“Phooey,” Meg said rudely. “I don’t see what’s good about more traffic and higher real estate prices. And you know what happens when you get tons of people moving in—more crime, that’s what. It puts a huge burden on town services, too.”
“Growth’s not all beer and skittles,” Mark admitted. “You two hear about the vandalism?”
“If you’re talking about the punctured inflatable Santa Clauses on the courthouse lawn, I hardly think that rises to the description of vandalism,” Quill said glumly. “And we’re losing sight of why we’re sitting here. We’re sitting here so that Meg can sign Kingsfield’s leasing agreement and I can stop having nightmares about losing everything we’ve worked for all these years.”
“So, the economy’s been good for everyone except us,” Meg said bluntly. “Why?”
Quill shook her head. “I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“You’ve talked to John Raintree?” Mark asked in a kindly way. John had been their business manager in palmier days.
“Of course I have. He says that boutique businesses like ours can be victims of faddism.”
“Faddism,” Meg repeated.
Quill threw her arms up in the air. “He meant that we’re not the trendy thing to do anymore. He thinks we need to reinvent ourselves. And that’s what this deal with Kingsfield is going to do. Help us reinvent ourselves.”
“Oh, fine,” Meg said sarcastically. “We’re over the hill at what—you’re thirty-six? And me at thirty-two?”
Quill sighed. It felt as if the sigh came from the soles of her feet. “I tried to tell you what was going on, Meg, but did you want to hear about it? No, you didn’t.”
“That’s not fair,” Meg said.
Quill bit her lip. “No,” she said after a moment. “It isn’t fair. And I didn’t tell you as much as I should have about the financial problems because you get so upset.” She blinked back a rush of tears. “Sorry. The stress is definitely getting to me. Weepiness isn’t like me at all. Anyhow, you’re the star attraction at the Inn, Meg. It’s best that you’re left alone to do what you do best. The money stuff is my job.”
“That’s fair,” Meg admitted with what would have been sublime egotism if it hadn’t been true. She was the best chef around for three hundred miles and one of the five best in the entire state of New York. She reached over and briefly clasped Quill’s hand. “I’m sorry I yelled ‘Merry flippin’ Christmas’ at Mark. It’s not his fault. And I’m sorry I shouted at you, too. Well, pretty sorry.”
Quill took a deep, affronted breath.
Mark rapped the surface of his desk with a gentle thump of his knuckles. “Ladies,” he said. “May we get back to whether or not Meg is going to sign this contract?”
“No,” Meg said promptly, “I’m not.”
Mark was unperturbed with this obduracy. “You haven’t looked at the considerable advantages of the Kingsfield offer. You’re looking at a splendid opportunity.”
“We are, huh?” Meg said sulkily.
Very few people other than Quill knew that this meant Meg was ready to be reasonable. But Mark was president of the largest bank in Hemlock Falls because he was a genius at picking up cues. He smiled at Meg and it was the smile of a man with the answers. A man with faith in the sisters’ ability to pull the Inn out of its slump and keep the business out of foreclosure.
“A splendid opportunity,” Quill repeated. “See, Meg?”
“That’s because he doesn’t have to put up with Lydia Kingsfield,” Meg said flatly. “I can’t believe you guys are asking me to do this.”
Mark raised one eyebrow in Quill’s direction.
“Lydia’s editor of L’Aperitif,” Quill explained. “Kingsfield Publishing’s made the offer to lease the Inn to the magazine, but Lydia’s the person that thinks the Inn offers the best background for the magazine’s new TV show. She’s the one that made the decision to offer this lease to us.”
“And she’s the one who’s going to be up my nose,” Meg interrupted. “Every flippin’ second!”
“Of course I know who she is, now that you mention it,” Mark said with an air of surprise. “Clarice has a subscription to L’Aperitif. I looked at the current issue before I met with you two today. She writes that ‘From My Desk to Yours’ feature, right? She seems a very pleasant person, in print.”
Meg made a rude noise.
“We know her, actually,” Quill said. “I mean, not because of the magazine. Kingsfield bought the whole thing a few months ago, and a lot of the editorial staff left to work other places. Before the buyout, all our contacts with L’Aperitif were with the old editor, Lally Preston. Lally’s reviewers gave Meg her three-star rating a few years back. But Lally retired when the magazine was sold, or at least, that’s what the news releases said. And Lydia took over as editor. She’s made some interesting design changes in the magazine. Anyway, that’s not why we know Lydia. We know Lydia from school.”
Mark raised the other eyebrow.
“High school,” Meg grumbled. “In Connecticut. She was a stuck-up pill back then and I’ll bet she’s a stuck-up pill now. You know how she made head cheerleader?”
“Meg!” Quill said.
“Bribed the head coach. It’s true. Lydia’s father made a ton of money as an arba-whatsis on Wall Street. Bought her everything she ever wanted, including being head cheerleader.”
“Hm,” Mark said.
“And do you know what Lydia got as a sixteenth birthday present? A brand-new BMW. I suppose that doesn’t mean much to you guys now, but back then, that car was hot.” Meg folded her arms. “Not to mention an unlimited charge card at Saks Fifth Avenue.”
“Is that a fact,” Mark said. Then, for good measure, “Mm-hm.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Meg,” Quill said in exasperation. “Lydia’s changed a lot, since then. We’ve all changed a lot since then. We’ve had some terrific talks on the phone.”
“Phooey,” Meg exploded. “It’s a question of character.
She’s married to Zeke Kingsfield, the biggest business shark in the United States of America. Did you see that 60 Minutes piece of the two of them? They’re joined at the hip. Devoted to each other and power mad, to boot. Like Anthony and Cleopatra before the Romans showed up to sink the ships at Actium. This is a woman who thinks people can be bought. And she’s married to a man who’s happy to write the checks. Up until now, there’s been no stopping the two of them.” She pursed her lips and gazed thoughtfully at Mark. “You know about Kingsfield, don’t you, Mark? They call him the Hammer of Wall Street. Mean as a pit bull and just as likely to let me loose to do my own thing. Now, you just think about how happy you’d be if good ol’ Zeke made an offer to buy your bank and you had him looking over your shoulder every five minutes.”
Mark seemed somewhat discomposed at the thought.
“Now, Meg,” Quill said.
“And nosing around your safe-deposit boxes, or whatever . . .”
“Meg!”
“. . . and bossing your tellers!” Meg sat back with an air of satisfaction. “You think you’d like that, Mark? Huh?”
Mark coughed into his hand.
“All I can say is, you wouldn’t like it any more than I’d like Zeke’s evil twin buzzing around my kitchen. Lydia is a woman,” Meg said darkly, “who ought to be purely ashamed of herself. And please don’t laugh at me,” she added crossly.
Mark folded his hands on his desk. “Laughing at you is the farthest thing from my mind. I want you to take a realistic look at the problem. What we have here is a default situation.”
“You mean we haven’t paid the mortgage for three months,” Meg accused him. “Default situation, my foot. We’re welshers. And you’re going to call our loan and sell us out to the Demon Couple of Wall Street. Just like Snidely Whiplash.”
Mark let this roll over him without a flinch. “Let me lay out a couple of options.”
Meg brightened. “Options? You mean we don’t have to sell the Inn to Loath
some Lydia?”
“Meg!” Quill’d had enough. “We are not selling the Inn to Loath . . . I mean Kingsfield Publishing. We are leasing certain rights to them. In return for a pile of money that will keep us”—despite her best efforts, Quill felt her voice rising to a shriek—“out of foreclosure!”
“I don’t want that woman in my kitchen.”
“Does she actually have to be in your kitchen?” Mark asked a little desperately. “Surely she’s not moving in with you.”
“Not year-round, no,” Quill said. “As you can see from the contract”—she gestured at the two-inch-thick folder in front of the banker—“they are purchasing the right to use the Inn at Hemlock Falls name on a line of chutneys, jams, and jellies. Meg agrees to provide the original recipes, and this agreement stipulates that she comes up with at least two new products a year for the duration of the lease. Somebody from Kingsfield Publishing needs to be around when Meg is testing stuff in the kitchen, that’s all. And it doesn’t have to be Lydia. Necessarily.
“The other part of the lease is the right to use the Inn as the set of this new TV show Good Taste four times a year.”
“I did mention that to Clarice,” Mark said. “She was thrilled about the show being shot here.”
“Four shows out of the season’s twenty-seven,” Quill said. “But Lydia’s the host and at that point, yes, she does have to be in Meg’s kitchen. For a week or so at a time.”
“Hah,” Meg said. “And what about the fact that the Provençal Suite will be turned over to them for their permanent use?”
“They’re paying for the room, all year, Meg, that’s true, but this is a couple that has a town house in London, a huge apartment on Central Park West, and a whole darn island in Bermuda. They just want to keep their personal stuff here so they don’t need to haul a huge amount of luggage around.”
“They’ll like it here better than all those places,” Meg said tragically. “And we’ll never be rid of them.”
Quill got up and walked restlessly around the room. Mark’s credenza held a stack of Inc. magazines, three golf trophies, and a ceramic Christmas tree that lit up from within. She picked up the Christmas tree and set it down again. “Meg, when I talked with you about the jams and jellies thing, you thought it was a great idea.”
“True.”
“And when I talked with you about L’Aperitif shooting the Good Taste show here, you thought that was a good idea, too.”
“You didn’t say we’d have to sign our life away to do it. You didn’t tell me it was a ten-year lease!”
“No.” Quill went back to her chair and sat. “No, I skipped over that part. But I’m telling you now. And I’m telling you why. And I really need you to make up your mind, Meg, because if you refuse to sign, I’ve got to call New York and cancel everything. Lydia and the crew are planning on getting in here tomorrow afternoon to set up for their Christmas show, so just please get a grip, Meg, and give me some help here. I mean, how bad can it be?”
Meg folded her lips together. She closed her eyes. She sat back in her chair and took several deep breaths. “Okay,” she said to Mark. “What are the other options?”
Mark said with admirable calm, “They are less appealing, to my mind at least. You haven’t been able to make a mortgage payment for three months. Technically, that allows us to begin foreclosure.”
The word dropped into the room and sank like a stone in a pond.
“You padlock the door shut in a foreclosure,” Meg said. “That’s what happened to Peterson’s Automotive and Water Softeners when George went bust. I remember. Padlocks.”
“I hardly think padlocks will be necessary,” Mark said in a kindly way. “No bank is ever anxious to foreclose. We’d have to run the Inn—and what do we know about running an inn? Ha ha ha.”
Meg and Quill stared back at him.
“So. Foreclosure is a last-ditch option. A far better option would be to sell the Inn outright. Now, of course, that will take some time, to find a qualified buyer. Or even someone who is interested at all.”
“There’s a third option,” Meg said. “You could lend us some more money.”
Mark shook his head. “I really don’t think so. There’s the other matter of your line of credit. Between the money owed on the line of credit, the amount of your personal assets, and the mortgage arrears, you aren’t a real good credit risk for us, frankly. If it’d been up to me—well, maybe I would have agreed to extend the credit line a little bit more. But I took this one to the board of directors. They said no.”
“The board of directors doesn’t want to lend us any more money?” Meg said indignantly. “Well, thank them very much for me, will you? When I think of the free food I’ve given those people, I could just spit.” She slumped back in her chair. “I just don’t get it. Harland Peterson’s on the board. He’s been a friend of ours for ages. Marge Schmidt is on the board and she’s—” She interrupted herself. “Well, sometimes Marge is a friend, and sometimes she’s more of a competitor, but she’s always there to give us a hand if we need it. I can’t believe they wouldn’t extend the loan.”
“I’m your friend, too, Meg,” Mark said. “And I certainly can’t recommend it, as much as I would like to. As a matter of fact, there’s one more issue I’m going to have to bring up.”
“Oh?” Quill said feebly. “Something else?”
“It’s not the end of the world,” Mark said reassuringly. “Let’s get this contract out of the way, first. Now. Assuming that Meg agrees to license the Inn name and premises to Kingsfield Publishing?” He paused interrogatively.
“Ugh,” Meg muttered. She drew a deep breath. “Sure. Fine. I’ll do it. We don’t have any choice. I see that. I see that quite clearly. I’m not even mad about it anymore.”
“You aren’t?” Quill said.
“No.” She glanced at Quill, and then away again. “This has been hard on you, sis. I know that. It’s just . . .”
Quill bit her lip and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s not just ours anymore. We’re going to have to share a lot of the decision making. But honestly, I’ve talked this over with John.”
Mark nodded. “I was sorry to see him leave for larger pastures. But he’s doing well in his business in New York, I hear.”
“He’s making billions,” Meg said. “And he and Tricia are pregnant.” She sat up, her face brightening. “Quill! What if we asked John for a loan? Did you try that?”
“No,” Quill said. “I didn’t ask. What’s more important, Meg, is that he didn’t offer. Anyhow, Mark, I’ve discussed this with Myles, of course, and Marge, as well as John. I think we’ve made the only possible decision here.”
“And it’s a wise move.” Mark gave a small sigh of relief and rose from his chair. “If you’ll just wait for a moment, I’ll call our notary in, and we’ll get the signatures witnessed.” He smiled warmly. “You’re in luck. Charley Comstock’s in the bank, and he’s a notary. If you’ll excuse me?”
He went out the door, his step considerably lighter than when he had come in to meet them.
“Who’s Charley Comstock when he’s at home?” Meg asked.
“Our insurance broker. And president of the board of directors of the bank.” Quill breathed a little easier. Her stomach was settling down. “You’ve met him before. Marge sold him part of her insurance agency last year.”
“If I did meet him, I don’t remember.”
Meg shoved her chair away from the desk, put her elbows on her knees, and stared at her feet. Quill didn’t know what she was thinking. The color of Meg’s socks was a pretty good indicator of her mood but the weather was snowy outside and she was wearing boots. “Black,” she said, following Quill’s gaze. “In case you were wondering.”
They both turned around as the door opened. Mark ushered Charley in. He was of medium height, compact, and at least ten years older than Quill, who at thirty-six was beginning to wonder about age-related things like hitting forty. Not to mention children, and
the advisability of changing to a less stressful career. Like air traffic controller.
“Girls,” Charley said genially, as he settled onto Mark’s leather sofa. “It’s good to see you. Especially under these circumstances. It’s a red-letter day for the Inn!”
Meg stared up at him from lowered brows. “Girls?” she asked with lethal politeness. “I know haven’t met this guy before, Quill. I would have remembered anyone who called us girls.”
Quill kicked her ankle and mouthed, “Let it go.”
“I think I’ve just about had it with letting stuff go.”
“Pardon me?” Charley said amiably. “Did I miss something?”
Mark raised his voice a little, perhaps to forestall another explosion from Meg. “Things are going to get a lot better from here on in, you two.” He pulled the stack of contracts into position and took out a pen. “Okay. Let’s get this rolling.”
Quill had to hand it to her sister. Meg didn’t hold a grudge. She signed and initialed page after page with a composed air and didn’t bite Charley Comstock’s finger off when he pinched her cheek in farewell. “You girls are making the right decision, here,” he said. “Big things are coming to Hemlock Falls. This is just the thin edge of the wedge.”
Quill, who was staring with enormous relief at the substantial check Kingsfield Publishing had issued as a down payment on the lease, acknowledged this with an absentminded nod.
“And the expansion’s not just due to business drawn in by the resort,” Charley went on, perhaps to attract her attention. “Big things are about to happen in Hemlock Falls.”
“Big things like what?” Meg demanded.
“I can’t say too much about it, not that I want to keep you in the dark,” Charley said. He laid a finger on the side of his nose and nodded wisely. “I can tell you this. We’ve had a very large depositor join our customer base recently.”
A Carol for a Corpse Page 2
