Small Plates (5 page)

“Yum yum. Yes, sweetheart, I agree. We have to get out of here for dinner,” Tom said.

“You are such a fraud.”

“First of all, as you well know, I eat everything, and second, I can't let down the troops. We may want to meet here again. You have to admit, it is an ideal spot. And I hear Elsa pretty much controls who comes and who doesn't.”

On the way out, Faith noticed that the shoe people, as she had come to call them, had what looked like Baked Alaska for dessert and wine with their meal. The watercolorists had received garden salads in addition to their potpies. It was an interesting pecking order.

“What are you going to do this afternoon?” Tom asked as he kissed her before leaving for the next intriguing lecture, “Martin Luther at the Schlosskirche Doors: Did He Really Want In?” “I'll be finished by four, then there's a social hour from five to six and after that we can slip away.” He hadn't eaten the tapioca.

“Perfect. I can make reservations at that fish restaurant we heard about in Falmouth. Or the Belfry Inne and Bistro in Sandwich—I'm heading for the Sandwich Glass Museum this afternoon. I heard someone say the Bistro had been converted from an abbey, so that's right up your alley, Tom. And everyone says the food is divine, as one would expect.”

“I'm sure it is, but maybe the Falmouth place. I think by dinner I'll want something stronger than a Virgin Mary, although there are bound to be plenty of loaves and fishes.”

A
n hour later Faith was standing in front of a glassblower watching in fascination as she deftly handled the molten globule, spinning it and pressing it into a mold to create a beaker, using the same techniques that had made Sandwich, the oldest town on the Cape, synonymous with American glass. She wished Ben were at her side. He would have loved it. But the face next to hers was Jim Hadley's, not Ben's. Carolann was seated on the bench on his other side. The moment she had sat down, they had appeared.

“Great place, isn't it? You've got to be sure not to skip the Levine Lighting Gallery—it covers the whole history from candles to the first lightbulb—although there's so much in the permanent collection, you could run out of time,” Jim enthused.

“Thank you, I'll try not to miss it,” Faith said. She hadn't pegged the couple as history buffs of any sort, except for what an object might be worth, but she was obviously wrong.

Ten minutes later, as Faith was examining a case filled with rows of lamps, she heard a voice that was becoming much too familiar. “Must have given off a stink. The whale oil, I mean. Carolann's off powdering her nose.” It was Jim, moving to her side.

Faith looked him squarely in the face. The Hadleys' ubiquitous presence, starting with Carolann's dramatic appearance the night before, was developing into quite a string of coincidences. Maybe they thought the Fairchilds were swingers. Maybe they were embarrassed about the scene Carolann had made and didn't know how to introduce the subject. Maybe it was just her dumb luck.

“So, what do you do, Jim?” Faith asked, and strolled to the next exhibit. The case was filled with candlesticks, some shaped like dolphins in cobalt blue glass.

“I'm in insurance, supervise branch offices, do some sales. I'm on the road a lot,” he replied. She was not surprised. He had the handshake and the voice—confident, with undertones of genuine, money-back-guaranteed interest. He demonstrated it by asking in turn, “And what about you, Mrs. Fairchild? I know your husband's line of work, but not yours. Domestic engineer?” The sneer in his voice was palpable. And she hated the euphemism. Why couldn't he just say “housewife” and be done with it?

“In a way,” she said. “I'm a caterer. I started my business, Have Faith, in Manhattan before my marriage and it moved with me.” She hoped he wouldn't start asking her about her coverage—or worse, start figuring the exact minute, hour, and date of her demise as a prelude to a life insurance pitch. Death was a fact she hoped would come as a pleasant, far distant, surprise.

Carolann's face appeared reflected among the blue glass dolphins, her face a sea creature framed by her curls like tentacles.

“I have to be going,” Faith said. “I want to get my children something in the gift shop.” She had also noted that there was a poster advertising Penrose glass jewelry for sale. She could use a gift herself. “Do you have kids?” Faith wasn't sure why she asked. After the letdown of last night's potential drama, the Hadleys, busy clawing their way to the top with all their shallow symbols, held ever-decreasing interest for her.

“None—yet, but we're looking forward to working on it,” Jim responded and put his arm around his wife. She was wearing a backless sundress and there wasn't a trace of a tan mark anywhere. His hand moved from her shoulder to the nape of her neck and continued down. Faith didn't wait to see where it ended up.

T
om was in the cottage when Faith returned.

“I could get very used to this way of life,” Faith told him. “If only you didn't have to go to all these talks.”

“How about we skip the social? I hear Walter Wade, a worthy reverend from someplace in North Dakota, plans to entertain us with a medley of sing-along songs.”

“But you love ‘Michael Row the Boat Ashore'!”

“I know, but it might not be in his repertoire . . . and besides, I can think of a better activity for the time, an activity decidedly not antisocial.”

So could Faith.

T
he fish restaurant was jammed, and Faith was glad she'd made reservations. Even so they had to wait on the pleasant, flower-filled patio. They were sipping martinis—a very off-the-leash drink, she'd thought—and helping themselves to the tasty crackers spread liberally with smoked bluefish pâté proffered by a waiter when Faith suddenly grabbed Tom's arm, nearly spilling his drink.

“I can't believe it! They're here! No, don't turn around. Maybe they won't see us.”

It was the Hadleys, of course, and at that very moment a smiling young woman came walking through the crowd calling, “Fairchild, party of two. Your table is ready. Fairchild, party . . .” Faith quickly waved to her and dragged Tom to the table before the Hadleys could suggest a foursome.

“Honey, I think you're getting a little paranoid about all this,” Tom said as they sat down. “These are simply chance meetings. Obviously they were not up for Swiss steak either—why it is called that I hope you will explain to me someday—and this is one of the closest restaurants.”

“I know, I know. It doesn't make any sense. It's just the way they look at me. They seem to be measuring me for something—and Carolann doesn't strike me as the type who is handy with a needle.”

“Well, neither are you. If they have any interest in us, it's probably to sell us insurance. Now why don't you forget about them and concentrate on more important things, like the menu and your husband? I'm going to start with stuffed quahogs and then have the baked scrod. What are you going to have?”

Knowing that her husband was the kind who shared, Faith ordered Wellfleet oysters and cherrystones. The bread had already arrived, and it was a promising-looking crusty Portuguese whole half. She decided to go for a linguica-and-mussel pasta special—when in Lisbon . . . The arrival of their food pushed all thoughts of the Hadleys, and much of anything else, from their minds. Faith was in such a good mood that even the Hadleys' appearance at their table near the end of the meal did not dampen her spirits.

“You had a great meal, right?” Jim boomed, his red face indicating that his voice's increase in decibels was probably due to more than one drink. “They do everything well here, even steak—God forgive you order it so close to the ocean. We really love this place—come every year—don't we, Carolann?”

The server arrived with the check, but still the couple did not move away from the table. Faith stood up. It was time for the ladies' room. She hadn't counted on Carolann joining her, but then, she seemed to need to powder her nose often. Faith stepped back to let her lead the way and they soon found themselves in the kitchen.

“I have such a poor sense of direction,” Carolann apologized. “And I'm a little tiddly! It's over there, of course.” Back on track, they soon found the right door, the one labeled
GULLS
. Carolann did spend some time refreshing her makeup, and as Faith washed her hands, she thought the woman painstakingly applying eyeliner in the mirror looked anxious again. Another fight brewing? Should she offer their shower again?

“Have you and Jim been married long?” Faith asked.

“Four years. Why do you ask?” There was no mistaking the coolness in her tone.

“Oh, you seem a bit like newlyweds, that's all,” Faith commented, then added an oblique allusion to the previous night: “It's nice to see people so much in love they can straighten out any difficulties that come up.” She hoped Carolann would take the bait, but all she said was “Uh-huh,” and applied a second coating of lip gloss.

The Fairchilds drove back to The Retreat by way of Woods Hole for a look at the Vineyard in the distance. Tom's conversation with Jim had been only marginally more scintillating than Faith's with Carolann. The men had talked baseball.

“I may be getting as bad as you,” Tom said, “but one thing was funny. He said something about it being a shame that we weren't staying longer. Did you tell them when we were leaving?”

“No, but the conference dates are probably posted somewhere.” Faith was devil's advocate now. It had been such a nice evening. She didn't want to think about the Hadleys.

“True, but many of the participants are staying on. Remember, we could have done that, but decided to go home instead.”

Faith had forgotten the option. Tom's parents had always been great about taking first Ben and now both kids, but she didn't want to impose on them—plus she wanted to save up some days for another trip.

They drove through The Oceanside Retreat gate, defined by stone pillars topped with faintly oriental-looking iron pagoda shapes, and started down the scrub-pine-lined drive. This part of the Cape did not lend itself to majestic trees. They were almost to the reception center when a figure popped out in front of their car and firmly gestured them to stop. Tom hit the brakes, the tires squealed, and the car narrowly avoided slamming into the imperious hand raised in front of them. It was Elsa.

“Jumping Jehoshaphat! What does
she
want?” Faith had never heard her husband use this expression. He must be as shaken as she was, but the words leaping to her mind were a great deal pithier.

Tom rolled down the window. “Good evening, Miss Whittemore. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Just checking, Reverend Fairchild. We did not see you, or your wife,” she added pointedly, “at dinner, and no one seemed to know of your whereabouts. We had some concern. That is all.” Her voice managed to suggest that the police from several counties were searching the area with helicopters, bloodhounds were sniffing the grounds, and divers were combing the ocean floor for the Fairchilds' lifeless bodies.

“I'm sorry you were troubled. We took the opportunity to see a bit more of this lovely area.” It was the wrong thing for Tom to say. Clearly for Elsa, nothing matched The Retreat.

“In case you're concerned about the Hadleys, we saw them at dinner,” Faith said, driven by some flashback to childhood. Maybe she wouldn't have to miss recess after all.

“The
Hadleys
informed us of their plans this afternoon.” No need to ask who would be getting blackberries and milk and who would be sent straight to bed.

After that there wasn't a whole lot to add but “good night.” Elsa stepped back and motioned them on with her powerful flashlight.

“I feel like I just got caught sneaking a girl, or a beer, into my room!” Tom laughed. Faith tried to laugh too, but discovered that she was extremely annoyed.

“What ever happened to good old-fashioned privacy? We are paying to stay here, aren't we? Every time I turn around someone's following me!”

They parked, got out of the car, and walked toward the cottage.

Two deer, a doe and a fawn, were feeding a few yards from their deck and the night air was still warm. Faith was partly appeased. “I guess she's annoyed because we don't like the food. She's probably been waiting for us there since dinner.” The thought further lifted her spirits and by the time, pleasantly much later, they were drifting to sleep, she had conceded that she would come back to The Retreat again for the setting and facilities—if allowed.

“I think I'll do one of those crafty things tomorrow.” The Oceanside Retreat had an energetic activities director, Sal Pedrone, who was constantly pushing everything from aquatic aerobics in the pool to enamel jewelry making.

“This is so unlike you,” Tom mumbled, already half-asleep.

“Maybe you just don't know me as well as you think,” Faith retorted, equally sleepy. Her last conscious thought was that it
was
unlike her but seemed to go with the whole camp atmosphere of the place. She'd like to have at least one thing to bring home to Mother.

Something woke her at three o'clock in the morning. A bird again? It sounded a little like a baby crying, but she hadn't seen any babies at The Retreat. It wasn't her baby, at any rate, but she found that she could not get back to sleep, and after fifteen minutes of tossing, she got out of bed, put Tom's jacket on, and slid open the door to the deck.

The night air hit her full in the face. It was cold and damp. She went back and got one of the extra blankets. The moon was a bit more full than the night before, so again there was enough light to see outlines. She couldn't see the beach or the main buildings because of the fog, but some of the other cabins were visible, dark shapes scattered about the dunes. There were apparently no other insomniacs. She wound the blanket around herself and sat on a bench, leaning up against the side of the cabin.