Tom took her glass and looked down at her reprovingly, "Have your fun tonight, Nora Charles. I'll talk with you about all this until the cows come home, but if you have any idea of doing some sleuthing, with or without your Nick, forget it. I like you without roses stuck in your side."
“ Don't be silly, Tom. What can I do, after all ? Maybe ask a few questions here and there. Do admit, this is pretty exciting. When is the last time they had a murder in Aleford anyway?"
“ I have no idea. Although I did hear something about one of the Hales running amok in the thirties and killinghis wife's dog, then being prevented just in time by a neighbor from giving its mistress forty whacks as well."
“So mine could be Aleford 's first real murder!"
“I doubt it, Faith, and in any case it's not yours."
“Ours then."
“ No, absolutely. not."
“You're just being cranky because you 're hungry and so am I. Did we have any supper ? I can 't remember. Anyway, I'm starving.”
Faith was always starving, Tom thought happily. What a good idea it had been to marry someone who shared and satisfied his hungers so well.
He followed her into the large kitchen and sat at the big round table while she split some bread in half and liberally covered it with chèvre and toasted walnuts before running it under the broiler for a moment. The kitchen bore little resemblance to the room Tom had used infrequently during his brief bachelor days in the parsonage. Faith had kept the old glass-fronted cabinets, but everything else had been torn out. She had actually shuddered when she saw the electric stove, vintage to be sure, and the single sink next to a small drainboard, the only counter in the room. Now with her gleaming, glass-fronted refrigerator, Garland stove, rows of hanging pots and pans, miles of white formica counters with a marble insert for pastry making, and a black and white tile floor, Faith felt at home. The table stood by a bow window overlooking the garden. As a concession to the setting, Faith had covered the window seats and chair cushions with Souleiado Provençal fabric. "But no country, Tom, nothing with cows on it and not even one dried flower wreath, please," she had stated emphatically.
In between crusty bites, Faith kept talking about Cindy.
“ It has to be a disappointed lover because of the rose.
A poetic gesture, the final symbol of their blighted romance."
“ If any romance was blighted, it was Cindy and Dave's. You know, Faith, I never could understand why those two were getting married."
“Elementary, my dear Thomas. Because Cindy wanted it and Dave wanted her. Think about it, or rather, imagine yourself at twenty—not that long ago to be sure—and all those hormones and Cindy walks into your life. Those proverbial curves in the correct places, that long black hair with the blue highlights just like Wonder Woman's in the cartoons. It was sex. Frequent, prolonged, and poor Dave got hooked."
“Keep talking, Faith. I find this not only mesmerizing but kind of a turn-on."
“I'm not sure why Cindy wanted poor Dave, though. Maybe she wanted to get marriage out of the way and go on to bigger and better things, like affairs." She saw Tom's look. "Bigger and better for Cindy that is, silly. And Dave is a good catch. Steady, dependable, bright, and handsome. You know, I wouldn't put it past her to have chosen him because she wanted a blond to contrast with her looks."
“ `Poor Dave' does sum it up. I tried to talk to him about Cindy several times, but he never seemed to want to. We were due to start the prenuptial pastoral counseling soon and I thought I might understand the whole relationship better then."
“Yes, and probably you would have given Dave the courage to back out. Although short of having his parents fill his ears with wax at birth and tie him to the liberty pole in the middle of the common, I don't see how he was going to resist her call. But if you did, then Cindy would have killed you and Dave both. The invitations have gone out and she was not a girl to be spurned lightly.”
Tom finished the last morsel on his plate and stood up and stretched.
“It is pretty horrible, Faith. I've been thinking about her wedding service and now I have to write a funeral oration instead."
“These theological dilemmas are bound to come up, Tom, but I have no doubt that you will rise to the occasion." Faith smiled primly, secure in the knowledge that rising to that sort of occasion was something she would never have to do.
“It's certainly not one of the topics we wrestled with in Divinity School. Now what do you say to some sleep ? Frequent and prolonged or whatever."
“Good idea. I am exhausted. This has been a very busy day, if I may be permitted the greatest understatement of my life, so far anyway."
“You may and it is," Tom agreed.
Faith followed him upstairs and wondered briefly if he had found Cindy attractive. She had worn sex the way other girls wore makeup. Depending on the circumstances, it could be the full treatment or a hint of lipstick and powder. Whatever it was, though, it was always there, unsettling and devastatingly provocative. Faith started to ask, then changed her mind. It was one of those questions, like whether there really is life after death, that she didn't want answered for sure.
They looked in at Ben, marveled at that splendid accomplishment babies perform—breathing—and went to bed.
They were not prepared for an insistent ringing at six o'clock the next morning. Faith woke up and wondered groggily why Benjamin was making such an odd noise. She was at the side of his crib looking down at a peacefully sleeping child before she realized it was the doorbell.
She ran back into their bedroom, fully awake.
“Tom!" she cried, "wake up! Somebody 's at the door!”
Tom was a very sound sleeper. She shook him. " Tom ! Somebody's ringing the bell !"
“ What ? Not again ? " he mumbled.
“ The doorbell ! Someone is ringing our doorbell !”
“All right, all right." He roused himself, got out of bed, and struggled into his robe. Faith followed him downstairs, hovering anxiously.
“ Be sure to ask who it is, Tom," she cautioned as she moved toward the poker by the fireplace.
“Faith, murderers usually don't ring the doorbell," Tom said. Like Benjamin, he was a slow waker and apt to sound snappish. "But if you like, I'll ask." Feeling slightly foolish, he addressed the solid oak door. “Who is it?"
“It's me, Dave. Dave Svenson." Tom quickly opened the door. "I hope I didn't wake you folks, but I thought with the baby, you'd probably be up by now and anyway I was getting tired of waiting.”
It turned out that Dave had spent most of the night crouched under the large willows in the backyard, and he looked it. There were deep circles under his eyes and his normally ruddy Nordic complexion was pale and wan. Tom led him straight into the kitchen for some sustenance, wondering what was going on besides what was going on.
“Dave," he said soberly and with as much dignity as an old plaid Pendleton bathrobe could lend, "I know how you must be grieving. It is difficult to lose someone you love whatever the circumstances, but to have it happen in this cruel and senseless way tests all our belief. It is not much comfort now, but time will help and I hope you will come and talk with me whenever you feel like it.”
Dave was looking at him in some bewilderment andTom wondered if he was in shock or if the bathrobe was simply too incongruous.
“That's very kind of you, sir," he said as Faith entered the kitchen. She had hastily thrown on a pair of jeans and a shirt and grabbed Benjamin, hoping not to miss anything. She hadn't.