Small Plates (4 page)

It was beautiful out and she was tempted to walk down to the beach to find him. He'd probably need help carrying the forest he'd collected. Plus it was a romantic night, especially since their two children—Ben, five, and Amy, almost two—were many miles away at the parsonage, being totally spoiled by Tom's parents, who seemed to count the days until they could get their hands on the grandchildren—and then perhaps count the days until they could hand them back over again.

Yes, a romantic night, a night of . . .

She was abruptly shaken from her mood by a frantic knocking at the cottage door. Why had Tom decided to come back that way? She ran to let him in.

It wasn't Tom.

“Please, you've got to help me! Please hide me!”

She was a beautiful blonde in her mid- to late twenties with a deep tan that set off her lacy turquoise gown and peignoir. She was barefoot, and the look on her face made Faith instantly reach to pull her inside. This was no joke.

“What is it? Are you in some kind of danger? Do you want me to try to call someone? The police?”

As Faith spoke, she remembered one of the “quaint” customs at The Retreat—no phones in the room, cell use forbidden—which wasn't necessary, as the service was virtually nonexistent. The nearest landline was down by the dining hall, a trek especially at night.

“No, no! Don't tell anyone I'm here!” The woman was getting hysterical. “Just hide me. Hide me quickly!”

As she spoke Faith heard a faint male voice calling, “Carolann! Carolann! Where are you?”

The woman looked as if she was going to faint. Faith pushed her into the bathroom. “Don't worry. The only person coming in will be my husband. You're in safe hands.” The woman nodded and silently closed the door.

The voice was getting louder, and after a while Faith heard heavy, deliberate footsteps outside the door. The Fairchilds' was the last cottage in the row. There was plenty of room between them, and whoever it was had been taking his time searching the area. He would call out every once in a while, his voice concerned, loving. What in the world could be happening? A marital spat? He called once more. Faith could hear him clearly. He was on the boardwalk near the deck. The steps stopped, then started again; he was moving away.

Faith suddenly realized she had seen the woman sunbathing at the end of the beach that afternoon. Neither her suit nor her nightwear left much to the imagination, but a great deal to fantasy on the part of some onlookers. She looked more like a California Girl, maybe even a Valley Girl. She'd been alone on the beach, splayed out on her back, her body glistening with oil like some sacrificial offering to the sun god.

The glass door slid open and Faith jumped. “Tom!”

“And you were expecting whom? Brad Pitt, Daniel Craig, given this place, Roger Tory Peterson?” Tom, tall with deep brown eyes and reddish brown hair, windblown and flushed from his exertions, had his own appeal.

“Shhh, there's a young woman in her nightgown hiding in our bathroom. She appeared at the door a few minutes ago, absolutely terrified, begging me to help her.”

“You and Pix have been reading her old copy of
The
Total Woman
again, haven't you? It's a great shtick, honey, but with Ben and Amy safe and sound at home, I really don't need any inducement to get—”

“Tom! There really
is
a woman in the bathroom. Go see for yourself. She's in some kind of trouble, and we've got to help her.”

“Just so long as it's a
live
woman.” Faith could tell Tom was humoring her and was starting to feel annoyed.

“Oh, she's very much alive—and I am not hallucinating.”

“All right, I'll go look. Meanwhile, why don't you open the cognac and pour me a tad?”

He was back in a flash.

“Faith! There's a woman cowering in our bathtub! What the hell is going on?”

“I told you,” Faith said with a justifiable trace of smugness. “She knocked on the door, asked me to hide her, and I did. A man was outside calling for ‘Carolann' and that must be her name.”

“I heard him when I came up from the beach. He was going down the stairs at the far end.”

“That means he's left. If she knows that, she might come out and start talking.”

The Fairchilds went to the bathroom door and Faith knocked softly. “He's gone now. Why don't you join us by the fire?” she suggested. When there was no reply, she opened the door.

The room was completely empty, save for the moonlight streaming through the open window. Carolann had seen herself out.

F
aith opened her eyes and rolled over. Tom was already gone. The serious business of sects started early, and he'd told her the night before he would be breakfasting at seven if she cared to join him. She did not, but noting that it was after eight and there would be no food after nine, she jumped out of bed, showered, dressed, and headed off for sustenance.

Tom and she had talked about the mysterious woman in turquoise until well after midnight, but the only explanation seemed to be a quarrel with her husband soon regretted. Faith wondered whether she'd be on the beach again.

Breakfast was semi-cafeteria-style. You chose what you wanted, and then someone brought it piping hot to your table. Apparently neither flab nor cholesterol worried anyone at The Retreat. Offerings included eggs in many guises, sausages, bacon, ham, home fries, pancakes, muffins, toast, and huge pecan sticky buns—and as a sop to the health conscious, chunks of melon and mounds of strawberries. Faith chose fruit and a bun, planning to walk it off.

There were few late risers and she was seated in solitary splendor at one of the big, round tables with the whole lazy Susan to herself. It was crowded with fresh Odwalla orange juice, coffee, milk, cream, and an endless variety of jams and jellies. Occupied with the serious business of food, Faith didn't see the woman from the previous night until the woman passed her table with a man who matched her in age, tan, and hair color.

“Hello,” said Faith, weighing her next words. It might not be so tactful to say “Everything patched up between you two?” or “Have any trouble getting out of my bathroom window?” Before she could decide, the couple had moved toward the kitchen, the woman returning the greeting—without even a flicker of recognition on her face.

Faith had a good view of them when they came back and sat a few tables away. Whatever was wrong the night before
had
been resolved. They could have been honeymooners—and maybe were. Both wore wedding bands. He kissed her hand when she passed him the salt, and Faith was sure there were kneesies going on under the chaste, white tablecloth while they ate.

When the man rose to go toward the servers at the end of the room, Faith seized her chance and made her way over to their table.

“Is everything all right? You were so distressed last night, then when you disappeared, we didn't know what to think.”

The woman was startled and answered hastily, “Yes, yes, everything's fine.” Faith was struck by the confusion on her face. Was it a question of Faith's knowing too much? The way a friend who has unburdened him- or herself of some problem often becomes a mere acquaintance afterward? The man was walking toward the table now and Faith stayed put. It would have been awkward to leave.

“I couldn't help myself. I ordered more of those pancakes. The food here is fantastic.” It was the same voice that had called “Carolann”—a hearty, used-car-salesman-type voice.

While Faith's sticky bun had been edible, she wouldn't go so far as to call it “fantastic,” and she'd had no trouble in leaving it unfinished. Maybe lunch would show the chef's true colors.

“Hi, I'm Jim Hadley. My wife, Carolann, and I stay at The Retreat whenever we're up here. Been coming for years.” He put out his hand, and Faith shook it. He had a strong grip.

“Hello, I'm Faith Fairchild. This is my first visit. My husband is attending a conference.”

“Which one?” Jim sniggered slightly.

“The one on heretics,” Faith said, forgoing the temptation to satisfy his prurient interest by declaring Tom one of the world's leading authorities on participatory sexual research.

Jim was not disappointed. “Oh the sects, not sex.” His self-congratulatory grin indicated he'd obviously been waiting for the opportunity to get that off since his arrival.

“Oh, darling, you are terrible! What will Mrs. Fairchild think?” Carolann said with mock severity—and absolutely no fear.

Faith said good-bye. She had serious beach plans for the rest of the morning.

Soon she was slathering herself with the highest numerical SPF in existence, pondering the absurdity of lying in the sun while doing everything possible to avoid a tan. The sound of the waves, and the sun's warm, gentle rays began to work on her senses, and her eyelids drooped.

“Now, don't go falling asleep. That's a sure way to get a burn, especially with your complexion.” A shadow fell across her.

Faith sat up. It was Carolann. And from the tone of her voice, the world's leading authority on tanning.

“You have to do this gradually.” She spread her towel companionably close, Faith noted in dismay. She was treasuring solitude on this vacation—a rare thing in her everyday life. Still, with Jim nowhere in sight, Carolann might talk about the previous evening.

But she didn't. What she did do was talk about everything else under the sun. Their starter apartment in New York City that was on the market for ten million five, because they wanted to move to Westchester.

“It's more normal up there,” Carolann confided. “You don't see so many homeless people.” She also managed to work in their Mercedes and an account of a second home they had looked at the week before in the Hamptons, a steal at eight million—“just a cottage really. But of course it's a teardown.”

“Of course,” Faith murmured, looking surreptitiously at her watch. It wasn't lunchtime.

When Nan Tucker, one of the other clerical wives, came along with children and sand pails in tow, Faith positively leapt at her, insisting she join them. Mrs. Tucker, slightly bewildered by the intensity of Faith's invitation, nevertheless spread out a blanket and began to unpack. The sight of all those juice boxes, kites, shovels, small hats, flip-flops, and granola bars gave Faith a fleeting pang of guilt—guilt for not missing the kids more. It really was wonderful to be able simply to get up and leave a beach without the frantic cries to stay just a little longer and the accompanying tears. Nor did she miss the dump truck loads of sand that invariably accumulated on various parts of a child's body or the role of mother as packhorse—a child on each hip and a fifty-pound sack of toys on one's back.

“Perhaps I'll see you at lunch,” she said, turning away from Carolann and toward Nan. Her plan was to steer the conversation to tanning, allowing Carolann to give her lecture to a new victim, who—if Faith remembered correctly from the barbecue dinner of the night before—had a few lectures of her own up her sleeve. Mrs. Tucker was one of those women who ask extremely detailed questions—in the hopes of catching you out in a lie, or worse. Before Faith could bring up the topic, the clerical helpmate said in an accusatory tone, “We didn't see you at breakfast. Where were you?” As a method of information gathering it was unsubtle but effective, Faith realized, as she struggled for a more impressive excuse than “sleeping in”—something like a dawn ten-mile run or early morning bird-watching. She left the two women to each other's devices and made her escape.

At lunch she regaled Tom with an account of her morning, complete with a description of the sex researchers on the beach. The Japanese and many of the Europeans wore suits and ties with their IAHSRRT name tags prominently displayed on neat lapels. They'd spent a great deal of time taking photographs of each other in front of the ocean, looking completely incongruous among the sunbathers. Their colleagues were a bit more relaxed—flip-flops, khakis, and open-necked shirts.

Tom was relieved to hear that all was well with “the toothsome morsel in our shower.”

“I'd be happy to risk skin cancer if you like, Tom, and maybe there's a Victoria's Secret at the Sagamore Outlet Mall.” Faith was slightly miffed. “Anyway, my blond hair isn't out of a bottle.” She tossed her shoulder-length locks, glad she had decided not to cut them before the trip.

“ ‘Toothsome' as in cotton candy, fluff. You, my love, are the real thing—the
mousse au chocolat,
the soufflé Grand Marnier, the—”

“I get it.” Faith was appeased. “But please stop talking about food!” She was pushing runny turkey potpie and broccoli steamed to a pulp around on her plate. The Retreat was obviously not acquainted with New American cuisine. All Faith's hopes for the use of local ingredients fresh from the sea and garden had been dashed by the menu that greeted them at the dining room door. Pineapple tapioca was listed for dessert. “We have got to go somewhere else for dinner, honey.”

Tom nodded vehemently and then said loudly, “What a terrific place this is.”

A voice at Faith's shoulder said firmly, “Is something wrong with your lunch? You do not like the food?”

It was Elsa Whittemore, The Retreat's formidable director. She had delivered a short speech of welcome to their group at the opening-night barbecue before marching off to more important things like reclaiming the dunes single-handedly. She had reminded Faith of the woman in one of those James Bond movies with the knives in the toes of her shoes. Click, click. She could almost hear Elsa's heels. The knives were out and aimed at Faith.

“Actually, I had such a big breakfast, I'm not very hungry,” Faith lied shamelessly. She was starving. For some reason, doing nothing all morning had given her quite an appetite.

Tom was slavishly cleaning his plate. Faith glowered at him. Elsa left, shoulders back, chest out. Her graying Dutch bob did not dare to move a strand.