“Phelps, I’d like you to meet my sister, Fay. Fay, Phelps Grant.” The young man turned from his conversation and shook Faith’s hand—she’d put her empty tray down—with every indication of pleasure.
Yes, preppy, but definitely attractive. Very attractive.
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Hope knew how to pick them—at least in this department.
“Hope tells me your catering business is doing very well, and after making a total pig of myself on all this, I’m not one bit surprised. I’m out all the time, but I haven’t had such good food in ages.”
“Thank you. That’s one of my problems—that New Yorkers eat out so much and at such great places. It’s a hard act to follow—or complement.”
“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded where others have perished.” He then proceeded to tell a mordantly funny story about a friend who had opened a restaurant down in SoHo and went bankrupt before opening. “He had no idea he’d have to think of anything but dishing out his grandmother’s secret spaghetti sauce recipe.
That was going to be the key to fame and fortune. He never got past the lighting fixtures.” Faith found herself liking him, but there was something about his polished delivery, and polished self, that still warned her to keep her guard up. Hope, of course, was looking at him the way a kid looks at her first puppy.
“Phelps, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” The man with whom Phelps had been in conversation before had turned away from a small group of people.
“You’re not interrupting at all. This is Hope Sibley—she’s with Citibank—and her sister . . .”
“Faith Sibley, the caterer. I knew the food was unusually good.” It was the man who’d come into the kitchen with Michael Stanstead the night Emma had made her panicked exit after receiving the first blackmail demand. “I’m not sure we were properly introduced the other night. My name is Adrian Sutherland.” Here was surprise number two—and three. Adrian 117
Sutherland was also the man who’d been sitting alone, reading the Wall Street Journal, at the American Festival Cafe at Rockefeller Center.
Lucy chose this moment to join the group. “Adrian, you’ll never guess. My glass is empty.” She held it out in front of her.
“Now, that will never do. Phelps here—you remember Phelps Grant—was just about to fetch a whole bottle of bubbly, weren’t you?” Phelps left instantly. So it was like that. Gunga Grant. Faith realized that as the caterer, she should be seeing to the libations herself, but her job as investigator was more important at the moment. She wanted to watch Lucy and Adrian. What was going on between the two?
“I see you know the Sibley girls,” Lucy continued in her slightly nasal, well-bred voice. She managed to make it sound as if Faith and Hope were still in braces, allowed to stay up for the party as a special treat.
“Not as well as I plan to. Especially you, Faith. I see many Stanstead events in your future.” Lucy looked piqued, and she moved closer to Adrian, leaning her head on his shoulder in a propri-etary gesture.
Adrian made no acknowledgment of her more intimate presence, nor did he shake her off. He looked older than the rest of them, and Faith wondered if he had been ahead of Phelps in school. Or maybe he was one of those people born looking old. He was attractive, but not handsome. However, his suit, his hairstyle, the way he carried himself, and even his shoes suggested wealth—and power. He didn’t need to be handsome.
Hope was asking about some party-sponsored event 118
on New Year’s Day, whether Michael would be speaking and, if so, officially announcing his candidacy for the House seat, about to be left vacant by the incumbent’s retirement. Stanstead would get the nomination.
That was a given. Winning the election was another matter.
“Come and find out. Ah, help is at hand!” Phelps was back with the champagne and pouring it for everyone. Faith incongruously found herself with a glass. “I don’t mean to be coy, but we, or I should say he, really haven’t decided yet. I do know one thing, though.” He held his glass up as if toasting. “I’m sorry we already hired a caterer.”
On that note, Faith excused herself with thanks and rushed back to the kitchen to maintain her reputation and to escape the lethal glances Lucy was slinging her way.
The fourth surprise was Richard Morgan.
Faith had returned with Josie to replenish the buffet table, where Jessica was still busy serving. He entered the room, made a beeline for the food, and stopped when he saw Faith.
“Terrific!” he said. “I assume you’re catering this affair, and I assume it’s delicious. Nobody who can dissect a menu the way you can could have impaired taste buds. Not to mention my delight at seeing you again so soon.” The night before, they’d eaten at a noodle place and gone to see Woody Allen’s new movie, Crimes and Misdemeanors. It had had a bit too much resonance for Faith at the moment. Richard had loved it.
“This is my assistant, Josie Wells. Josie, this is Richard Morgan.” Faith was beginning to feel less and less like the anonymous help, what with all these introductions.
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“Pleased to meet you. I have a thing for your boss.” Josie laughed out loud, shot Faith a look as she left, and said, “Get in line.”
“She’s loyal, very loyal,” Faith countered.
Richard was eating a large amount of caviar on a blini. “This does not shock—or deter—me at all.”
“I would love to stay and chat longer, but I have to get back in the kitchen,” Faith said. “But first, please, quickly satisfy my insatiable curiosity and tell me why you’re here. Did the Stansteads hire you to sing carols?”
“And well they might. No, my dear Faith—and I mean that—I am here in a reportorial capacity. I’m doing a profile on Michael Stanstead for The New Yorker and I’m trying to get as much done as possible before I have to leave town next week. Stanstead invited me here. To see him at home, just your average guy with your average multimillion-dollar apartment.” Faith was dismayed. Not that Richard was doing a profile on Michael. That should be interesting. But that Richard was leaving town so soon. If he was gone, how was she going to find out how she felt about him?
“Harry Connick Jr.’s at the Algonquin. Want to catch him after you finish here?” Richard had moved on to the foie gras.
“I’d love to, but I have another party to do,” Faith was already getting a bit panicky about the dessert buffet and planned to send Josie and Jessica on ahead as soon as possible, even though it wasn’t scheduled to start for another few hours.
“Another time, another place,” he said, kissing her swiftly. Again, he was on the verge of needing a shave.
Her cheek felt warm, ever so slightly scratched.
“Yes,” said Faith.
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Josie and Jessica had gone. The party was winding down at long last and Howard came into the kitchen to say he was leaving the wine and champagne on the buffet table but was packing up the bar. There was another door to the study and he could do it without going through the living room.
Faith had done everything she could do until everyone left, so she sat down at the kitchen table to think about the evening. No one had been waving those Christmas cards around or making menacing gestures in Emma’s direction. In fact, it was hard to find Emma in a crowd, even when she was the hostess. Contrary to convention, she didn’t circulate. She’d greeted everyone at the start of the party, then gravitated toward a corner with some of the people she’d invited herself: neighbors in the building, a distant relative who was teaching at the Little Red School House, and her godmother, Madeline Green. Nobody knew how old Madeline was, and she wasn’t telling. She was Poppy’s mother’s best friend and the closest thing Emma had to a grandmother, since neither her mother’s nor Jason’s parents was still living. A grandmother of the Auntie Mame variety. Faith found herself wishing they could tell Madeline everything and let her handle things. She probably already knew about Poppy and Nathan Fox, maybe even about Emma’s birth. Madeline knew everything. Tonight, she was wearing a gorgeous sapphire blue Zandra Rhodes caftan, which set off her white hair—and sapphires—perfectly. In a room filled with people wearing a great deal of black, an occasional white or splash of red, Madeline stood out—as usual.