Read The Body in the Boudoir for Free Online Page B

ribollita, a Tuscan vegetable bread soup, Francesca’s version heavy on fresh thyme, and a dessert— torta della nonna, grandmother’s cake, a heavenly ricotta cheesecake concoction covered with almonds and a dusting of confectioners’ sugar.
    Josie hadn’t reported any other “mysterious” incidents like the postcards, and the only thing Faith suspected was that the girl might be lying about her age. Her sophisticated appearance made her look in her midtwenties, but coming into work in a rush one day, her hair loose and no makeup, she didn’t look a day over eighteen to Faith. She was in the States on a student visa, she’d told Faith, and put down that number and her passport number on her work application, filling in her age as twenty-two. Faith hadn’t actually seen either the passport or the visa, she realized, not very professional on her part and now awkward to request. The health club would have checked everything out, though, she suddenly thought in relief. Maybe she and Josie were making too much of the postcard business. Maybe someone in her family collected stamps and wanted British ones. And maybe the moon was made of green cheese . . . or Parmesan.
    She had time to shower before meeting the others at the restaurant. As she headed toward the bathroom, the intercom buzzed.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œIt’s Tom. Happy Valentine’s Day. I, well, I thought I’d bring you a card in person. You’re in Four-A according to the mailbox I’m looking at.”
    â€œYou’re here? Downstairs?”
    Of course he is, stupid, he’s talking to you on the intercom! Faith chided herself as she pressed the button to release the lock on the front door.
    She glanced quickly around the apartment. It was a studio—her goal was to be in a one-bedroom prewar building with a doorman, a gas cooktop, and an electric oven in the next year or two. This had been a good choice, however. She’d been attracted by the windows that looked straight out to the park. The fact that she had to transform her sofa into her bed every night was a small price to pay. The shoe-box size also meant minimalist furnishings—two bookcases from IKEA, an ottoman that opened for storage, and a glass-topped Noguchi coffee table, plus a small chest of drawers from her aunt Chat, who’d recently moved out of the city. Everything was tidy, no dishes in the kitchenette’s sink. She opened the door at his knock.
    Tom Fairchild stepped in and held out a red envelope. As she reached for it, he pulled her into his arms.
    â€œYou’re totally insane, do you know that?” she said after a while.
    â€œNot totally. Maybe slightly.”
    â€œHow long can you stay?”
    â€œI have to leave tonight—or very early tomorrow morning.”
    â€œYou’re totally insane, do you—”
    He cut off the rest of her sentence with a kiss.
    She came up reluctantly for air. “Let me take your coat.” His coat was a light raincoat, all anyone needed. So far 1990 had been the warmest year on record in New York history, but Faith had the feeling that this was a man who’d be wearing a sweater in a blizzard. The raincoat was a nod to the light drizzle that had been creating a dreamlike, but slightly damp, mist all day.
    Tom sat down on the sofa. “I like your apartment. Compact. And great view. You said you’d be finished after some luncheons, so I can take you someplace great for dinner, right?”
    Most of the “someplace great” places for a Valentine’s dinner had been booked for weeks, but Faith knew a spot where she could always get in.
    â€œThere’s a nice French bistro on the Upper East Side, Le Refuge. I could call them. My parents practically live there, so I’m sure they’ll squeeze us in somehow. It’s not the most happening place in town, but the food is good and you can have a conversation.”
    â€œSounds