The Body in the Moonlight Read Free Page B

weddings and “other appropriate functions,” while using it themselves for the yearly Patriots’ Day Ball, the reception following the close of Town Meeting, Milk Punch with the selectmen at New Year’s, and other joyous occasions. A manager was installed in the former coach house, and it was his daughter who had the job now. Ballou House was an inspired choice for First Parish’s kickoff campaign. Aleford residents received a reduced rate, and if the whole idea was to inspire a sense of worth and well-being, there was no other place like it.
    â€œYes,” said Faith, reluctantly abandoning her reverie to answer Paula’s question, “I’ve done a number of events there.”
    â€œMarvelous! Now, I know how busy you are, but you are our absolute first choice and we are so hoping you can do the dinner.”
    Faith knew what she had to say—and in truth, she really didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if she was being asked to take on the church school’s Christmas pageant.
    â€œI’d be happy to help. And of course I’ll do it at cost.”
    â€œI knew you would,” Paula said appreciatively, letting the words sink in, then added briskly, “Now, we haven’t got a moment to spare. When can we meet? You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m going to be with you every step of the way. Such fun! We’ll do it in tandem!”
    That’s what Faith had been afraid of—a yoke.
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    By the end of the first week in October, Faith was ready to kill Paula Pringle—especially Paula Pringle, Party Planner. The menu was set; the menu was changed. The color scheme and table decorations were set; they were changed.
    â€œIf she would only let me do my job and stick to planning the entertainment, I might, just might, get through next week,” Faith fumed to Niki Constantine, her assistant.
    â€œThat’s supposed to be puff pastry, remember?” Niki commented as Faith pressed the slab of buttery dough with the intensity of a laundress attacking an intransigent wrinkle.
    â€œI never was very good at sharing,” Faith muttered. “Poor Mother. It must have been mortifying. ‘Faith needs to work on her sharing skills.’ My first kindergarten report. Apparently, I wouldn’t pass the guinea pig on to the next child for a turn. But Eleanor—that was her name (the animal, not the child) was happy with me, and who would want to be handed around like that anyway, being squeezed too hard? Tommy Martin almost strangled her.”
    â€œFaith! Get a grip! What’s going on?” Niki meant it. This wasn’t like her boss. And Faith was good at sharing—especially food.
    â€œI don’t know,” Faith said slowly, matching the tempo of rolling the dough to her words. It suddenly seemed like an enormous effort. Most things did lately. She got up tired and she went to bed tired. Tom and she passed, nodded, and went on their appointed rounds.She thought back. The last time they’d sat down for any length of time together had been that Sunday night when the whole steeple/crypt fund-raiser had first come up. Since then, she’d been working, he had, or they’d both had to be out together—and not at the movies. When was it they’d taken to leaving each other notes on the kitchen table? Last spring, she thought. Not love notes, but “Put dinner in oven at 350 degrees” notes and “Home late—hope not too late” notes.
    â€œWe’ve worked with plenty of difficult clients. In fact, difficult clients are the norm. That’s why you need never worry your pretty little blond head about my wanting my own business. You know me and ‘tact’—gives me hives. Think about what the Bullocks were like. This can’t be worse than Stephanie’s wedding!”
    â€œTrue,” Faith admitted as she sat down to let the pastry rest. “It’s me or, rather,