Bea beamed. "Ernst, I'd like you to meet our young friend here, Sarah Quilliam. Quill? This is Ernst. Ernst Kolsacker. We've just been talking about you, Ernst. Sit down."
He sat. Up close, he appeared to be in his early sixties, with a broad nose, fleshy cheeks, and the omnipresent Florida tan. He was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt. His hands and forearms were strong and muscular. A dedicated golfer, then; Quill had seen those same over-developed muscles in Tiffany Taylor.
"How do you do?" Quill asked politely.
"Not all that well," he admitted. "Sorry about that scene up front."
Bea nodded decisively. "That's what we wanted to talk with you about, Ernst. When is this ridiculous feud going to end?"
"You want my candid opinion?" He rocked back in his chair with a grin. "When one or both of them is dead."
-5-
Quill turned over on her back, swam a few strokes, and floated, looking up at the sky. The Combers Beach Club pool was surrounded by a waist-high stone wall painted white. Palm trees fingered the sky. The air was soft. The sun was behind Quill, settling into the mansions of Palm Beach. She flipped over and watched the fading light through her eyelashes: The colors ranged through all the oranges and yellows, with a bit of mauve where the sky drifted into blue. The light fanned out like the tail of an orange peacock.
"Want to paint it?" Meg sat down and dangled her legs in the water, palms braced against the lip of the pool. The edging tile was Florida-teal and -pink.
"There you are. I can't believe you took a cab back here."
"I told you I wasn't going to ride with you again, and I meant it. I like subways. I like trains. I like airplanes. I hate traffic. And the way you drive in traffic turns my blood to ice."
Quill was feeling too relaxed to rise to this bait. "It's because you're too impatient." She kicked out gently in the water.
"No sisterly advice today, please." Meg dived into the water, surfaced with a gleeful shout, and began to swim laps.
Quill held her breath, went under, and swam through the body-temperature water. The shimmering blue on top was deceptive; underneath, the water was blue-gray and faintly turgid. She exhaled and swam to the top. Meg reached the end of the pool, turned, and stroked back. She stopped in front of Quill and slicked back her hair with both hands. "You have to admit this place is beautiful. You should be doing some sketching."
"Nope. I don't want to paint it. It doesn't feel real.
It's like a set for a movie, or an animated postcard. I can't take it all in."
"Do you want to take a walk on the beach? It's hard to make the beach trivial if that's what your objection is."
"Maybe later. Right now, I want to get some food."
Meg looked faintly surprised. "I'm hungry. I forgot to eat today."
"It was because of the rabbit."
"That poor rabbit. No, it wasn't the rabbit. That good old rabbit and its brothers are going to be the most delicious meal you've ever eaten in your life. That rabbit's going to get us the third star." She treaded water with a smile.
"You mean the banquet's still on?"
"Of course the banquet's still on. Why shouldn't it be?"
"You haven't heard? See, this is what happens when you disappear on me and take a cab. The price of cowardice. Verger Taylor's bought the building. Which means everything's off. I was going to call Myles and tell him we'd be coming home."
Meg turned pink, then pale. She began to sink. Quill grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side of the pool. "Meg? You okay?"
"The third star," said Meg. "This means goodbye to the third star." She pulled herself out of the pool.
Quill hung onto the concrete edge and kicked out gently, watching her. "There'll be other chances for the third star, Meg."
"When? When!" She stood up and danced up and down in her rage. "Oh, dammit, dammit, dammit!"
"Settle down, Meg. It's probably for the best. I mean, these people are lunatics. If this hadn't happened to interfere with the judging, something else would have. Guaranteed."
Meg buried her face in her hands and ground her teeth. Quill waited a few seconds, floating peacefully, and then asked, "Meg? Is being a two-star chef all that bad?"
"Yes." She straightened up. "Does Tiffany know this?"
"Yes. There was a humongous scene in Le Nozze."
"She hasn't called it off yet. I'll bet she's going to pull it off, Quill. She has to. She just has to. We need that third star."
"We don't need that third star. The inn's doing fine."
"I'm going in to check the answering machine. Maybe Tiffany's called with some news."
Quill sighed. Water got up her nose. She pulled herself out of the pool and grabbed her towel. She followed Meg back to the condo with her face buried in it. She was only peripherally aware of an obstacle and stepped aside, straight into a muscular, living surface. Wiping her face, she backed up.
"Sorry about that," said Evan Taylor. "I guess I should have called ahead."
"No problem." Quill, suddenly conscious of her bathing suit, wrapped the towel around her middle. "Did you come to see us?" Meg, who had raced inside the condo to check the machine, came out at the sound of voices. She looked at Quill and shook her head: no word.
"Yes, I came to see you." Evan smiled. He was really, very attractive, Quill decided, with that dark hair falling I over his forehead. "I'd like to say I braved all sorts of obstacles to get to see you, and I did."
"Lions and tigers and bears?" Quill suggested.
"Parental wrath, which can be quite tigerish, now that I think of it. No, the obstacles weren't physical. It wasn't even Florida traffic. Corrigan and I have a place on the third floor, right here. Tiffany probably mentioned that."
"In that case, you can go right back upstairs. Now's not a very good time," Quill said firmly. "Unless it's something quick?"
"Not really." He smiled that attractive grin again. "Tell you what. Why don't you let Corrigan and me I take you both to dinner? Say, in about an hour?"
Quill shook her head. "Thanks, but no. We've already..."
"Don't tell me you've already eaten. I just heard you in the pool. You're both starving. So, what about dinner?
On us. At Taboo. I'll tell you why I'm asking. Dad has an idea that maybe will save the week for Meg. It'll take some time to discuss it. And why not have a talk in a place where we all can relax?"
Quill looked at Meg, who shrugged. Taboo had a reputation for great surroundings and even better food.
"We'll pick you up in the Jag. It's an X-I5." She looked blank. "A four-seater."
"Hey, how could we pass that up?" Meg asked sarcastically. "Okay, boys. We'll listen to what you have to say. But we'll go Dutch, as we say in New York. I'm not eating on your father."
"Eight o'clock, then. The dinner's on me, not Dad. And don't worry about reservations. They know me." He grasped Quill's arm briefly. His hand was warm and strong. He nodded to Meg and loped off across the lawn and up the stairs in the stack of buildings facing the pool.
"Arrogant little brats," Meg said tartly, marching inside. "They know him at Taboo's, huh? I'll bet they know everyone in this place with more money than taste."
Quill came in behind her and carefully closed the door. "What the heck do you suppose that's all about?"
"I wouldn't trust Verger Taylor as far as I could throw a forty-gallon stock pot. So whatever it is, it's trouble."
"Maybe we should cancel." Quill walked into her bathroom, draped the wet towel over the heated towel rack, and turned on the shower.
Meg trailed after her. "Pass up a chance for a meal at Taboo? It was on my list of things to do this week anyway. If the food's lousy, I can complain and feel superior. If it's great, I can learn something."
"You're looking too disingenuous for my taste, Meg. There are limits to what I'm willing to do to save this week for you. Striking a bargain with Verge the Scourge and his offspring is not among them."
"Just don't worry about it, okay?
What are you going to wear?"
"Something matronly. I think that kid's got ideas."
"You're out of your tiny mind. He's ten years younger than you are and six years younger than I am - " Meg stopped in midsentence. "Which isn't all that much younger, come to think of it. Come on, Quill. Seduction as the price of getting my food in front of that judge from L 'Aperitif? Phooey."
"I," Meg said, firmly removing Corrigan Taylor's hand from her knee, "am engaged to be married. So cut it out." She cocked her head and observed him through half-closed eyes. "How old are you, anyway, kid?"
There was a brief silence - awkward on Corrigan's part, deliberate on Meg's. "So," said Meg, after a sufficiently embarrassing period of time. "What is it that your father wants us to do?"
"It's nothing much," Evan said. "Just two small favors. One for me and one for him. Let's talk about it after dinner, okay? We should enjoy the atmosphere here. Relax."
Meg snorted, sipped her Chardonnay, and said with a grimace, "Australian. Too young."
Quill took a sip of wine. She was ill at ease and wasn't sure why. It wasn't Taboo, which was pleasantly reminiscent of some of her favorite restaurants in New York. It was long and narrow, broken into a series of rooms by artfully placed dividers. Smoky mirrors lined the walls to give the illusion of greater space. The prevailing feel was one of chintz, masses of flowers, and carefully courteous service. Nor was it Meg's rudeness to Corrigan Taylor, who was wearing a striped blue shirt, blue blazer, white chinos, Gucci loafers without socks, and a blush. She was used to Meg. She was willing to bet that a lot of people who got involved with Verger Taylor and his crazy machinations felt ill at ease most of the time.
"Is your wine all right?" Evan Taylor slouched comfortably in the chair directly across from her. The maitress d' had greeted him with democratic familiarity when they'd come in. They'd been seated immediately, passing a long line of waiting customers.
"It's delicious." Quill set the glass on the table. It was the house red, a cabernet, and it was very good. Meg had been clear about wanting to sample Taboo's commercial menu, and not any private stock. "I'm a little uncomfortable because I'm not sure why Meg and I are here. And I dislike being put into a position where we may be pressured to do something contrary to the way we work. Your stepmother hired us, you know. We're here in Florida because she's paid for it. And it's pretty obvious that the family doesn't get along all that well with her."
"So your loyalties are divided." Quill hadn't actually heard a sneer for a long time. She heard it now. "Quite the little Girl Scout."
Quill felt foolish. Her temper rose. "Loyalty isn't an issue. We have a professional obligation to fulfill and it's to your stepmother, not to you or your father. What is it exactly that you wanted to discuss?"
"I really would like to wait until after dinner. Just because it'll give you a chance to cool down. But I can tell you this now. You know that Dad's bought the Institute building."
Quill nodded. "Well, he didn't buy the Institute itself."
"You mean the training program, the staff, the Institute name?"
"That's right."
"What does he want the building for, then? It's not much use to him if it isn't a cooking school. All those kitchens."
"We'll get to that." Smiling, disingenuous, Evan kept his eyes on hers.
The waiter, hovering, distributed menus. Quill opened hers with a slight frown and asked for the first entree she saw: the Taboo steak salad. Meg, after demanding separate checks, ordered two starters, a salad, and two entrees for herself, and the same number of items for Corrigan, who blushed more brightly than ever. She then asked to see the kitchens and marched off, Corrigan in tow.
"She's not going to eat all that?" Evan asked, startled. "They'll make half portions for her."
"She wants to see the presentation," Quill said. "And she's shameless about eating off of other people's plates. I'm just glad I escaped this time. Your poor brother's in for it, though." She looked directly at him. "Tell me. I'm getting very confused. Just why did your father go the trouble - and expense, because I'm sure a building in that location cost a ton of money - of buying that property? What does your father intend to do with it?"
Evan ignored this question. He had lost his careless slouch and was sitting upright, in apparent distress. "Forget the separate checks. I'm paying for dinner."
"If you insist on paying, Meg'll walk out," Quill said. "It's a point of honor with her to pay for meals at competitors' restaurants. Then she's free to criticize. I'd let her alone if I were you."
"This is nuts." He shifted in his chair, cleared his throat, and made an effort to hang on to his sophistication. "I mean - we invited you to dinner." He smiled, weakly, without his former confidence.
Quill felt some remorse. He was, after all, pretty young to be taking on business negotiations on behalf of his notorious father, and she supposed that she and Meg together could be a little intimidating. She laughed a little. "It's Meg's career, you know."
"She takes it pretty seriously."
"Of course she does." Quill swung back to the matter at hand. "So. You were about to tell me what Verger wants to do with this building. Is he going to try and buy the Institute programs? Hire the staff? Make it the Taylor Institute of the Culinary Arts?"
"Not exactly."
"Turn that gorgeous space into condos," Quill improvised, "or a garage, or a recycling center, or Taylor's Tire Kingdom? Have you noticed how imperial every- body gets in Florida? Tire Kingdom, Mattress Kingdom. And if they don't get imperial, they get galactic: Video World, Bath World, CD-Universe..." Quill, aware that she was babbling, pushed the wineglass to the center of the table. "What is it about Florida, anyway?"
"You don't want to paint scenes from the beach, then," Evan said.
"That wasn't a question." Quill was surprised. "No. I don't. My sister asked me the same thing. Why would you, of all..." Quill bit off her words. There was some- thing about Evan-about his whole family - that inspired her to insult. She folded and refolded her napkin, feeling off center. Just how clever was Evan Taylor?
"Why would somebody like me have the sensitivity to understand why an artist of your caliber hates the state? Is that what you were about to say?"
"You can't hate a whole state," Quill said absently. Myles had said that. She missed him. "And I've been rude. I'm sorry."
"Sorry about what?" Meg arrived at the table, flushed and beaming. "Sorry about coming here? I was at first but I'm not now. Quill! You should see that stove. I want that stove. I lust after that stove. I'm in love with that stove."
"It's a pretty nice stove," Corrigan agreed. He looked stunned.
"Did Meg behave herself in the kitchen, Corrigan?"
"What? Oh. I guess. She asked the chef if he knew all the verses to 'Tennessee Birdwalk.' "
"Did he? Don't answer, I can tell by the way you look. They both sang it together."
"I like this place already," Meg said in satisfaction. "Now if the food has the same character as the chef, we're in business. You know, Quill, if this thing with Tiffany Taylor does get torpedoed, we should stay here a full week anyhow. We can toddle up and down Worth Avenue testing all the food. It'll be great."
"I can assure you that Tiffany's going ahead with the gourmet week," Evan said. "It may not look like it, but my father's indulged her in all kinds of idiot ideas. It's the charity crap that's not going to happen. The Excelsior. The Institute for Gold Diggers. Dad's sending that phony psychiatrist away."
"I knew he was a phony," Meg said in satisfaction. "What is he, an accountant? An osteopath?"
"He's a shrink, all right. An M.D. From Johns Hopkins, as a matter of fact."
"You're kidding." Meg, who clearly didn't care, nibbled a piece of bread.
Quill sighed. "You know, I feel kind of sorry for your stepmother, Evan. I mean - it's a silly sort of charity, I grant you that. But she's committed to it. Neither Meg nor I would have come here if we weren't certain of that. I know your fa
ther thinks she's doing it just to embarrass him, but..."
"Don't you?" Quill considered. "I think there's some of that. But I don't think it's all of that. And my goodness, he's big enough to shrug off a little criticism, isn't he?"
"He dumped her, you know." Meg looked critically at the plate of ceviche the waiter set before her and picked up a fork. "I don't think anybody should underestimate the wrath of a dumped ex-wife. Think of all the things she could be doing instead of this little banquet and these little therapy sessions. In front of the cameras of all the major television stations." She chuckled, ate a forkful of the ceviche, and nodded. "Excellent. Very, very excellent. I like this, Quill." She put the plate aside, selected a clean fork, and took a portion of Corrigan's pate off his plate. "Now this - no. We make a better pate. Too much pepper. The sorrel's wrong for the liver. And someone in the kitchen went nuts with the onion." She handed the fork to Corrigan, who held it with a bewildered expression, then began to eat the pate himself. "As I said, just think of all the mischief she could be doing instead of this little charity. She could be suing him in court for all kinds of stuff..."
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