The Body in the Boudoir by Katherine Hall Page

Faith’s desk at work with the chair facing out, toward the kitchen. The counter was lined with trays of cooling divinity fudge, another of Josie’s specialties and destined to be packed into small gold boxes as favors for an anniversary party. The significance of the name had taken on new meaning for Faith, as had pretty much everything else in her life these days. She was engaged. She was getting married. The “but”—the contingency that was her trip to Aleford—had fallen by the wayside. No time, and no inclination now. The universe was whirling madly as her emotions plunged from euphoria to fear and trembling. And here was Emma announcing that her mother wanted to give Faith a shower. A bridal shower!
    Emma and Faith had been at Dalton together, but lost touch during college. Last December Emma had turned to Faith for help. She was being blackmailed, and the deadly journey the two took together had forged something more than mere friendship. They’d initially reconnected at a party she was catering, Faith recalled, looking over at Emma—startlingly beautiful, like a Pre-Raphaelite-era Rossetti painting, even in a plain gray Eileen Fisher outfit. She also recalled the look of fear on Emma’s face that evening as she’d dashed into the host’s kitchen, where Faith had been busy with coconut shrimp, and paused to greet her former classmate politely—Emma was very polite—before asking desperately whether there was a back way out of the apartment. Two parties: one in December, one in January; two life-changing events. Faith had had no idea catering would prove so perilous, so delirious.
    And now it was March and Emma’s mother, Poppy, wanted to give Faith a shower.
    Poppy Morris was a legend. During the sixties she’d invented radical chic, throwing dinner parties where Bobby Seale might be seated next to Brooke Astor and across from Henry Kissinger, with Jane Fonda to his left. Far left. It was Poppy who’d first put the iconic photograph of Che on a T-shirt, pairing it with Ralph Lauren pants. She marched her way through the seventies and ever onward, while maintaining close ties to whoever sat in the Oval Office, sending Ronnie jelly beans, banning broccoli when George and Barbara dined chez Morris. Power was Power.
    Never a white wine yuppie, Poppy stuck with martinis. She preferred poker to bridge and wasn’t a lady who lunched. Her husband, Jason, seemed content to sit and watch the show, with a cast of characters that had changed with each decade. At the moment Poppy was devoting herself to Emma, having coming very close to losing her, and had typically decided that what her daughter needed now was to embark on a round-the-world voyage with Poppy, stopping not in Paris or Rome but in Morocco, Istanbul, and “a divine little place” Poppy had discovered while trekking in Nepal.
    â€œShe doesn’t have to do this and anyway it’s too soon,” Faith said.
    The wedding wasn’t until June. Many months away, she kept telling herself. Many, many.
    Emma was nibbling on a piece of fudge Josie had handed her.
    â€œYum. I wish I could make things like this. No, I don’t really. Anyway, Faith, you know Poppy. She’s not going to take no for an answer. Check your calendar. She wants to do it the last Sunday of the month. Late afternoon. It will be fun. She has some sort of idea she read about that she says will liven things up. I don’t know what it is, but we have to have at least twenty-four people.”
    Poppy’s idea of fun usually was, but Faith couldn’t imagine what kind of shower this might be.
    â€œYou’re a bride. Brides have showers given for them. Relax,” Josie said. She’d greeted Faith’s news with delight and proclaimed herself the first to know, although Howard was saying the same thing. So far as Faith could tell, these claims were based on the way Tom had looked at her across the