The Body in the Bouillon ff-3 Page 7

  Dr. Hubbard galloped by, and presently Faith spotted Denise.

  “There's my friend Denise," she told Tom. "The woman in the black crepe Armani dress over there."

  “Pretty, but not my type. Too fashionable," Tom commented.

  “And I'm not?"

  “That doesn't deserve an answer. Let's just say I like to run my fingers through some hair, not an inch of stubble. If I want that, I can stop shaving for a couple of days.”

  What was it with men and long hair? If Tom and his ilk had their way, we'd all be Rapunzels, Faith reflected.

  “I wonder who that is she's dancing with. I haven't seen him at Hubbard House. Maybe someone she's seeing.”

  Denise's partner was handsome in a Richard Gere sort of way, and his tuxedo was a bit more current—and snuggly fitting—than those of the men who were waltzing around him. They mostly sported the timeless boxy numbers from Brooks dug out from the backs of their closets year after year for occasions like this.

  Faith looked over at Tom. He looked good in black—fortunately for his calling—but she had to admit she preferred the well-cut tux from Barneÿ s she had given him their first Christmas together to his robes.

  He caught her stare. "Want to dance, honey? It is a ball, remember."

  “Love to," she replied, and jumped up. "I don't think my card is filled."

  “Lucky, lucky me," Tom whispered in her ear as he pulled her close.

  “Dance me over to Denise—I want to say hello," Faith instructed him, and veered toward the other couple.

  “I was under the impression that the dance floor was the one place where I got to lead, darling, but it looks like I'm wrong there too. Just shove me wherever you want."

  “Martyr," Faith said, and steered toward Denise.

  As they got closer, Faith became aware that Denise was involved in a heated conversation with her partner. Her cheeks were red and she seemed close to tears. When they drew up next to them, Faith heard her say, "Please, please. You know I wouldn't ask you unless—" She broke off abruptly at the sight of Faith and composed her face in a welcoming smile.

  “How lovely to see you, Faith. And you must be the Reverend Fairchild. I'm so glad you could come and I was able to get you at my table."

  “Yes, we saw. You can tell us everyone's names." Faith hoped the hint wasn't too blatant, and to cover up asked hastily, "Is Mrs. P. here?”

  Surprisingly, Denise's partner answered.

  “Mrs. Pendergast! In this crowd! Do you think she got an invite, Denny?" he asked mockingly.

  “Of course she did," Denise answered in a slightly angry tone. "She told me she'd rather put her feet up. I think her sister-in-law was coming over and they were going to watch their tapes of 'The Golden Girls' and have a glass or two of Kahlùa. A big night," she finished on a lighter note.

  The music stopped and Dr. Hubbard walked up to the band leader and took the microphone.

  “Would you take your seats now, friends? They're going to be serving dinner and you're also going to have to hear from me.”

  The crowd moved immediately to the round tables, neither prospect being an unpleasant one, it appeared.

  Faith and Tom followed Denise. She still had not introduced them to the man with whom she was dancing, nor did he seem to be seated at her table.

  Someone who obviously knew Hubbard House, Faith noted. Could it be Donald Hubbard? But Donald was in his mid to late thirties, and this man was much younger. Besides, there was something about him that suggested a profession other than medicine. She realized what it was. He was tan—and this was the wrong time of year for those doctors who frequented the course or courts to have one. Then she remembered Charmaine had recently come back from a cruise. Perhaps her husband had gone with her.

  Faith sat down, and a waiter brought a steaming bowl of what she saw from the menu card was crawfish bisque with Armagnac. She liked eating someone else's cooking as much, as and sometimes more than her own—if it was good. She tooka sip. This was. The rest of the menu was appro priately festive: Boston Bibb lettuce with pomegranate-seed dressing, beef Wellington, wild rice, and plum pudding for dessert. They were going to have to do a great deal of dancing to burn it all off, she told Tom.

  “Don't worry, I'm ready."

  “Neither of you looks like you've ever had to worry about a calorie in your lives, whereas I've been on a diet continuously since I was thirteen." Denise sighed. She reached into her pocketbook and took out a pack of cigarettes. "Oh, I almost forgot. No smoking. Roland is quite a crusader.”

  Faith had noticed all the signs at Hubbard House with a picture of the bird and "No Puffin' " on them, but assumed it was because of a state requirement. She was thankful for Dr. Hubbard's convictions. She hated to eat with the smell of smoke surrounding her. As to what people wanted to do to themselves elsewhere, that was their own business.

  Dr. Hubbard was starting to speak, and the microphone didn't make any untoward noises for him, nor did he find it necessary to test it. He started in with no ado at all.

  “Residents of Hubbard House, my charming Pink Ladies, spouses, friends—friends all, I'd like to welcome you to yet another Holly Ball. Although we have already passed the time of year when we give collective thanks, I have always felt that this gathering is my personal thanksgiving. It is the time when we gather together in joy, and as I look out at all of you, I feel enormously thankful- for what you contribute to Hubbard House with your time and other resources, but most of all for the opportunity you grant me to continue doing what I have loved best in my life. As many of you are no doubt aware, Hubbard House came into existence a little over twenty-four years ago. Before that I was a doctor—a country doctor in those long-ago days. It was a wonderful experience—all those night calls." He paused for the laughter. "But when my dear wife Mary's illness prompted me to look for something that would keep me closer to her side, I knew immediately what I wanted to do. With her invaluable advice, I set about to create a place where one could live as an elderly person with both dignity and security. Where the individual would be cherished from the time he or she entered until leaving. I hope and pray we have accomplished this and will continue to do so for a long time to come.”

  He stopped at the thunderous applause, then continued.

  “So many others came on board to help us, and many of them are still here raising the sails"—another pause for appreciative laughter. "I'd like to introduce a few of them, though of course they are well known to you. First my esteemed colleague and son, Dr. Donald Hubbard, and his lovely wife, Charmaine.”

  They stood to more applause, and Faith got a look at Donald. Roland's wife must have been short, she instantly thought. Otherwise Donald looked quite a bit like the old block. Charmaine had taken his arm and waved.

  “Next my daughter, Muriel, without whom .. . as they say. Muriel stood up. She was wearing a black taffeta dress with a white collar and small jet buttons down the front. Faith saw her instantly at age eleven, still wearing smocked dresses with sashes. The braces had probably gone on about then too. Poor Muriel—one of those girls who got the lead in Our Town in high school and kept playing Emily earnestly ever after.

  “And of course Sylvia Vale, my administrative assistant, who was there when we opened our doors." Sylvia rose and bowed regally.

  “John McGuire, the chairman of our board of trustees, who keeps me honest." A genial, portly man with a fringe of silver hair stood amidst the laughter.

  “And finally, two ladies—the pillars of the temple, so to speak—Leandra Rhodes, current president of our Residents' Council, and Bootsie Brennan, the head of our Ladies' Auxiliary—the Pinkest Lady of them all.”

  So this was the noxious Cyle's mother—a diminutive creature in rose velvet. Either it was Nice 'n Easy or Cyle hadn't produced any gray hairs in her shining gold locks, which Faith sincerely doubted. Small women like Bootsie, probably weighing all of a hundred pounds, were often heavyweights in other arenas, Faith had learned, and she did
n't doubt that Bootsie—and what was that a nickname for?—could take anybody in the room.

  Leandra Rhodes—she remembered Denise had mentioned her. She was tall and stately, with a braided crown of gray tresses. No touching up for her. She wore an ancient, slightly rusty-looking turquoise taffeta-and-velvet gown that had seen a great deal of service—most likely first purchased for Waltz Evenings at this very hotel. Her white kid gloves—so difficult to get cleaned nowadays and looking pearly gray even from a distance—came up over her elbows. Faith was not fooled for an instant by the genteel shabbiness. Leandra was a classic Boston lady, a low heeler, with plenty of Adamses, Higginsons, and Shaws gracing the family boughs, just as there were also the fruits of her ancestors' labors stored away in the State Street Bank. She looked like a woman who knew exactly what she—and everyone else—should do.

  “And now, please eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves, though as your doctor I am bound to warn you—not too much.”

  He sat down and the applause continued. Donald stood up and raised his glass. "To my father, the memory of my mother, and to Hubbard House," he said.

  Someone cried, "Hear, hear," and everyone drank a toast.

  Dr. Hubbard rose again and held his glass up. "The evening would not be complete without a toast to absent friends. Let us stand and remember.”

  The man was a consummate artist. Faith felt a lump in her throat. If Dr. Hubbard was as good at medicine as he was at public speaking, she thought they ought to beg him to' take them on as patients.

  Tom echoed her thoughts. "Quite a guy. Think what a different life most elderly people would have if there were more dedicated people like Roland Hubbard.”

  Two people whom the Fairchilds had not yet met smiled across the table. "He isn't a plaster saint; he's as genuinely caring as he seems," the woman said.

  Denise came out of the reverie she'd been in since they'd sat down, and evidently recalled her duties as hostess. "Please let me introduce all of you. This is Julia Cabot"—she motioned toward the woman who had just spoken—"and her husband, Ellery, Hubbard House residents. Then my dear neighbors, Joan and Bill Winter, and the Reverend Thomas Fairchild and my new best friend, Faith Fairchild. Joel was supposed to escort me, but tickets to some revolting rock concert proved more interesting. I can't imagine why.”

  Everyone laughed and began to tell stories about their children. Faith felt a cold sweat starting as it did every time she contemplated the thought of Benjamin the teenager. It didn't matter that the Miller teenagers next door had always seemed at least somewhat reasonable and Pix averred it was not just in public. But hormones run amok could produce any number of catastrophes. Though even if they were disagreeing, at least they'd be able to have a conversation, something rather difficult at present. It was a vaguely comforting thought.

  Tom and Faith danced some more and the evening meandered along pleasantly. Faith told Tom he ought to dance with Bootsie and tell her what he thought of her son. He replied that one cross to bear was enough, and in any case he made it a rule never to dance with women named Bootsie.

  Denise's table proved to be an agreeable mix of people. Those who were dancing switched partners easily. Julia Cabot, in particular, was a superb dancer and thanked Tom so heartily at the end of her spin that he immediately engaged her for another. Her husband looked up at her affectionately "Poor Julia doesn't get much dancing out of me anymore, I'm afraid. A problem with these May/December romances." Julia kissed him and told him to stop talking nonsense, then waltzed gracefully away. She was an attractive woman with light-brown hair piled up on her head and dressed in a long, full-skirted emerald-green satin gown. Ellery addressed the rest of the table—quite proudly, Faith noted. "I'm eighty-two and I'm not supposed to say how old Julia is, but let's just say I was doing my darndest to make the freshman crew team at Harvard when she was born.”

  With Tom busy dancing and the others chatting away, Faith thought she would take the opportunity to work the room a little in the hopes of picking up some information. Now that she knew who they all were, she'd go directly to the Hubbard table and see how they were doing. She wandered over to where the family was sitting. Dr. Hubbard was dancing with Sylvia Vale, and they swept energetically by in a near imitation of Arthur and Katherine Murray. As Faith approached, she was greeted warmly by Muriel, who was sitting with her brother and Charmaine.

  “Mrs. Fairchild! How splendid that you could come. Do sit down and meet my brother and his wife." Was it Faith's imagination or were the words "and his wife" in a lower register?

  “Mrs. Fairchild and I have already met, thank you Muriel. She's working in the kitchen," Charmaine told her husband, making Faith feel not unlike Cinderella at the ball.

  Donald took Faith's hand in both of his. It must be a family trademark, she thought. He was actually quite attractive, with a slight cleft in his chin that his father didn't have. It made his face very much his own. He dropped her hand gently. "My father mentioned that you were so kind as to pitch in during our flu epidemic, and we're very grateful. I'm sure this is a busy time for you and the Reverend."

  “I'm glad I could do it," Faith said, then wondered what to say next—something like "We're all friends here. How about telling me what's really going on at Hubbard House?”

  Charmaine reached under the table and pulled out a purse that would have proved ample for a polar expedition and prepared to redo her face. She caught Muriel's disapproving glance and said, "If you'll excuse me," and left.

  A few yards from the table she stopped to talk to Denise's earlier dancing partner. She was toss- ing her hair around and he had one arm casually flung around her waist. Faith looked back at Donald and Muriel. She was not surprised to see a look of deep disgust on Muriel's face, but she was stunned by the look of intense anger that had transformed Donald's kindly expression. He looked as though he wanted to kill someone.

  Charmaine and whoever it was broke apart, and the man continued on toward the table.

  “Good evening, Muriel, Donald, and I don't believe I know this beautiful lady," he said.

  It was clear Donald wasn't going to make any introductions, although a mask of indifference had replaced the one of hatred. Muriel, ever mindful of her manners, did.

  “Faith Fairchild, Edsel Russell. Mr. Russell is in charge of the buildings and grounds at Hubbard House." Then she added, "Mrs."—and this time there was no doubt about the emphasis on the word—"Mrs. Fairchild is a volunteer.”

  Edsel Russell gave something between a nod and small bow toward Faith. "Please call me Eddie. Everybody does. My mother, God rest her soul, thought Edsel was classy, but then she had never seen the car.”

  Faith laughed. "Well, I hear they are becoming highly collectible. I suppose it's another example of if you wait long enough, whatever you're holding on to will come back in fashion." This was not one of her maxims but Tom's, and in his case it was more like continual use, rather than stockpiling, say, one's old Diors until hems went up or down again.

  “Could 1 'collect' you for the next dance, Mrs. Fairchild?”

  It wasn't that he was unattractive, and he was probably a good dancer. Men like Eddie usually were. But Faith didn't feel like giving him the satisfaction of an acceptance. It was clearly why he had come to the table. Besides, the line was too corny.

  “Perhaps later, thank you. I'm a bit tired now," she told him.

  “Time to go to the bench then. How about you, Muriel?”

  The man was either a cad or an oaf or both. Donald was drinking a glass of champagne and his hand trembled. Faith half expected him to fling the contents at Eddie and declare, "That is my sister, suh, whom you impugn!" She also expected Muriel to decline—politely of course but, Faith hoped, with some frostiness.

  None of these things happened. Donald put the glass down and Muriel rose with alacrity and danced off in Eddie's arms.

  That left Faith and Donald, and just as she was about to ask about Eddie Russell's duties—he being clearly the first real fly
in the ointment she'd found at Hubbard House—Donald excused himself. Faith got up quickly, since there is nothing so pathetic as one person sitting alone at a table with a lot of partially consumed food and drinks, and made her way back to her own table. She passed Eddie and Muriel. His eyes were half closed and he was humming along to the music; hers were wide open.

  She sat down next to Tom.

  “Where have you been? They played 'Windmills of My Mind.' “

  Tom could be very sentimental. He still thought A Man and a Woman was one of the greatest movies of all time and got choked up when Kermit sang "The Rainbow Connection."

  “I was talking to the Hubbards and met the guy who's in charge of buildings and grounds at Hubbard House—”

  Whatever Faith was going to say about Eddie was lost as the Oval Room plunged into sudden darkness. A woman screamed, and almost as quickly as they had gone off, the lights went on again. It was as if a reel of film had broken in the middle and, when the projector started again, it started in a freeze frame. Everyone stood poised in position. Most were facing the direction of the scream. Since her mouth was opened for another, Charmaine was the obvious source. Perhaps she saw Muriel's palm ready to slap her sillier, or perhaps she decided Camille was a more touching act. Whatever the reason, she snapped her lips closed and swooned into a chair. Donald bent anxiously over her. Faith's first impulse was to dash over to the Hubbard table, lift the cloth, and search for a body beneath. Instead she looked around to see who was where. There was general movement now, and Dr. Hubbard was striding over to the microphone. Donald was attending to Charmaine. Muriel was watching her father. Eddie was nowhere in sight. No one was missing from Faith's table with the exception of Denise.

  Dr. Hubbard had the microphone and his voice was bracingly reassuring. "One of the staff has been a little overzealous in turning down the lights for our pudding procession," he told the crowd. "I think we're ready to begin now.”