The Body in the Boudoir Read Online Free PDF

wouldn’t regret, she said, “All those rafts. And I’ll bet you’re a sailor. Do you want to take a boat ride? There’s a ferry you might like.”
    The Staten Island Ferry—a bargain, even though the fare was now fifty cents. The boat had barely left the Battery when Faith realized she was on the ride of her life. Between the two of them they were able to recall most of Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem “Recuerdo”—“We were very tired, we were very merry”—although they did not intend to go “back and forth all night” on the ferry as Millay and her lover had. They did see the sun come up over Staten Island on the return trip, though, a “bucketful of gold.”
    Tom kissed her then. It was a great kiss. Not too practiced, but just practiced enough.
    â€œWhen can I see you again?” he asked.
    â€œWhen do you want to see me?” Her head was spinning.
    He kissed her again.
    â€œNow.”

Chapter 2
    T om Fairchild was an old-fashioned suitor. He sent flowers—a bridal nosegay the first time with a card saying “You can hold on to this one”; Millay’s A Few Figs from Thistles with a bookmark at “Recuerdo”; even chocolates from Faith’s favorite store in the city, L.A. Burdick ( Josie confessed to spilling the cocoa beans on this one)—and he called.
    His first call was from Penn Station just before boarding the train. She’d wanted to see him off at the station, but he’d insisted she go straight home to get some sleep. He’d conk out on the train, he said, so they’d parted on the sidewalk beneath the Brooklyn Bridge and her mind was crowded with all the things they didn’t get to do, including walk across the bridge to Brooklyn Heights, the place where she had often fantasized about living in the future, when she was a grown-up with a family.
    â€œI’m not saying good-bye, just wanted to tell you I had a great time. No, make that the best time I’ve ever had. Now close your eyes and dream of me,” Tom said.
    They had both been ravenous when they got off the ferry and she’d offered him a choice of a Chinatown or a diner breakfast. The Empire Diner in nearby Chelsea was open twenty-four/seven and a great people-watching place, frequented by a colorful mix of actors, cops, musicians, gangsters, athletes, club hoppers, insomniacs, and young lovers. But when he opted for Chinatown, even closer, she was pleased. New England cuisine (what was with those boiled dinners?) left much to be desired, but she assumed they could do bacon and eggs. They couldn’t do Chinese food. A friend had told her once about venturing into a Chinese restaurant in Cambridge and walking out when a bread basket, complete with foil butter pats, was brought to the table.
    She’d taken Tom to a little hole-in-the-wall place, Hong Fat, on Mott Street and ordered steaming bowls of hot-and-sour soup to warm them up, followed by beef chow fun, extra smoky. He ate the flat, wide rice noodles with a fork, but the man had to have some flaws. Places were starting to open and they stopped for dim sum at HSF to fill in the cracks. Faith insisted Tom take some pork buns and spring rolls to eat on the train rather than suffer the cardboard sandwiches offered at exorbitant prices in the so-called dining car, a far cry from the kind of train travel pictured in her favorite movie, North by Northwest . Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint had dined on brook trout, the table set with fine linen and cutlery. She’d made sure Tom had plenty of paper napkins and a plastic knife and fork, assuring him he would be the envy of all the other travelers. With a reluctance to leave him that both bothered and surprised her by its intensity, she’d grabbed an uptown bus. What was she thinking? He was absolutely, totally wrong for her.
    Yet, when the phone had rung again late in the afternoon, waking her, she’d eagerly