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using rococo white porcelain containers overflowing with roses straight from a Fragonard for one and for the other selecting a long, low glass heart shape filled to the brim with perfect red, deep purple, and rose anemones. Faith had scattered on the tables candy hearts with those mottos that always suggested to her that someone should be doing the Charleston—“I Go 4 U,” “U Send Me, Kiddo”—and red-foil-wrapped chocolates as well.
    She’d picked up her mail on the way to the elevator and was disappointed not to have a card from Tom. He’d been sending her a series of funny postcards, including one of an oversize bean pot. On the back, he’d written: “We do, too, have good eats in Boston!”
    As usual, there was a card from her grandmother with a crisp ten-dollar bill tucked inside. It had started at a dollar when Faith was a child and it had bought a sundae at Rumplemeyer’s. She still loved the place, and the ten might stretch to two sundaes. Tom and she could go to the Central Park Zoo first. She shook her head.
    It wasn’t that Tom hadn’t sent a card. In a way she was relieved. No card might mean he was losing interest, didn’t want a long-distance romance. She certainly didn’t—or did she? Since she’d met the Reverend Thomas Fairchild, she’d gone back and forth on the relationship. Forget the whole church thing—although that was hard to do—he was a New Englander born and bred. Aside from the fact that he’d accepted the call to First Parish in Aleford and had to honor it for the foreseeable future, he’d never leave the Bay State for the Empire State. And she had no desire to live anywhere north of the Cloisters—and even that was too far from Midtown—no matter how great the baked beans were. She’d avoided discussing any of this with either Josie or Hope. Out of voice, out of mind?
    Hope was going out with Phelps. He’d snagged a table at the Sign of the Dove, in the Conservatory Dining Room, one of the most romantic spots in the city, especially in the summer when they opened the glass cupola that covered the ceiling. Phelps must be making many pretty pennies these days—they wouldn’t be going Dutch on Valentine’s Day. She’d have to make a concerted effort to get to know, and like, him better, Faith resolved. He was a fixture in her sister’s life and there might be some bouquet tossing in the future, although with their schedules, the wedding might have to be on a federal holiday when the New York Stock Exchange was closed, forcing these two workaholics to leave their respective offices. Or not. People were getting married while skydiving; on Rollerbades; spelunking, dressed as Trekkies—why not in an office? Faith could see the notice in the Times : “The bride wore a white Armani pants suit, and instead of rice, the guests threw paper from the couple’s shredders.”
    She was meeting Josie and Francesca for a girls’ night out at Sylvia’s Soul Food restaurant in Harlem. Comfort food: it was Wednesday, so that meant the meat loaf special, maybe some garlic mashed potatoes, green beans, and definitely peach cobbler. The secret to the meat loaf, Josie had learned, was barbecue sauce both in and on the meat. They were going for the food, but more because Sylvia Woods was Josie’s inspiration. Herbert and Sylvia Woods started the successful restaurant in 1962 and it had been serving satisfied customers with food prepared with care—and in Sylvia’s words, “Along with the seasonings, I stir in love”—ever since.
    Josie would be leaving the city for good at the end of March; things were moving rapidly. She’d been going back and forth to Richmond to oversee renovations, and Faith had hired Francesca full-time. She was proving to be a great choice. Hardworking, delightful, she’d already added two dishes to their menu: