Free The Body In The Big Apple by Katherine Hall Page Page B

the legs to prove it worked.
    â€œAltman’s is closing! B. Altman! They’re having agigantic sale and simply gutting the place. I can scarcely take it in. I’d like you and Hope to come to lunch with me at the Charleston Gardens. Remember all those times we used to go there before the ballet? Humor an old lady and call me, dear.” Two mentions of “old lady” in one message. Faith hated that Altman’s was closing, too, although she hadn’t been there in years. It had furnished her grandmother and mother’s trousseaux—and first apartments. When Hope and Faith were little girls, Altman’s was de rigeur for party dresses, white gloves, navy blue Sunday school coats, and, of course, Easter bonnets. She felt a sudden nostalgia for the Charleston Gardens’ rendition of chicken à la king. (And which king was that? British, surely, not French.) The memory was complicated by an equally strong one of Hope losing her lunch in the final moments of Romeo and Juliet, when sister and grandmother took her tugs on their sleeves to mean requests for information—Hope had been a great one for questions like “Why can’t she climb down the balcony and leave?”—rather than the urgent need for the bathroom that it was. The image of mopping Hope up, as well as three ladies from a women’s club on Long Island who had been in the row in front of them, had stayed with Faith as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was the first time she’d ever seen what she later learned was called a “merry widow.” Yes, she’d have lunch with Granny and they could all mourn the passing of yet another treasured New York institution and bemoan the shortsightedness of the philistines responsible—but Faith would stick to the BLT.
    Beep: “‘ “Hither, page, and stand by me,/If thou know’st it, telling,/Yonder peasant, who is he?/Where and what his dwelling?”/“Sire, he lives a good leaguehence,/Underneath the mountain,/Right against the forest fence,/By Saint Agnes’ fountain.” ’”
    Richard Morgan! Things were looking up. “I can sing some more verses, too. If you’d like to hear them, meet me for dinner tonight. I know it’s short notice, but I thought I’d still be out of town. Give me a call. Five five five, eight nine four seven. I’ll even not sing, if you’d rather.”
    The last message was from Hope. She was at work and had her work voice on. “Please let me know some times when you’re available for dinner, so we can arrange a date and place to meet. Best call me at work. I won’t be home until late all week.” Hope got to the office well before dawn and seldom left until it was time to tumble into bed. It wasn’t until all the Michael Milken stuff came out, revealing, among other things, that, like many in the business, he rose at 4:00 A.M. , sleeping only four to five hours a night, that Faith conceded her sister wasn’t seriously disturbed, simply seriously lacking perspective.
    She shook her head and dialed Richard. He answered on the second ring.
    â€œHi, it’s Faith Sibley, and as it turns out, I am free, and trying to remember all those verses has been driving me crazy. Your call came just in time.”
    â€œOne so rarely has the opportunity to be of service. I’m delighted. Now, what’s your pleasure?”
    That awkward moment had arrived. Where to eat? And she had no idea how fat his wallet was. Did the absence of an overcoat mean good circulation or an unhealthy cash flow?
    â€œI dunno. What do you want to do, Marty?” Faith had been brought up on black-and-white classic movies. Apparently, so had Richard.
    â€œIf I remind you of Ernest Borgnine, we may have a problem.”
    Faith laughed. “Okay. What kind of food do you like to eat, and if you say everything, I’m hanging up.”
    â€œDon’t do that! Let’s see,