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trade cards? I might suddenly remember the rest of ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and wouldn’t know how to find you.”
    â€œTrue.” Faith laughed as she fished a business card from her purse. “Or you may need a caterer.”
    â€œAbsolutely,” he said. “Take care.”
    She watched him out the window before the bus pulled away. Not bad-looking at all. “Richard Morgan,” his card read. The address wasn’t far from her apartment. What does Richard Morgan do? she wondered. It wasn’t anything on The Street. Financiers didn’t wear tweed jackets. A professor? The bus started with a lurch and he was lost to sight. Without the distraction of carol singing, Faith’s thoughts reverted once more to the problem at hand. The major problem at hand.
    Emma, Emma, Emma. Presumably, she was now at her luncheon, breathlessly apologizing for her lateness as the crème brûlée was served, only to be politely nibbled or politely refused by the ladies present. Eating dessert in public was a no-no. Bingeing on Mallomars at midnight and throwing up was not. Much as everyone exclaimed over Barbara Bush’s inner beauty and lack of pretension, it was Nancy Reagan’s size-four red suits that set the standard. This was a crowd that didn’t need the Duchess of Windsor’s maxim—“You can’t be too rich or too thin”—embroidered on any of their pillows as a reminder.
    It was difficult, almost impossible, to imagine Emma Stanstead as an increasingly high-profile politician’s wife. Yes, she had the beauty and grace—andfigure. Yet, she was quite shy. Growing up with Poppy—and Lucy—Emma preferred candlelight to limelight. When they had traveled in the same circles during adolescence and occasionally later, Faith recalled the change that would come over her friend when she was thrust into uncomfortable social situations. More often than not, Emma would say the first thing that came into her head, and it was often the last thing that would have come into anyone else’s. At ease only with her most intimate friends, she would certainly find the campaign trail and the glare of publicity torture. Emma as a politician’s wife is almost as ludicrous an idea as my being married to a minister, Faith said to herself as she reached up and swiftly pressed the strip for her stop.
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    There were moments over the next several days when Faith wondered if she was cut out for the two jobs totally occupying her life—professional caterer and amateur but increasingly expert worrier. She’d leave a message on Emma’s machine, one sufficiently circumspect so as not to raise any suspicions on Michael’s part, then turn to yet another tray of chocolate mousse cakes or yet another pork loin stuffed with winter fruits—the two most popular dishes of the season. She fretted over not being able to leave as many messages as she wanted—one every hour—and she fretted over Emma’s not calling back. She knew Mrs. Stanstead was alive and kicking—although since it was Emma, Faith amended it to “alive and meandering”—because there had been a picture of her in the paper attending the premiere of Wagner’s Der fliegende Holländer at the Metropolitan Opera House.
    â€œIs there a particular reason you’re so jumpy, or doesbeing in business for yourself do this to a person?” Josie asked after Faith made a mad and fruitless dash for the phone. It was yet another liquor supplier wanting their business.
    Faith had thought she was presenting a markedly calm exterior to the world around her and was surprised at Josie’s words.
    â€œJumpy? I’m not jumpy. Okay, maybe I’m a little strung out. But if we weren’t getting steadily busier, I’d be even worse. I mean, I haven’t particularly noticed anything myself, but if you say so…” She stopped. Josie was right. She was