deal with all this. The Hilton Head group had been due to split up tomorrow morning, with the ladies heading to Charleston for the bridal shower; the rest returning to jobs and school.

Faith’s respite from worry was short-lived.

“Sam isn’t going to be back in Aleford until the middle of next week at the earliest,” Tom said. “He has to go to California to depose a number of people involved in the class action suit the firm has been working on since last fall. He’s the only one not in court right now.”

“So this means . . . ?”

“This means I told him everything that’s been going on, and as soon as he’s back—unless by one of God’s miracles it’s all been cleared up—he’ll go over everything. I’ve retained him as my lawyer, Faith. He advised I do so and I thought it was a good idea.”

Ever since Tom had broken the news, Faith had been avoiding the harsh reality of the situation he was in. The word “lawyer” brought it into sharp focus. She moved closer to her husband and put her arms around him.

“Sam will take care of it,” she said. “This is what he does. He’ll see something everyone, even the bank, has missed. What else did he say?”

“He pretty much asked me the same questions you did—who had access to the file, the keys. He also wondered if I’d been aware of anyone standing behind me when I used the ATM. Apparently there’s this thing called ‘shoulder surfing’—stealing someone’s PIN by looking over his or her shoulder when they enter it. There are other ways, too, but he didn’t go into them. I’m trying to think back, but it’s hard. That ATM area at the bank is pretty small and sometimes people are filling out deposit slips while you’re using the machine or just waiting their turns. I’ve done it myself.”

She should have thought of this! Someone hacking into Tom’s account! Several years ago when Faith had taught a cooking for dummies course during the project week at Mansfield Academy, a local prep school, she’d met Zach Cummings, a computer whiz—although there must be some other techie term that was more precise, and colorful. Since then they’d stayed in touch. While she’d been at Mansfield she became involved in a murder investigation. Zach, innocent of any wrongdoing, had been pulled into the chaos. He was at MIT now and she’d e-mail him tonight. She felt hopeful again, and also a bit as if she were riding one of those Martha’s Vineyard carousel horses—up, down, up, down, all in the space of a few seconds. Yes, a hacker. This had to be it. The unknown stranger. The equivalent of a tramp passing through town—or rather in or near town since all the withdrawals were from the same ATM. Tom was merely unlucky. Very unlucky. It was like having your credit card number stolen by a server in a restaurant or someone who identified the card’s numbers from the touch-tones when you used it in a public place like an airport. The ATM didn’t make any noise, or did it?

Tom mentioned “God’s miracles.” Well, sometimes God needed a little help.

“Let’s go sit in the living room,” Tom said. “Kids doing homework?”

“Yes, presumably reading English assignments, although Ben is so eager to make a good impression on the practice teacher, he’s probably composing a sonnet for extra credit.”

Throughout the evening, despite all the other distractions, Ursula had been very much in Faith’s thoughts. She told Tom about Theo’s death and Arnold Rowe’s presence.

“I never met him,” Tom said. “He’d passed away before I came to First Parish, but everything I’ve heard about Arnold Rowe has always made me sorry I didn’t know him. Not just from Ursula and Pix, but others here and on Sanpere.”

“I wish I had, too. But Tom, if there had been any hint of scandal, don’t you think we’d have heard?”

This had been puzzling Faith.

“Not necessarily. It was so long ago and didn’t happen in town. I knew Ursula was born in Boston and had roots there, but it was always my impression that she’d grown up here. Arnold, too. I had no idea she was in her teens, or maybe it was even later, when she moved to Aleford. And we don’t know about her husband. As for Sanpere, there are no secrets on the island, that’s for sure, but once you cross the bridge—or in those days got on the steamer—well, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

Faith nodded in agreement. “I’ve thought of all this, but how and why did their parents keep Theo’s death—his whole life, in fact—and Arnold Rowe’s possible involvement, from Pix and her brother, Arnold junior? You hear a lot of family secrets, but isn’t this a little extreme?” Faith often lamented the fact that Tom’s calling necessitated the keeping of such secrets. Secrets she’d love to know.

“You’d be surprised,” Tom said. “Without going into specifics”—Oh, do just this once, please do! Faith said to herself—“I’ve had people tell me that they’ve just discovered a parent was married before, and with issue, that they had a sibling who died, and yes, an aunt or uncle they never knew existed. One parishioner answered a knock on the door to face her father’s duplicate. Her father had been dead for some years, so you can imagine the shock it gave her. It wasn’t a twin, but a brother two years younger who had been estranged from the rest of the family since he had run off as a teenager. He was never mentioned. There was no way his niece would have known of his existence. What was even stranger was that without ever having any contact with his older brother all those years, he’d adopted the same mannerisms, haircut, style of dress, even the frames of his glasses were identical. For some reason this struck her the most. She kept saying, ‘He was wearing my father’s glasses!’ ”

Family secrets. Tom was right. She could think of some examples, too. And something else could have played a part.

“In this case, don’t you think it’s generational, as well? Parents didn’t tell their children everything the way they tend to now.”

“I imagine when Ursula relates the rest of her story, this may be clearer. Certainly I didn’t know much about the lives of my parents and the rest of the family—or their friends—when I was growing up. The two spheres—adulthood and childhood—touched at mealtimes and a few other points, not the continuous hovering that goes on now.”

“Helicopter parents,” Faith said.

“Exactly, and I hope we’re somewhere in between. Too many secrets isn’t a good thing.”

Faith knew Tom was thinking about last fall. No, too many secrets wasn’t a good thing at all.

She thought of Niki, about Pix, Ursula of course, and someone out there who knew where the missing money was.

Sick with secrets.

Across town Ursula Lyman Rowe was in bed, but not asleep. It wasn’t the moonlight streaming through the window that was disturbing her slumber. It was what was below, under the cushion.

There had been a second letter in today’s mail. Dora had brought it in after Faith left. The long white envelope was mixed in with get well cards and several bills. Ursula opened it first.

There weren’t any clippings this time. Just a single sheet of the same paper with a single sentence in the same hand.

You saw the knife in his hand.





Faith loved the Aleford library. She loved all libraries, starting with the earliest she could remember, the Sixty-seventh Street branch of the New York Public Library. It was one of those endowed by Andrew Carnegie. While the Aleford library had not had Babb, Cook, and Willard, Beaux Arts architects, as the Sixty-seventh Street library had, it was still a gem. Constructed in the early 1920s, the original fieldstone building had been expanded and renovated several times, most recently the children’s room. An anonymous donor had provided the funds for much-needed new furniture, fresh paint, and a wondrous entryway from the main library that transformed a previous small dark corridor into a bright, exotic jungle. The two walls had been mirrored, creating the illusion that the flat rows of lush green plywood foliage placed in front extended for acres. The librarians had fun periodically changing the cutouts of parrots and other creatures that peeped from behind the leaves.

Tonight’s fund-raiser was taking advantage of most of the library’s square footage. Have Faith had set up enough dessert stations so people would be able to nibble at will and not have to stand in line, or jostle each other. Coffee was in reference and there were flutes of prosecco at the circulation desk. Aleford was a dry town and likely to remain so—a package store, a “packy,” in our Aleford!—but dispensation was granted for special events at venues like the library and the Ganley Museum. The Minuteman Café, the café at the Ganley, Country Pizza, and the deli counter at the Shop ’n Save were the only places for food not prepared by individual Alefordians. If you wanted booze with your meal, you had to drive to Concord or Waltham. Lincoln, Aleford’s other abutter, was dry, too, although Faith had heard rumblings about a new restaurant with a liquor license. She’d like to have been a fly on the wall at that town meeting. Whenever the matter came up in Aleford, the picture of inebriated diners careening through the streets of town—diners from “away”—was painted with such broad strokes that those in favor of lifting the ban never stood a chance. The fact that the glass-recycling container at the Transfer Station, the dump, was the size of a boxcar and filled with a far greater number of empty wine and whiskey bottles than jelly jars did not enter into the discussion. Faith would have loved a nice little bistro in town where one could meet friends, have steak frites, and a glass of vin. Not in her lifetime, or rather Millicent’s.

She spied Millicent coming in the front door. She was on the board of the Friends of the Library and involved in tonight’s arrangements. She was carrying a large punch bowl.

“Some of my grandmother Revere’s gunpowder punch—minus the pinch of gunpowder, of course. I’ll put the bowl where you tell me and perhaps one of your helpers can get the punch cups and the containers of punch from my car? I know there’s coffee, but people might like something with a little kick. There’s ginger beer in it.”

She looked at Faith with such patently false disingenuousness that Faith couldn’t help laughing. They both knew the punch was intended not simply to compete with the prosecco, but obliterate it. Gunpowder, indeed.

“All right, Millicent. We’ll put it out alongside the wine and you can dispense it. I’ll send Scott Phelan out to your car. Where is it?”

“In the back, but I’ll need to mingle. I’ll line up some of the Friends to help ladle.”

There was no need to describe Millicent’s car to Scott. It was famous. He worked in a garage and body shop in nearby Byford. Every time he saw Millicent at a function while working for Faith he said the same thing: If there were more people like Millicent, he’d be out of a job. He also said he’d give anything for the car. She had purchased the Rambler in 1963 and drove it so rarely—she could walk most places—that it still looked as if it just came off the showroom floor. Not a scratch, not a dent—nothing to fix. Mint.

As Faith helped Millicent set up, she seized the opportunity to pump her in what she hoped would be a subtle way first about Arnold Rowe and then about Tom.

“It’s a shame Ursula can’t be here tonight. She’s such a fan of David Hackett Fischer’s.” The noted historian would be giving a brief talk and introducing the other invited authors.

“We all are,” Millicent corrected her. His book Paul Revere’s Ride, signed to her, took pride of place next to Millicent’s family Bible.

“I understand Ursula’s husband was quite the history buff also.” Faith felt fairly safe in her assertion. If you lived in Aleford, willingly or not, you were a history buff.

“Oh yes, Arnold was quite a scholar.”

“I’m sorry I never got the chance to meet him. From what I’ve heard he was very interesting.”

Millicent snorted. She was the only person Faith knew, other than certain teenage boys, who made this sound in public. Millicent could get away with it; the boys not.

“If by interesting you mean endlessly gazing at stars, collecting rocks, counting birds, and reading Plato in the original Greek, then yes, Arnold Rowe was interesting. Other than that a rather dull man; Ursula was the one with sparkle. Arnold was nice, but the kind of person nothing much ever happened to. Good in a husband, I suppose. Steady.”

Faith felt as if Millicent had handed her Arnold gift-wrapped. If Millicent had an inkling that there was anything dark in his past, she would not have told Faith about it, but she would have dangled a multitude of tantalizing hints in front of her. Millicent’s Arnold Rowe sounded very respectable, and maybe not too much fun at parties. Faith decided to continue to press her luck.

“Hard for Ursula to have been widowed so long and I don’t believe she has brothers and sisters.”

Millicent didn’t like it when people knew things she knew. “Yes, she was an only child—as was Arnold.” So there.

“I didn’t know that,” Faith said. It was important to keep Millicent happy.

Scott brought the cups and libations and for a while she was busy helping Millicent transfer the contents of several plastic liter bottles into the bowl and floating on top the orange and lemon slices Millicent had brought in an ancient Tupperware container.

“You must try a little.” Millicent beamed.

Faith had sampled the brew on other occasions and it wasn’t bad. While not revealing all of grandmother’s secret ingredients, Millicent had given Faith the basic recipe some years ago. Roughly two-to-one ginger beer to orange juice with grated nutmeg, cinnamon sticks, lemon zest, and possibly the secret ingredient was a dash of clove since Faith could definitely taste it and Millicent never mentioned it. In an earlier day, a pinch of gunpowder was added, which would have imparted an odd flavor—and could not have been good for you. Faith had the idea that the whole thing had originated in England to celebrate Guy Fawkes’s failed attempt to blow up Parliament. In which case, the British—used to vegetables boiled into mush and other treats—would no doubt have welcomed the gunpowder’s kick.

“Delicious. Very refreshing. We should serve this for the parents at church at our end-of-the-year Sunday school picnic. It’s been quite a year at First Parish.”

Faith cast her rod.

And got back a very rusted, very dented tin can.

Millicent looked her in the eye. “I suppose that’s what some people would call an understatement. I hope the Reverend will be here tonight. The important thing is to keep going.”

It was ludicrous to think that Millicent—all Aleford, and even most of Middlesex County—hadn’t heard about Thomas Fairchild, embezzler.

Many miles south, but in the same time zone, Pix Miller was standing outside at the top of the Harbour Town lighthouse looking at the sunset. She was holding a glass of champagne. When she thought back on this stay at Hilton Head, glasses of champagne would figure prominently.

It was their last night and she was sorry. Each day had been a perfect blend of time together and time alone, time alone with Sam. She’d seen dolphins, birds of all sorts, and spectacular sunsets. The one that was stretched out in fiery golds and pinks sinking into the sea in front of her now was the most gorgeous. Or it could be the champagne. A girl could get used to this. She’d been running that phrase through her mind a lot this week, too.

Mother was fine. Better than fine judging from Faith’s and Dora’s daily reports. During the first enthusiastic description of how much Ursula had improved virtually the moment she left town, Pix had been slightly miffed. More than slightly. Why hadn’t Mother shown this kind of progress when her daughter was there? But then Hilton Head, her hosts, having Sam and her children around, and maybe the whole Southern charm thing began to smooth away the rough edges. She had been dreading being in Charleston, shopping, and being on her own without Sam. It was one thing to be on familiar turf like Sanpere and quite another to be someplace completely new. Now she was looking forward to it. And anyway, Samantha would be there.

And Stephen.

The fly in the ointment.

He had not indicated by even the merest flicker of an eye that he recalled Miss Rowe. Maybe Faith was right. Maybe it was a guy thing. She hadn’t told Faith that Sam never forgot a name or face, but he was a lawyer. Different wiring?

The music from the party drifted out. The Cohens had hired a DJ and he was playing everything from the Beatles to Black Eyed Peas.

“Having a good time, Mom?”

It was the groom. She gave him a hug.

“Heavenly, darling. You picked a wonderful girl and a wonderful family.”

“Don’t I know it—and she thinks the same about us.”

Pix grabbed the moment. “Dr. Cohen, I mean Stephen, looks so familiar. Could we have met him before, do you think? Has he said anything?”

Pix blushed. This was not prodding. This was stepping in it.

“Met you and Dad before? I think he would have said something, and I don’t know where. They go to New York City once or twice a year for the museums and opera, but unless you sat next to them at a performance, I wouldn’t think your paths have crossed.”

There it was.

“Your father doesn’t like opera.”

“You don’t, either, you just think you should,” Mark teased her.

She decided to change the subject.

“I’ll be making all the final arrangements for the rehearsal dinner when I get to Charleston. I know the groom doesn’t have much to do, but are you all set?”

“Done and done. Picking up the rings next week, and I’ve ordered silver penknives engraved with each of their initials for the ushers. I got Dan a Swiss Army watch that does a ton of things, including the ability to set multiple alarms—wish I’d had that in college. I’m having something engraved on the back of that, too.”

Much to Pix’s delight, Mark had selected his young brother as his best man.

“He’ll love it.”

“Let’s see what else? I set up spreadsheets so the Cohens could keep track of the RSVPs and separate ones for Becca and me for thank-you notes. My bride says electronic ones are out and is writing them by hand. Plus you’ve seen the Web site, right?”

It was all a little much—spreadsheets? Were the vows going to be in the form of a PowerPoint presentation? Pix was glad Rebecca was old-fashioned enough to nix e-thank-yous.

“You haven’t, have you? Oh Mom, you are such a Luddite! Anyway, it’s not too cutesy. Just one picture of us and the rest info.”

Sam came up on Pix’s other side. He was chewing.

“You have got to go inside and have some of this food. I thought nothing could top last night, but this is something else again!”

The night before, acting on Faith’s advice and with the resort’s help, the Millers had hosted a Low Country boil on the beach for their soon-to-be in-laws. Pix had been dubious—a pot full of what sounded like wildly disparate ingredients: shrimp in their shells, smoked sausage, new potatoes, small rounds of corn on the cob, whole onions, and Old Bay seasoning plus water—but it had been fantastic. Faith had told her it was also called “Frogmore stew,” a South Carolina staple named after the place where it originated, no frogs involved.

“I’m supposed to make notes for Faith about what’s being served. She wants to add a Southern station to her catering offerings.”

“Take my iPhone, Mom. You can snap some pictures and text her the descriptions,” Mark said.

The twenty-first century. Not too shabby. She realized she was echoing her kids’ highest words of praise.

“Give me that thing and show me what to push.”

Mark laughed. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, too, sweetie.”

Soon Pix had captured, and sampled, the buffet: a bountiful raw bar; Charleston crab cakes; shrimp with cheese grits—Boursin, the server told her and she dutifully noted it for Faith—slices of roast pork with apples and dates; wild rice; biscuits with shavings of country ham; salad dressed with Vidalia onion vinaigrette; and the desserts! Pecan pie and Key lime pie, red velvet cupcakes, flourless chocolate cake with praline sauce, pineapple upside-down cake with rum sauce—Pix had resolutely stuck with champagne, but rum seemed to be flowing not just in the food, but in the mojitos—and an ambrosial layer cake new to Pix, hummingbird cake. Cissy Cohen urged a piece on her as she was taking the photo. “Nobody knows who invented it or where the name came from. It just appeared in the late nineteen sixties, and since then, you can’t have a dessert table without it. My mother says it’s called ‘hummingbird cake’ because it’s as sweet as the nectar the birds like to drink, but I’ve also heard that it’s called this since it makes you ‘hum with delight.’ Take a bite.”

Pix did, and the combination of crushed pineapple, chopped ripe bananas, and chopped pecans—were they the official nut of South Carolina?—in the rich cake topped and layered with cream cheese frosting didn’t make her want to hum. It made her want to sing out loud. Dessert was Pix’s favorite form of food. She had the LIFE IS SHORT; EAT DESSERT FIRST pillow to prove it.

“You need some more champagne.” Stephen Cohen was carrying a bottle of Mumm’s.

“ ‘Need’ may not be the correct word, but it is lovely. Thank you so much for tonight—and the whole time here. It’s been perfect.”

“Well, we plan on having many more of these good times,” he said, looking into her eyes.

Recklessly Pix grabbed a fork and tapped the side of her glass. People had been making toasts all evening. She raised her glass as the room grew quiet.

“Many thanks to Stephen and Cissy, our hosts, and”—she faced Mark and Rebecca—“to you especially, but to everyone, ‘May the best day of your past be the worst day of your future.’ ”

Past? What had she said? Had she gotten the quote right? She knew it was something about the past and future. She’d left out the middle about the present, though. Or maybe there wasn’t a middle part. Stephen poured her some more champagne and kissed her cheek. Cissy patted her arm and said they were going to have so much fun in Charleston.

“Hear, hear!” someone cried out, and everyone clapped.

Sam appeared at her side.

“Very nice, dear.”

Samantha appeared on her other side with a plate.

“I think you need to eat something, Mom,” she said, laughing.

Faith brought the last of Niki’s book cookies out and refilled the platters. They had been a big hit. Tom had arrived just after the talk and now he was speaking with the library director, making his apologies for being late. Faith could tell what he was saying by the look on his face. His face was an open book, appropriately enough for the evening’s venue. Always had been and she hoped always would be. It was impossible for him to dissemble. Tonight, however, she wished he looked less like he’d lost his best friend and more like a man without a care in the world. No, maybe a little care, as befits a man of the cloth, but definitely a man without anything on his conscience—or money stashed in an offshore account.

He came over to her and picked up a cookie, Crime and Punishment. She snatched it back. “Try this one with the chocolate frosting,” she said, handing him The Hound of the Baskervilles after skipping over Gone with the Wind. “Everything okay?” It wasn’t like Tom to be late. Yankee that he was, if they were invited for seven o’clock, he’d stand on the doorstep a minute before and push the doorbell on the dot. New Yorker that Faith was, she’d first of all never invite guests that early, and next, plan on the earliest arriving thirty minutes late.

“Sam called. He was on his way to a big do the Cohens are throwing, but he wanted to caution me not to talk to anyone, not the vestry, no one, about any of this until he’s back and can be present.”

“That sounds like a very sensible idea,” Faith said, knowing full well that her husband didn’t view it that way at all. To him, it was an admission that he had something to hide that he could speak only with a lawyer present.

“I suppose.”

“Anyway, you can talk to me. A wife can’t testify against her husband, or for,” she added hastily, as a look of alarm crossed Tom’s so very expressive face. “I’m sure it won’t come to any sort of court action,” she bumbled on, cursing her runaway mouth.

“I’d better find out when we’re supposed to make the pitch. Soon, I’d imagine, before people start to leave,” Tom said, ashen- faced after his wife’s remark.

The library board of trustees was composed of some town elected members plus all the “standing clergy.” For Faith the phrase always conjured up images of some people sitting surrounded by others in robes standing over them. Weeks ago, the library director had asked Tom and Father Hayes to speak about the current, and omnipresent, fiscal crisis and hopefully coax a few checkbooks from pockets.

Court action, wives immune from testimony—what was she thinking of! Tom disappeared into the crowd and Faith saw Sherman Munroe give him one of his smarmy looks. She was sure this was a man whose face never betrayed him, just assumed whatever nasty pose he wished. It was all she could do to keep herself from seizing the bowl and dumping gunpowder punch over his head.

“Another success, boss. Looks like there won’t be a single crumb left. Tricia will be disappointed.” Scott began to clear away the serving platters that were empty.

“I made up a plate of goodies for you to take home.”

“Thanks—and hey, I hope Niki gets one. Now that she’s eating for two.”

“Did she tell you she was pregnant?” Faith was surprised.

“Nah, but I’ve been through it twice, and remember, I’m one of five; Trish is one of seven, so somebody’s always got a bun in the oven. I guess by now I’ve got some kind of babydar.”

“Well, she isn’t telling anyone, not even Phil—he lost his job, in case you didn’t hear—so whatever you do, don’t let her know that you know.”

Scott shook his head. “Might not be a good time, but secrets from your old man? A big no-no. Trish pulled that, I’d be madder than hell.”

Niki picked that moment to appear.

“Could you empty the coffee urn, Scott? I, well, I—”

Faith broke in. “I need you to help me scout the library for anything left around. I wouldn’t want the librarians to find a dirty coffee cup shelved with New Books.”

She wanted to help Niki out. She also didn’t want the smell of the coffee to provoke sudden, uncontrolled evening sickness—much worse to discover on the shelves than a cup.

Scott winked at her.

Secrets. Too many secrets.

Have Faith’s next event was less than twenty-four hours later, but the scene was markedly different. Occupants of the White House came and went. Hemlines rose and fell. Tides ebbed and flowed. Moons waxed and waned. But the Tiller Club remained unchanged. The Tillies, as they always referred to themselves, had first seen the light of day as a group of sixteen sailing buddies who’d grown up in places like Pride’s Crossing, Hamilton, and Manchester-by-the-Sea on the Massachusetts North Shore. Despite boarding school and later college, they always managed to be home during the summer and spend every waking moment on the water. At age sixteen, they’d decided to formalize the bond with the club, adopting a crest with crossed tillers rampant on an azure shield topped by the prow of a ship emblazoned with “Carpe Tela”—“Seize the Tiller”—their boyish motto. The first of the club’s bylaws defined the process for adding new members. One carefully vetted Tillie of their same age would be added each year. Niki, then Ms. Constantine, had been with Faith at the first Tillie dinner, and throughout the evening it was this bit of Tillie trivia Niki kept coming back to in astonishment. “So,” she’d kept saying, “when they’re all ninety-nine—and these WASP sailing types live forever—they’re going to have to beat the bushes, or rather troll the briny deep, for someone named Chandler or Phelps who’s still capable of steering straight at that age?” It had boggled Faith’s mind, as well. So far—the Tillies were now forty—there had been no problem finding suitable candidates.

The Tillies took their social gatherings almost as seriously as their sailing. Most, in fact, combined the two, with cruises up the Maine coast to Northeast Harbor in the summer and to the Bahamas in the winter, during which there was much traveling between yachts for a “gam,” which mimicked earlier whaling-ship visits back and forth solely in the amount of alcohol consumed by the captains. Ahab would not have had the Wheat Thins with WisPride and Goldfish crackers thoughtfully provided by the wives, although there may have been hardtack to go with the grog.

Tonight’s Spring Fling, the Tillies’ concession to the club’s slightly diminished funds, was a mere blip, the chairman assured Faith. A year hence, at most two, would find the traditional fall game dinners and summer clambakes firmly reinstated.

Faith was familiar with the yacht club in Marblehead. It was where the fall dinner had been held each year. The club didn’t provide meals in the off-season, which was why the Tillies had needed a caterer, but it was possible to hire the club’s waitstaff and Faith had always done so. Tonight she had pared that down, bringing both Scott and Tricia, whom she could depend on. Besides, the Phelans needed all the extra hours they could get with business at the body shop off. Scott was already busy tending bar—the Tillies may have opted for chicken instead of beef, but they weren’t about to stint on alcohol. No silly drinks like Cosmos or Blue Martinis were bringing a more pronounced flush to cheeks ruddy from days squinting at the sun. It was strictly a scotch, bourbon, and possibly gin and tonic crowd with good clarets at dinner.

Servers were passing hors d’oeuvres: tiny duck beggar’s purses, blood-orange-glazed shrimp on bamboo skewers, mini Cuban sandwiches, goat cheese gougères, and tuna tartare on potato crisps. No lobster, no smoked oysters or caviar, but she’d also set out platters with an assortment of roasted peppers, sausage slices, stuffed grape leaves, cubes of smoked gouda and jalapeño jack cheese, with plenty of bread sticks and crackers. She’d learned early on that the Tillies might have obediently eaten their veggies in the nursery, hence all those strong bones and good teeth, yet they didn’t want to see anything resembling a crudité now. She’d mentioned Brussels sprouts sautéed in walnut oil and topped with toasted walnuts as an accompaniment for one of the game dinners, and the then chairman had looked as horrified as if she’d worn high heels on the teak deck of his Herreshoff.

The room was filling up and it was warm enough for some of the guests to sit out on the porch that stretched across the back of the club, facing the water. Each Tillie was allowed to bring one guest, and from the increasing volume of conversation, it appeared tonight was full muster—another happy Tillie dinner. As she crossed the large living room, Faith realized that the “cottage” on Martha’s Vineyard that Ursula had been describing must have resembled the club, a late-Victorian wood-shingled structure with a decorous amount of trim. The floors were covered by good, and appropriately worn, Orientals. The fireplace that dominated one end of the room was massive. Genre seascapes in dire need of cleaning and photos of notable yachts and crews hung in between the trophy cases that lined the walls. The furniture tended toward comfortable leather sofas and oversized wing chairs.

The next two hours passed quickly as Faith and Niki hustled to get the food out. As Tricia and the waitstaff from the club served the traditional chocolate cake and coffee, Scott helped pack up the food and used dinnerware. He and Tricia were having babysitter problems and had to be home sooner than usual. They’d take the van. Faith and Niki could manage the rest, loading Faith’s car.

“Sit down,” Faith told Niki. “They’re going to move on to their cigars and brandy. Things are starting to wind down, but they haven’t inducted this year’s member, which always takes a while.”

Tillie events were rigorously choreographed. At the height of the evening, ribald toasts were made and they threw their napkins, tied into knots, at one another, dislodging their wives’ headbands and causing their bow ties to run downhill. By the end of the evening they’d calmed down and took the swearing in of the newest Tillie seriously.

“I’m not tired,” Niki said. “And you’re the last person I expected to treat me as if I were made of glass. Another reason not to tell Mom—or Phil.”

“You’ve been on your feet all night, missy. And I believe I have, in the past when you were not enceinte, told you to sit down when I thought you were tired.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I’m a little sensitive.”

Faith started to tell her it was hormones and then thought better of it. She also decided not to bring up the conversation they’d had in this very kitchen several years ago about communicating with one’s spouse. Faith had hit a rocky patch in her marriage where she and Tom, especially Tom, were deliberately passing like ships in the night—the image appropriate to tonight’s venue jumped back into her head. Each tentative start to discussing their problems that Faith placed in Tom’s path had been ignored. It was Niki who’d set her straight, saying in essence that if Faith had wanted meaningful communication she was looking to the wrong gender. The phrase “we need to talk” was viewed completely differently by men and women, sending each in a diametrically opposed direction. Women to a side-by-side conversational exchange; men out the door for parts unknown.

It had been a big help, that talk. Niki and she had laughed—and cried a bit. Not long after, Faith and Tom weathered the storm. Tonight Faith wished she could remind Niki about the way Faith’s taking the initiative, albeit obliquely, had solved the Fairchilds’ problems.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Niki said.

“No you don’t.”

“Oh yes I do. This kitchen always brings it back and don’t you dare throw my words in my face.”

“I think you’re doing it for me,” Faith said.

For a moment she thought Niki was going to explode—she had inherited her mother’s famous temper—and then she started laughing.

“I guess I am, but Faith, I’m not telling him. Not yet.”

The sound of a utensil on a glass calling for quiet came from the next room.

“Come on, let’s peek,” Niki said, going to the door.

There was no need. The chairman was coming through it.

“Please join us as we wrap up the evening. As usual you’ve given us a splendid time and we all want to thank you before it ends.”

Faith took off her apron, Niki followed suit, and they went into the dining room. The lights had been turned up.

“The membership committee head is going to introduce our new member and then I’d like to publicly thank you,” the chairman whispered.

Faith smiled back at him, as she did at whoever was chairman each time the thank-you was proposed. If the script ever changed, she’d know that hell had frozen over.

“No surprises,” Niki said softly into Faith’s other ear as the newest Tillie stood up. “This isn’t going to be the year they induct an African American, Jewish, Native American woman apparently.”

But it was a surprise. When the newest Tillie stood up, Faith knew the name before it was announced.

The Reverend James Holden, First Parish’s associate minister.

“I know James,” she said to the chairman, so startled that she forgot to lower her voice.

“Good man, Holden. Great sailor. And damn lucky. Just bought the prettiest little Bristol thirty-three I’ve seen in a dog’s age. Stole it from some poor guy declaring bankruptcy for only ten thou.”

Ten thou, Faith thought. Ten thousand dollars.

James Holden was making a pretty little acceptance speech—and Faith could hardly wait to ask him where he’d come across all the pretty little pennies he’d used to buy the pretty little boat.

She wished she could jump up and corner him right now. After all, “Time and tide wait for no man”—or woman.