Over the years, Faith Fairchild had occasionally let herself imagine what it would be like to meet Richard Morgan again. But nothing like this had ever crossed her mind.
Richard Morgan. They had had a heady whirlwind affair in the waning days of the self-indulgent eighties, meeting just before Christmas and partingbefore the New Year. They were both living in Manhattan -- the perfect backdropfor romance, especially during the holiday season. And they were bothsingle. Children, mortgages, gray hair were all things that happened to otherpeople -- older people.
Faith had been on a city bus returning to Have Faith, the catering firmshe'd started that fall. Richard had taken the seat next to hers, and as theother passengers boarded, the strains of a Salvation Army rendition of "GoodKing Wenceslas" filtered through the open door. Richard had started hummingalong, Faith smiled, and he began to sing -- he had a pleasant tenorvoice and an even more pleasant appearance: tall, dark brown hair, and veryblue eyes. "I only know the one verse," he'd told her, and she'd confessed thesame. They'd talked, and he'd almost missed his stop. When he left, he'dsaid, "Want to trade cards? I might suddenly remember the rest of 'Good King Wenceslas' and wouldn't know where to find you." She'd handed hers overwith her own line: "True. Or you might need a caterer."
Standing in front of her now, Richard Morgan did need a caterer. In fact,he needed a meal. They were at Oak Street House in Boston, a shelter forhomeless men, and Richard had just slid his tray in front of Faith, a volunteer,so she could hand him a bowl of beef stew. Stunned, she stood with theladle in one hand, the half-filled bowl in the other. The last time she'd seenhim, they'd been at the Top of the Sixes, that elegant bygone Gotham hot spotat 666 Fifth Avenue. They'd drunk champagne, Perrier-Jouët, and the lightsof the city had sparkled about them like jewelry from Tiffany. Richard wasdrinking coffee now. A thick mug rested next to two packaged rolls on histray. Faith started to speak, then stopped as he put his finger to his lips, shakinghis head slightly.
"Hey, lady, wake up! You gonna gimme some stew or what?" The mannext to Richard pushed him aside. Hastily, Faith filled the bowl and passed itover to Richard. Their hands touched briefly. His nails were dirty and hisskin looked chapped from the cold. She filled another bowl -- and another.It had been thirteen years since they'd said good-bye.
"You're kidding, right?" Faith said to her husband, the Reverend Thomas Fairchild.
But she knew he wasn't, and he confirmed it.
"I know it all sounds very sudden, but we wouldn't go until the end ofJanuary. That's almost two months away. Classes start on the thirtieth."
"I don't understand why you can't teach the course and commute from here."
Here was Aleford, Massachusetts, a small town west of Boston,where the reverend held sway at the First Parish Church and to whichlocale he had lured his bride, Faith Sibley, almost ten years earlier.Faith, born and bred in the Big Apple, had had a thriving catering businessand had been loathe to leave it for the bucolic orchards of New England,but she had fallen head over heels in love with Tom. That meant "whither thou goest," and she did. If you had told her at that time that inthe future she would be protesting a move from Aleford to Cambridge,Massachusetts, a veritable metropolis, two words would have sufficedto express her feelings: No way. Yet here she was, raising an army ofobjections over what would be a temporary move, a sabbatical.
Tom was sitting across from her in one of the two wing chairs thatflanked the living room fireplace. They'd tucked five-year-old...
