Small Plates (14 page)

Felicity loved him so much it hurt.

She tucked the full stick from her camera in her pocket and took the one with the highest GBs from the others in Geoff's case. She was putting it into her camera when she thought she'd better check and make sure it didn't have anything on it.

There
were
photos—many. It took a moment before she could make any sense out of them. And even then, it didn't make sense. No sense at all.

Three people at a front door. The same pose as she'd stood in just last weekend. At first glance it looked like the same house. A Victorian, but the trim was more Painted Lady. The sky above was bluer, cloudless. A San Francisco sky? And at first glance, it looked like the same people, she realized with mounting panic. Definitely one of them was.

There was Geoff dressed as he'd been standing beside Felicity in a Paul Stuart short-sleeved linen striped shirt and pima cotton khaki pants, his casual wear.

She felt dizzy; her throat choked with the start of a scream. The woman in the shot was Felicity's double. Same age, same appearance, same pose. The baby . . . THE BABY! She tore through the photos. More of the baby. More of the woman.

Of course they weren't Alexander and Felicity.

But they could have been. The woman's hair was the exact color as hers—and the style! She could hear Geoff's voice, “Such beautiful hair. Like spun gold. Maybe try bangs. They're very mysterious.” She'd been cloned, Felicity thought, or vice versa?

She stopped at a close-up of the woman. She was wearing Felicity's ring! Felicity checked her finger to make sure it was still there. For an instant she thought it had been spirited away—or it had never been on her finger. His voice once more, “Now we are three.” Three? Or more?

She heard Geoff's voice again. But he was here—in the bedroom, footsteps muffled by the carpet—leaning over closer and closer, murmuring in her ear in a tone she'd never heard before. She froze.

The keys—spares—but, she realized now, a duplicate to the doors of both houses. His “OCDness.” The ready cash, alternate cuff links—all tucked away in his hiding places. And now here was one more. The final one.

“It's really too bad you found these.”

I
need a man.”

Faith Fairchild looked at her mother-in-law, Marian, in surprise. With three sons and a husband, one would have thought men were not in short supply. And after some forty years of marriage with no detours down the primrose path, her needs apparently having been met by Faith's father-in-law, it was odd that Marian would choose this time in her life for an amorous adventure. However, it was just before Christmas, and the holidays had been known to dredge up all sorts of feelings. Faith's own main feeling was fatigue. Although not sculpting Chartres Cathedral in gingerbread or assuming any of the other over-the-top projects that women insanely tended to take on during the holidays, she was extremely busy with her catering business.

As a minister's wife, however, she also knew that the season gave rise to all sorts of emotions, some long repressed. Was this the case with Marian? Or could it just be that she was tired of going to the Boston Symphony on Fridays unescorted? Dick Fairchild had a lifelong aversion to classical music.

While Faith was framing a discreet inquiry, Marian continued, “Otherwise there will be thirteen at Christmas dinner—seven women, six men.”

So that was it. Yet, still puzzling. Marian Fairchild was one of the least superstitious, most down-to-earth women Faith had ever met.

Faith decided to make light of it all. “While I'm grateful to Noah for his two-by-two choice, I don't think Miss Manners objects to non-Ark seating arrangements these days. And considering you've had black cats as long as I've known you, thirteen shouldn't be a problem.”

Marian shook her head vigorously. “It's
Christmas
dinner, Faith!”

“Why should that matter in particular?”

Her mother-in-law looked shocked. “Surely Tom has told you about the Fairchild Christmas Dinner Curse.”

It was Faith's turn to shake her head, and she did so slowly. Another instance of the Reverend Thomas Preston Fairchild's failure to pass on the juicy stuff. She could understand his inability to convey the secrets of what would have been a confessional (had the First Parish church in Aleford, Massachusetts, had one), but this was family lore.

Meanwhile Marian was doing a count on her fingers out loud: “Dick and me, you and Tom, Betsey and her new beau, Robert and Michael, Craig and Jessie, Auntie Maude, and Auntie Ann.”

“I make that an even dozen, not thirteen,” Faith said. “It's six male and six female, perfectly matched.”

“Yes, so convenient that Robert has Michael, which normally balances the aunts. Everything was all set, but then Ann called this morning to ask whether she could bring a friend, Margaret McKeen, from her librarian days. Margaret will be spending the holidays with them. How could I say no? She and Ann are the last in that tombola thing, so that makes it even worse.”

Anxiety was making normally clearheaded and clear-spoken Marian difficult to comprehend. Auntie Maude and Auntie Ann were Dick Fairchild's older sisters. Maude was widowed—Faith had noted the move from black to gray and now pale violet over the years—and Ann had never married. They lived together in neighboring Duxbury. Games of chance did not come to mind when thinking of the two silver-haired sisters.

“Tombola?”

“Years ago when they retired, Ann and four of her librarian friends named each other as beneficiaries in their wills. When one died, everything rolled over to the others. None of them had anyone else to leave it to—Maude, as you know, is comfortable and has no children.”

“Comfortable” in New England parlance meant many pennies saved. Dick and Marian were comfy too.

“Sort of a ‘Last Man Standing,' or rather woman, notion?”

“Exactly. Anyway, it's quite a sizable amount now, and there are just the two of them left—Ann and her friend Margaret. If anything were to happen to Margaret at Christmas dinner, or Ann, well, I can't even think about it. No, we have to come up with someone. Otherwise it's foolishly tempting fate, and don't suggest having the children at the table. They'd hate it. And besides, the cousins table has always been in the kitchen.”

Faith knew Marian was right. The cousins, including her two children, Ben and Amy, would be happier making noise and dispensing with company manners in the kitchen.

“But why should you think either lady might need the Heimlich, or keel over from too much plum pudding?”

“There now, Tom
has
told you! You know about the pudding!”

Marian Fairchild had been pacing about her kitchen. Faith had arrived a few minutes earlier to help with Marian's holiday baking. She'd known something was amiss when her mother-in-law hadn't offered coffee the moment Faith stepped across the threshold. It was Marian's custom, as well as that of every other woman Faith had met after moving to Aleford from Manhattan after her marriage. She took her mother-in-law's hand, led her toward the large round kitchen table, and pulled out a chair for her before starting the percolator. No French press or Keurig nonsense here.

“You need to start from the beginning and tell me the whole story. The whole Christmas Dinner Curse story.”

Marian sighed. “There are some Fig Newtons in the tin on the counter.” Fig Newtons and Lorna Doones were Fairchild Family panaceas. It appeared Marian was rousing. Soon there was a steaming mug of Maxwell House in her hand and she started talking.

“It was before the Fairchilds moved to Norwell. They lived in Boston on Beacon Hill. Quite a good address—Mount Vernon Street. I remember Dick's grandfather speaking of it with pride.”

This was going to be a day of surprises, Faith thought. She'd assumed the Fairchilds had been on the South Shore since one of their forbearers came down the
Mayflower
's plank, jumped off the rock, and landed up the road from Plymouth in Norwell more or less by accident.

“Great-Grandfather was in real estate, most of it in the Back Bay, after it was filled.”

“When would this have been?”

“In the late eighteen hundreds.” Marian's voice took on a slightly dreamlike character, or perhaps it was the soothing nature of the figgy cookie and fragrant coffee. She put the cup down and her tone changed abruptly. “It happened, of course, at this time of year . . .”

V
ictoria Fairchild looked out at the snow that had begun to fall. Some of the panes in the front parlor's bowed window were amethyst, a badge of authenticity on Beacon Hill that meant one's home dated back to the time when the glass had been imported from England. Slight impurities reacted with sunlight over time to produce the violet hue. Victoria's mother had been from England, hence her name and subsequent affection for all things British.

She viewed the pine and holly swags that graced the Adam fireplace and other parts of the room with complacency. Christmas was her favorite holiday, and it was kept in a manner that Mr. Pickwick, as well as his creator, would have recognized. There would be goose for Christmas dinner, and a turkey, since her husband, Elliot, always insisted on the national bird. The kitchen had been preparing for weeks now and the desserts alone would cover the gleaming mahogany dining room table.

It had been a good year for Fairchild Properties, and she'd had Mr. Sargent paint her portrait as a Christmas gift for Elliot. Of course he'd have to pay the bill. She'd originally thought Sargent could paint her with Franny—mother and daughter—but she'd been more than a little angry with Frances all fall and in a fit of pique decided not to include her. She'd never considered the boys, although they were nice-looking, especially Will. And they never gave her the worry Franny did, still they were young yet.

Victoria sighed and turned away from the window. She'd done everything she could. Sent Franny to Winsor, had a lovely dance to introduce her to Boston society, and saw that she made calls properly. Now all the silly girl had to do was accept Sumner Cabot's proposal and everything would be set. He came from a good family, had graduated from Harvard—perhaps not brilliantly, but he'd made it—and was working in the family firm now. She pictured them in one of Elliot's new town houses on Commonwealth Avenue or maybe out in Brookline if they wanted the country, although she herself could never abide the thought of rural life. All those farmers.

“Excuse me, ma'am.” It was the maid, and she looked agitated.

“What is it, Molly?”

“That man is here again.”

Victoria struggled to maintain her composure. It wouldn't do to lose control in front of one of the servants.

“Tell him if he calls again, Mr. Fairchild will summon the authorities.”

A look of apprehension crossed Molly's face and she gasped slightly before saying, “Very good, ma'am.”

Victoria started toward the wing chair by the fire where she'd left her needlework, but stopped, turning back toward the maid.

“No, on second thought, show Mr. O'Hara in.”

When the door closed, she went over to the chair and sat, carefully arranging her skirt. She arranged her face, as well, and when Molly opened the door, ushering the caller in, Victoria might as well have been chiseled from marble.

“I won't ask you to sit down, because you won't be staying long,” she said. “I don't know why you are persisting in your unwanted and possibly illegal attentions toward my daughter, but I warn you, you will be very sorry if you continue.”

“Unwanted? Is that what she says? Call Franny down here and let me hear it from her lips, not yours.”

Patrick O'Hara was a large man—tall and muscular. He was regarding Victoria with irritation, but any anger he felt toward the woman seemed well under control.

“It doesn't matter what Miss Fairchild says, your attentions are unwanted by her parents. Any decent man would acknowledge this and desist.”

“Apart from the land of my birth, what objections do you have? I'll be able to keep Franny in the style to which she's accustomed—even better. I've worked hard all my life, don't drink overmuch, smoke rarely, and am a regular churchgoer. I'll even leave my church for yours if that will help.”

Victoria gave a small cry. The idea of this, this Irishman in a pew near hers!

“I love Franny and she loves me. Isn't that what counts?” he said. His face softened.

“Love! What has that got to do with mar . . .” Victoria didn't finish. What she'd been about to reveal was none of this insufferable young man's business. She had a sudden thought—and needing a moment to consider it fully, invited him to take a seat.

Now O'Hara's expression clearly revealed his bewilderment. What was this Boston Brahmin up to with this sudden display of politeness to a lace-curtain Irish lad?

“Perhaps I've been a bit hasty, Mr. O'Hara. In the spirit of the season, will you join us for Christmas dinner? Just the family and a few close friends—the Winthrops and the Cabots.”

Patrick laughed aloud and stood up. “Sure and it's a rare treat for a clod from the Old County to be included in such company.” His accent thickened, and Victoria flushed. She knew he was doing it deliberately. “Many's the time I've heard the saying:

“And here's to good old Boston

The Land of the bean and the cod

Where Lowells talk only to Cabots

And Cabots talk only to God.

“So I accept with pleasure the chance to break bread with some Cabots at best,” he said.

Victoria Fairchild rang for Molly to show the impertinent O'Hara out. Despite her irritation with what she termed “his performance,” she was pleased with her plan and allowed a slight smile to cross her lips. The sparkle in her eyes, always almost unnaturally bright, grew. Franny was her daughter, after all. And you can take that to the bank, Mr. O'Hara, because you won't be taking her. The table would be unbalanced with thirteen, but it would be Patrick O'Hara's last meal with the Fairchilds or anyone . . . she pushed the thought to the dark recesses of her mind, and her smile broadened.