The Body in the Boudoir Read Free Page B

getting for the company where she apprenticed could just as easily be hers. And she was right. Have Faith became a success in a New York minute, people she knew—and didn’t know—recognizing the cachet in having Faith Sibley not solely as a gorgeous guest but preparing gorgeous food. And here she was at Riverside, the caterer, about to serve two newlyweds their first married meal, which she hoped would launch them into a life of connubial and culinary bliss ever after.
    She glanced around the Ninth Floor Lounge (surely they could have come up with a more inspired name?) once more, her eyes searching for missing place settings, an unfolded napkin. Across the river, New Jersey was disappearing into the dusk, and many floors below, the couple, according to her schedule, should be saying their I dos.
    Faith had met someone in December and for a few moments, maybe for more than a few, had entertained the idea of plighting her troth forever and ever before he’d casually mentioned he would be out of town for the next year or so working on a book. She still wasn’t sure whether she’d been dumped, and if she had it would have been a first as the dumpee. Not pleasant. She’d resolved never to get in that position again. Now, less than a month later, she’d realized much of her infatuation had been with his career as a journalist and the desire to have someone during the holidays, a time when it was always hard not to be a twosome, especially in New York, where romance was in the air, from the couples waltzing on the ice below Rockefeller Center’s tree to the ones gazing in Cartier’s sparkling windows. Richard had been Mr. Right in so many respects—smart, funny, good-looking, and above all, not now or ever a member of the clergy. Hope and Faith had made a pact to avoid that particular cut of fabric, not a difficult promise for a PK to make.
    The elevator doors opened and the first guests stepped into the room, immediately heading for the views. Faith knew the bar would be next and nodded to Howard, who gave her a big smile. She went into the adjoining kitchen and sent out the first of the hors d’oeuvres as well as several trays of drinks: champagne-filled flutes, ice water with and without lemon or lime, white wine. The DJ started playing Lohengrin and the newlyweds stepped into the room amid great applause. Both were tall and seemed like people who would be spending their honeymoon on the ski slopes or somewhere else outdoorsy. The bride wore a pleated silk Mary McFadden gown that made her look classically elegant, an updated version of a Grecian caryatid. The couple paused, smiling somewhat shyly at being the center of so much attention, and then the groom swept his wife into his arms for the first dance. The party had begun.
    An hour later Faith sent out the last tray of oysters. She’d prepared them raw, with a choice of mignonette sauce—that simple combination of wine vinegar, shallots, and freshly ground pepper with a bit of champagne added at the last minute—cocktail sauce, or au naturel, serving them in the bowl of a Chinese soup spoon rather than the shell. Neater and much easier to handle. The bride and groom didn’t need an aphrodisiac—the adoring looks they were sending each other was evidence—but Faith liked to serve oysters at weddings for their symbolism and above all for their flavor. Besides, like caviar—which she’d offered with thin, crepelike blinis or toasted brioche triangles—oysters marked an event as special.
    â€œHas Francesca started serving?” she asked Josie as she came back into the small kitchen after circling the room pouring refills of champagne.
    â€œYes, and from the look of it, we’d better get ready to replenish the beef fast.”
    The groom had not been able to come to the city for the tasting, but the bride and her mother had selected a menu with him in mind. “He likes meat,” his