"Why don't we put the Santini bachelor party in the dining room, H. O. W. in the conference room, and S. O. A. P. on the terrace?"
"In winter?"
"Sure. We'll get some smut pots from Richardson's apple farm and line the terrace with nice primitive light and a modicum of warmth. They'll love it."
"A modicum," muttered Quill. "The warmth will certainly be less than a modicum. What's less than a modicum?"
John shrugged. "I don't think they'll complain. From what I can gather, the rites of passage involve exposure to extremes. They're spending all day in the woods barbecuing a steer the day of the meeting, and Elmer said they'll be bringing it with them. They don't want service or food - just the space. I'll get Mike to bring up the barbecue spit from the shed. And we'll put the bridal shower in the lounge. So all you have to do is let everyone know the schedule."
Quill sighed and looked at her watch. "I could catch Elmer in the park if I hurry. They're meeting there today. Meg roasted them a pig. And I'll tell Doreen about H. O. W. And I'm meeting with Senator Santini and Claire at five o'clock to get the particulars about the bachelor party and the shower and the rehearsal dinner. I wonder if he has any idea of the number of men that are going to show up."
"You'll meet the Santini party after Syracuse?"
She nodded, feeling that internal shift that meant her hesitation was over. She said goodbye, left the office, and went into the foyer to get her coat and boots. She'd been meaning to replace the coat, which was a tattered red down, and her hat, which was ugly but warm, but had been too depressed to do it.
"You're seeing sheriff McHale?" Dina asked as she crossed the foyer to the coat closet.
"Just lunch," Quill said with an airy wave of her hand.
Dina's large brown eyes were moist. Quill, to her alarm, detected sympathy. Nothing, absolutely nothing was private in this place. "Well, be careful. And, Quill?"
Quill paused, her coat slung over one arm. "What!"
Dina quailed. Twenty-four-year-old graduate students spent a lot of time waiting for opportunities to quail and made the best of it when the least little chance happened by. "Nothing. Just. Ah. Watch for icy spots."
Quill carried her boots through the dining room. Kathleen had gone, so Quill couldn't ask her why her crazy brother thought he'd given her a speeding ticket when he hadn't. A faint sound of singing came form the back of the kitchen. Meg, with a particularly tuneless version of "The Boar's Head Carol." The sound was too muffled to be coming from the kitchen itself. If Meg were in the storeroom, Quill could sneak out without a lot of last-minute questions.
Quill edged the swinging doors open a few inches. She could see part of the birch shelving, a few bundles of dried red peppers hanging from the beams, and a copper saucepan bubbling on the Aga. Quill pushed the doors open. Meg was nowhere in sight.
" `The bo-o-a-ar's head in hand bear I/ Bedecked with bay and rosemareee... ` "
Quill winced. Meg's music suffered more in minor keys for some reason. But it tended to deafen her awareness of the outside world. Quill made it to the back door and stopped to pull on her boots.
Meg popped her head out of the storeroom. "Off to Syracuse?"
Quill jumped.
"You're wearing that ratty down coat? And that fur hat?'
"What's wrong with this coat?" Quill asked defensively.
"It's ugly," Meg said frankly. "It's so ugly you can tell it a mile off. And that fur hat with the flaps? And to think some poor rabbit died for that hat. Yuck."
"It's warm," Quill said stubbornly.
"Leaving without saying anything?"
"Um," Quill said. "You were right. John is right. The weather looks a little stormy and I thought I'd get an early start."
" 'Don't know why' " Meg sand, " `There's no sun up in the sky/ Stormy weather... since my man and I... ` "
Meg dropped the egg whisk she'd been using as a microphone. "Oh, Quillie, don't. I didn't mean it about the coat and the hat. Well, I did, but who cares? Don't cry. It's not... it's not like he's dumping you. You're dumping him." She set the box of onions she was carrying on the butcher block and approached Quill rather warily. "I'm sorry. But you're right to push off the dock like this. The relationship just isn't going to work."
"There's no reason why it shouldn't," Quill sobbed, amazed at her own tears. "he's a great guy... "
"A terrific guy."
"and he's been absolutely wonderful, and patient, and so... so... calm. And steady."
"I know." Meg patted her on the back. "Do you want a glass of sherry or anything?"
"And this is going to hurt him so much."
"I know. What about a cup of - "
"You know?! And you're just going to let me go off like this and do it? Tell him I want to break it off? That I've really, really tried, but I just can't. I just can't. It's just... " Quill, convinced she was looking too piteous for words, scrubbed at her face with her scarf and made a conscious effort at coherence. "I don't like tin ceilings."
"Of course you don't."
"I need more than a tin ceiling. Not that tin ceilings aren't good for some people. Just not me."
"You're absolutely right."
"Do you think he'll do something?"
"Like what/"
"I don't know. Yell. Or cry." Quill began to take off her coat. "I can't do it. I can't do it to him now. Not so soon after he's lost the election. It's like kicking him when he's down. I'll call the restaurant and tell him I have the flue."
"Quill, this detective agency he's joined is one of the best. They're sending him all over the world. Do you know how much he's making? If you're going to tell him, tell him now, while he's up about this job. He's off to the U.K. this afternoon, isn't he? You don't want to wait until eh gets back. That'll be weeks. And," she added frankly, "no one around here is going to be able to stand it if you don't get this over with. Soon."
"I know. And I know about the European assignment." She put her coat back on. "But I didn't know about the money. Of course, I know it has to be a lot better than that ridiculous amount he was paid as sheriff. How much is he making?"
"Seventy-five dollars an hour. After the agency cut."
Quill felt better. "Wow. Who told you that?"
"Marge Schmidt, of course. To tell you the truth, Quill, I don't think Myles would have stuck around Hemlock Falls as long as he has if it weren't for you. I mean, this isn't exactly a hotbed of crime. Although," she added reflectively, "we do seem to have an unusual number of murders per capita. But honestly, Quill, do you think a guy like Myles should waste himself on being a county sheriff?"
"He wasn't wasting himself." Quill, not sure if she was indignant on behalf of Hemlock Falls or Myles, or herself, kicked off her shoes and pulled on her boots. "So. It's my fault he's been stuck in this backwater, huh? I'm going to be doing him a favor by dumping him, as you so charmingly phrased it?" She straightened up. "Okay. I'm going. But don't you dare hum one note of `Release Me.' "
"It's going to be fine. Well, not fine. But you'll get through it."
"I thought I'd tell him how much I admire him."
"That's good."
"And that somewhere there's a wonderful woman who's not as tied up in knots as I am about commitment."
"That's okay, but I wouldn't dwell on it."
"And that I'm not worth it."
"Self-abasement, in these situations is usually not effective." Professional curiosity entered her voice. "Where are you meeting him?"
"That Italian restaurant just off Exit 56." Quill tugged her hair. "it's called Ciao."
"Oh, God." Meg swallowed a chuckle. "It's a New-Ager. Sort of self-consciously healthy while slipping you all the fats and carbohydrates a bottled salad dressing is heir to. Not too bad if you stay away from the pasta. They precook. Try the wood-smoked pizza. Don't' stay too long, okay? This weather's turning nasty."
"I'll be back around four-thirty. I've got to talk to Santini and Claire about the pre-wedding parties." Quill
made a face.
Meg made a face back.
Quill, driving south on Route 15, was actually grateful for the storm. The plows had been through earlier in the morning, and at least three inches had fallen since then. The roads were slushy with packed drifts concealing stubborn patches of ice. Her Olds was a heavy car, with front-wheel drive, but it was slippery. She concentrated on driving until she hit the Interstate.
I-81 to Syracuse was clear and fairly dry, and Exit 56 came up too fast. She glanced at the little battery-run clock John had stuck on the dash when the car clock had died several years ago. One-thirty. She'd be early. She was never early. One of Myles's few complaints about her had been about her lateness Myles was always spot on time. Maybe she'd order a glass of sherry while she waited.
She looked at the sky, pregnant with heavy clouds. No sherry. She'd order hot tea, to keep her head clear for the drive back and her emotions under control. She parked. The lot was crowded, but she noticed Myles's Jeep Cherokee right away.
She sat in the car. Her toes got chilly as soon as she turned off the heater.
Myles would be civilized. He was always civilized. But anxious. If he was here early, it meant he was anxious. But civilized, Quill reminded herself.
The very first thing, she'd order a glass of wine, not tea. For both of them. He rarely drank during the day; a glass of wine might help both of them through this. And the order for wine would be a subtle signal, a flag that bad news was coming. Maybe without even having to say it.
Halfway across the parking lot, Quill paused in mid-slush. She knew, all too well (at least from watching Gerard Depardieu movies) the leap in the heart when a lover caught sight of his beloved across a crowded room. She could spare Myles that leap by going in the back way, scanning the crowded room for him, and quietly walking up behind him. A discreet touch on the shoulder, a welcoming but suitably depressed "hello," and then a few well-chosen sentences of farewell.
Quill resumed her march across the parking lot and went in the door marked exit. She'd find Myles. Walk up unnoticed. She'd sit. Raise her hand to forestall his kiss of greeting. Hope that the waitress would be quick, and not too perky, and not named Shirelle. Or call her honey. Then she'd order, quickly, tow glasses of merlot. No. Not merlot. Not from a restaurant that had a sign in the back room - "We Value Your Patronage - Thank You for Not Smoking." Any restaurant that valued your patronage before they got it probably bought merlot in plastic bar bags. And Meg avoided smoke-free restaurants on principle, a consequence of a year's study in Paris, where tobacco was considered a civilized finale to a meal. She'd ask for an Avalon cabernet sauvignon. It was great stuff. Not spectacular enough to make up for devastation, but it'd go a long way to assuaging what they both had to know was an intolerable situation.
The restaurant wasn't crowded at all. Of the maybe sixty tables scattered across the bleached oak floor, ten were filled. Myles saw her as soon as she walked down the hall leading to the restrooms and into the Euro-Tech ambiance of Ciao.
The blonde that was with him saw her, too.
And not just a blonde, Quill thought, suddenly conscious of her own hair, her snow-splattered boots, the muddy hem of her skirt, and, worst of all, the coat, conspicuous for its ugliness. A sophisticated blonde. With large breasts, tastefully presented behind a scoop-neck silk T. A slouchy Armani jacket. And, as she rose from the table, one of those boyishly hipped figures that made even jeans look elegant. Much less the bottom half of the Armani suit. She wasn't pretty, Quill thought. She was distinctive, with a decided aquiline nose, well-defined lips, and direct gray eyes.
Myles rose and waved. Quill crossed the floor. He introduced the blonde with a slightly apologetic air.
"Quill, I'd like you to meet Mariel Cross, my partner on the U.K. assignment. Mariel, this is Sarah Quilliam."
Her handshake was firm, decisive. "I won't interfere with your lunch. The Bureau got a fax Myles had to see. That's the only reason I'm here. The Brits need an answer by seven o'clock tonight. And with the time change, that's two o'clock here in Syracuse." She smiled. "I'm glad I've met you, though. I've heard a lot about you. I've seen your work. I like it very much."
Quill, who knew herself to be graceless whenever discussion of her painting came up, blushed and looked at her feet. Her boots were leaving muddy puddles on the polished floor.
"Well." Mariel hesitated, a behavior Quill instinctively knew was uncharacteristic. The woman oozed self-confidence. "I'll fax this back to the client, Myles."
"Fine. I'll meet you at the airport around six."
Quill sat down in Mariel's place. Myles covered her hand with his.
"I don't need to say anything, do I, Myles?"
"It's awkward," he said.
"She's really attractive. She has..." Quill paused, searching for the right word. "Presence. A lot of presence."
"You're beautiful," Myles said. His hand tightened on hers. "But yes, she has presence."
She was back at the Inn by four. "There you are," John said as she walked in the back door. Meg raised her eyebrows. Quill gave her a half-hearted wave. "Santini wants to push the meeting up. Can you see them now? I've got to check the wine shipment."
"Sure," Quill said listlessly.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine. Where are they?"
"Having tea. At the regular table."
Quill removed the coat, swearing to purchase another as soon as the damned Christmas rush and the stupid wedding and the barbaric rites of Santini's bachelor party were over. She grabbed the planning clipboard from its hook on the wall and pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. There were six people at the table, Claire and a pretty girl whom Quill hadn't met, and the senator and three of his aides.
The youngest aide got up as she approached and pulled a chair out for her.
"You know Frank, Marlon, and Ed," Santini said breezily. Quill nodded. "And the ball and chain, of course."
"A - al!" Claire protested in her nasal voice. "This is Merry Phelan. One of my bridesmaids."
"Meredith," she said in a self-possessed voice. "How do you do."
Quill shook her hand. "I'm awfully sorry about switching you to the Marriott."
"Not at all a problem. As a matter of fact, I'm off there now. Elaine and I are planning a little shower for Claire Thursday night, and I want to check over some details."
Santini saluted as she left the table. She gave Quill a wink, and proceeded demurely out the entranceway. Santini waited until she was out of earshot, then hunched over the table.
"So," Al said, "glad you could make it a little early, Quill. I've got a good opportunity in the park around five. A fund-raiser with this men's club. Crazy assholes wanted to meet in the dark, but hey, no problem. I'm adaptable."
"S. O. A. P.?" asked Quill.
Frank - or maybe it was Marlon - consulted a thick notebook. "Right. Men's organization. Acronym for the Search for Our Authentic Primitive. Chief is Elmer Henry. Mayor, and a Republican. He's fifty-six. Married, to Adela Henry, aged fifty-eight. One of the Walters family, Senator. Used to be money there but not anymore. First Brave is Harland Peterson, big farmer around these parts, net worth in the (he named a figure which astonished Quill), a Democrat, unfortunately, but maybe he can be persuaded. The sheriff, Dorset, is a member and so is the justice, Bristol."
"Stop already." Santini swallowed a scone whole and said through it, "How much time I got with them?"
"Half an hour. Our data suggests that the hearth and home speech should be appropriate."
"Got that one socked. Okay. So, Quill, dolly. I got more time for you than I thought. The bachelor party Thursday night's for twelve. You got that?"
"One of these gentlemen..."
"Ed," said Ed, giving her a toothy smile.
"Yes, Ed, gave us the count several months ago. But no guest list."
"In the interests of security," Marlon, or maybe Frank, said smoothly, "we'd prefer to be circumspect."
Santin
i snorted. "With that Cahill bitch sniffing around, you can bet we have to be careful. The thing is, Quill, dolly, we need to get her out of the way for the evening."
"Out of the way?" Quill repeated.
"Couple of these guys, they can't make it for the wedding. Christmas Eve and all. But they can make it Thursday. They want maybe to make a little contribution to the cause. You know what I mean?"
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