"She is," said Evan. "She is suing him over my grandmother's house in Cannes."
"Or she could be going on those talk shows and talking about their sex life."
"She's booked on Oprah next month."
"Or trying to wreck his credit or something."
"Wreck his credit?" Corrigan asked with alarm. "Well, that'd be the way to get to a real-estate mogul, wouldn't it? The point is, I think that if everybody ignored everybody else, stuff would quiet down and the whole family would get off the front pages of the newspapers." She gave Evan a sharp glance. "If that's what you want."
"That's what I want," said Evan. "You have no idea how hard it is to have a life while all this crap is going on."
Impulsively, Quill put her hand on his. "It must be awful."
"It is, rather." He turned his palm up and curled his fingers around Quill's wrist. She tugged free, broke off a piece of roll from the bread basket, buttered it, then set it on her salad plate. Evan picked it up and ate it, smiling. "I was hoping you could help make it less awful."
"Madame's steak salad." The waiter, carrying a loaded tray, set Quill's dinner in front of her, Evan's salmon in front of him, then several entrees each in front of Meg and Corrigan. He placed a half-dozen clean forks at Meg's right hand. "Enjoy the meal, Maitre Quilliam."
Meg grinned, pleased to be recognized. Quill regarded her salad in dismay. It was large. Beautifully presented, but large. The steak had been char-grilled, chilled, and cut into thin strips. She counted three kinds of lettuce - radicchio, Boston, and butter-and two types of sweet pepper. The vinaigrette smelled wonderful: a hint of garlic, balsalmic vinegar, and spicy mustard. She wished she and Meg were sitting alone, so that she could enjoy it. She raised her eyebrows at Evan. "I don't see any way that we can help you and your brother, Evan. I'm sorry."
"Oh, but you can."
"How? We can't go home, if that's what you want, because we've accepted this project. If Tiffany cancels it, that's fine. But..."
"Oh, no. I don't want you to go home. Far from it. I want you and Meg to stay here and do your best for the Institute."
"You do?"
"Of course I do. The thought of Tiffany pitching another screaming fit in front of the cameras gives me the cold chills. I think I've brought Dad around to letting her go ahead with the plans this week - not the therapy crap of course - that's too much even for Dad. But the food stuff's no problem. Meg's classes, your lecture. He's even agreed to let the banquet go on as long as Bittern doesn't give a speech. It's good that a Taylor, even an ex-Taylor, is sponsoring something this classy."
"What about Dr. Bob and his 'woman's reach must exceed her grasp or what's a heaven for' psychology?"
Meg asked. "What's going to happen to him?"
"We're taking care of that," Evan said.
There was a brief silence. Quill took another sip of wine and considered the large flower arrangement on the bronze pedestal behind Evan's chair. She liked the trumpet lilies.
Evan, who had regained his sophisticated air, said, "So don't worry about Dr. Bob. Everything on the food end is going to be fine. As long as you do one little thing for my father and one little thing for me."
Quill gave an exasperated tcha!
He held his hand up. "Don't turn me down before I even bring it up. I want you to let my mother join Meg's cooking classes."
"Your mother?" Quill said.
"Cressy," said Corrigan, suddenly. "Cressida Houston. She and my father divorced quite a while ago."
"I know that. And of course I know who Cressida Houghton is. Everyone in the Western hemisphere knows who Cressida Houghton is." Quill ate quietly for a moment, then said, "I don't understand."
"Mother's a fan of yours, Meg." Meg's eyebrows rose in rude skepticism but Corrigan persevered, "Well, not a fan, precisely, but she'd love to take your courses. Tiffany told her that the classes were filled, and that you absolutely refused to have more than six people at a time in your cooking courses..."
"That's true," Meg said. "Six is the maximum number of people I can teach in one session."
"We told her we'd met you," Evan added. "Actually, Cory did, and she put it to us like that." He snapped his fingers. "Wants to join the class, and can't because it's full."
"Sorry," said Meg.
"Meg, for heaven's sake," Quill said. "There might not be any classes if you don't let his mother join. I thought you wanted to compete for that rating more than anything." And besides, although she didn't want to say it aloud, who in the world would turn down the chance to meet Cressida Houghton?
"Look, Meg." Evan leaned forward, forgetting about his food and his wine in his earnestness. "Have you ever met Cressy?"
"No." Meg hesitated. "I've heard about her, of course. Who hasn't? She's as famous as Mrs. Kennedy was."
Quill nodded. Cressida Houghton had been the youngest of the Babe Paley crowd, the elegant, distant women that Truman Capote had written about in his ill-fated book, Answered Prayers. She was an intensely private woman, appearing only to promote her charitable interest in the homeless.
"Then you have no idea what calm she can bring, what good she can do. You give her half a chance and she can keep both Tiffany and Dad from embarrassing the family. You don't know her."
"What she's like?" Quill asked.
Corrigan interrupted his brother. "She's wonderful. Calm, beautiful - she's just great. She's not like Tiffany at all."
Evan agreed, although in a more temperate tone. "Or Mariel, for that matter. Mariel's worse than Tif."
"Mariel?" Quill asked.
"Dad's new bimbo," Evan said. "She's nineteen. An up and coming rock star. Or so she claims. I can understand why you'd turn somebody like that down as a student. She shaves her head and lives on brown rice. But my mother appreciates fine food."
"Hm" said Meg, who was weakening.
Corrigan pressed forward. "It's not too much to ask, is it? That she be there to keep the peace? That's all we wanted from you. Really."
Meg shook her head in a way that meant she was on the fence. She made one last stab at maintaining her class size. "Guys, I'm sorry, but the rule about six students is fixed. It's sacred. I just can't." She picked up a lobster claw with one hand, looked at it, and set it down again. "Quill, what do you think?"
"Why don't we go talk to her?"
"Talk to her?"
"Yes. See if what Evan and Corrigan have said is tr - " Quill stopped and attempted a retreat. "Look how late it's getting!"
"You mean see if we're lying?" said Corrigan. "We don't lie. We don't have to."
Quill considered this statement and decided it was one of the most arrogant she'd ever heard. She wanted to shake herself, to rid herself of the feeling she and Meg were involved in some complicated game whose master plan was known only by somebody else.
"We think you're up to something," said Meg. "We just don't know what the heck it is. And that's a good idea, Quill. If by some wild chance these guys are right, and Cressida Houghton can keep the lid on any blowups, I'd be crazy to stick to my six student rule. So, yeah. If we can meet her, and she's not going to send either Tiffany or Taylor himself into fits..."
Corrigan shook his head. "No way. They both respect her. She's already talked to Tif about televising this therapy crap."
"So Tiffany is dropping the Excelsior racket voluntarily?" Meg asked. "Not because your father is blackmailing her?"
Evan hesitated. "As far as I know."
"You know, Meg," Quill said, "it makes sense. Tiffany can get a lot more mileage out of Cressida Houghton's sponsorship of this - what are you calling it now, Evan, the Gourmet Week? - than an ersatz phobia institute. And I can't see Cressida Houghton involved in such a thing."
"That's right." Evan nodded. "Mother won't talk to the press. Never has and never will. And think about what you know of her relationship with Dad. Post-divorce, that is."
Quill said, "It's all been very good. Verger was quoted as saying she was the greatest
lady he'd ever met."
"And even Tif respects her," said Evan. "She's scared of her but she respects her. I remember one Christmas, when we were little, just after Mother divorced Dad, Tiffany showed up at the house in Hobe Sound-well, never mind. Anyhow, take it from me, Tif behaves as good as gold when Mom's around. Think of it. You won't have to worry about anyone throwing pots and pans or pitching screaming fits on the kitchen floor. The week will go like silk."
Meg raised one finger in admonition. "If, and I say if what you're telling me is true, then I say okay."
"Really?" For the first time that evening, Quill felt that Evan's response was a genuine one. "You mean it?"
"Sure," Meg said. "Why not?"
Evan rose halfway from his chair. "Let's go right now. She lives out near Hobe Sound. That's a twenty-minute drive from here. We can be there by ten."
"Now?" Meg said in alarm. "It's too late to call on your mother now. Besides, we haven't finished eating."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow's Tuesday," Meg said. "I have to be at the institute early. I've got my first class at ten o'clock. We're hanging the rabbit for the students. For heaven's sake, we'd welcome your mother. I'll let Linda Longstreet know that she'll be there."
"And Tiffany," Quill murmured.
"We'll take care of Tiffany," Corrigan said. Meg sighed happily. "That's that, then. Now for goodness' sake let me finish this squab. It's getting cold." She deftly severed a wing, sliced off a piece of breast meat, and nibbled delicately. "Now that we've heard the easy part - the favor to you - what's the favor your father wants?"
Even grinned - not the ain't-I-a-cute-preppy-stud grin that had both repelled and attracted Quill, but a full-scale, malicious you're-going-to-love-this smirk. "Let's start with what he's planning for the institute. Hamburger U."
Meg inhaled sharply, coughed, sipped at water, and gasped. "I beg your pardon?"
"Not Hamburger U, actually. It's more like Poultry High. Poultry. Chicken," he said, impatient at Quill's bewildered look. "Fried chicken, to be exact. He's just bought up the Southern Fried fast-food chain. He's going to turn the institute into a training center for the franchises."
"Wow," said Meg. "Those great kitchens. Those marble counters. Those incredible stoves. All turned over to fried chicken?"
"And fried potatoes. And fried pies. And fried cauliflower, broccoli, and mushrooms. When that chain says Southern Fried, they mean it," Quill said. "I think they'd deep fry Kleenex if they thought it would sell. Evan, does this mean everyone at the institute will be fired?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Does the staff know yet? Does Chef Jean Paul know?"
"No. Which brings me to the second favor I have to ask. Dad thought you might attend the management meeting tomorrow morning. It's a monthly thing, apparently."
"Me?" Quill said. "Why?"
"To let them down gently."
"Me tell them about the Southern Fried people? Me fire them? Why me, for heaven's sake!"
"Because you have a nice way about you. Because you have a reputation for fairness. And mostly because you'll be leaving town at the end of this week."
"Forget it, Evan. I might as well stick my head in one of the gas ovens."
"Sorry, Quill. That's part of the bargain. It was Ernst's idea, actually. Or maybe it was Frank Carmichael's - he's our lawyer. To have you take the heat. You know Dad - he can be, well, abrasive. Ernst thought you'd provide less of a target than one of us. Or even one of the PR hacks we've got on staff. You can see the strategy here. Keep things calm, quiet, non-confrontational."
"She'll do it," Meg said.
"I will not do it!" Quill sat up straight, spread her napkin carefully over her lap, and began to eat the Taboo steak salad. It was delicious. "Never," Quill said, swallowing an exceptionally tender piece of filet, "in this life."
-6-
"A hurricane's coming," said Meg, appearing at Quill's bedroom door.
Quill struggled out of sleep. She'd been dreaming. A giant chicken wearing gold-trimmed sandals had been chasing her down the beach. It had Verger Taylor's head. She opened her eyes. Bright sun flooded through the bedroom in a reddish gold wave. "What time is it?"
"Seven. We're due at the Institute in an hour. My class starts at ten and I have a lot of stuff to prepare. Did you hear what I said?"
"A hurricane's coming. No kidding. And I'm starting it by agreeing to go to that management meeting. I can't believe you talked me into going. When Chef J. P. finds out about Verger Taylor's plans for Southern Fried, there's going to be floods of tears, a tornado of hot air, a hu-u-uge blowout. When..."
"Stop," Meg ordered. "I'm serious."
Quill sat up and rubbed her face with both hands. "You mean a real hurricane?"
"Come and watch the weather channel if you don't believe me."
"Meg! You're watching the weather channel? Everyone here watches the weather channel. It's so they can call people up at home in the Northeast and gloat. That is so... so... Florida. Next thing you know you'll be wearing pink and teal jogging suits."
"Just shut up and come out to the kitchen."
Quill reached for her robe and found she didn't need it because it was too warm - almost sultry. She looked out the window. The sky was spectacular. The orange and yellow light on the eastern horizon was deepened in places to a fiery red. Now that, she thought, was some- thing to paint. She stood watching the colors for a moment, jumped at Meg's shriek, scrubbed at her face with both hands to wake herself up, and went in search of her sister.
She was sitting on the high stool in front of the microwave. The small TV overhead featured two smiling blonde people - one male, one female.
"They're chirping," Quill said glumly. "I hate chirpy TV people at seven in the morning."
"Hush."
Quill poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. The two TV anchors smiled into the camera.
"As you know, Doug," the woman said, "hurricanes are formed from high-velocity winds blowing around the low pressure center known as the eye."
"That's right, Kell," Doug responded affably. "The strength of a hurricane is rated from one to five. The mildest, category one, has winds of at least seventy-five miles per hour. The strongest-and rarest - is category five. These winds can exceed one hundred and fifty-five miles per hour - and on rare occasion, winds of over one hundred and eighty miles per hour.
Kelly swiveled in her chair with a beaming smile. The camera followed her like a dog after a treat. "And it's a category five that may be headed our way, folks. Right, Doug?"
"Right, Kelly. If tropical storm Helen turns into Hurricane Helen, she may be headed straight for West Palm Beach. Within the eye of the storm, which can be as much as fifteen miles in diameter, the winds stop and the clouds lift. But the seas remain violent."
Kelly and Doug went on to inform Quill that the strongest hurricane to hit the western hemisphere in the twentieth century was Hurricane Gilbert, which had winds gusting up to 218 miles per hour. Agnes, Gilbert's baby sister, created three billion dollars' worth of damage and 134 deaths. Quill reached up and shut off the television when Kelly started on the destructive prowess of Andrew, Gilbert's younger, meaner brother.
"Did you hear the talk about the swells?" Meg demanded. She flung her arm in the direction of the ocean, sparkling peacefully outside their door. "Twenty-five foot swells coming up this channel? Over that teeny, inadequate little pile of rocks they call a seawall? Through the French doors and into this oak-floored living room? Quill, what about that third star! I can't believe this. First Verger Taylor and his nutty family try to wreck things, and now nature."
"They said it may be headed here, Meg. Not for certain. And you know what the media's like. Remember Whitewater."
"Whitewater? What the heck's Whitewater got to do with becoming flotsam and jetsam?"
"Think about it." The phone rang.
"We should go home," Meg said. "Or at the very least move inland." The mu
sical burr of the telephone continued, and she picked the receiver up with an exasperated "What?" She scowled.
Quill, glad for the diversion, asked, "Who is it?"
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