Soon after, Wendy herself came along the footpath, carrying books. She was not walking joyously as usual, but trudging.
He went out to meet her, and she held up two slim volumes. “I found some Trollope for you, Qwill. In the library at the inn. They said it was all right to take them.”
“That was very thoughtful of you. Will you come on the porch for a drink of fruit juice?”
“Nothing to drink, thanks, but I’d like to talk to you.” Her eyes had lost their sparkle. “I just came to apologize for the way Doyle and I argued at dinner last night.”
“Think nothing of it, Wendy. We all get hot under the collar once in a while.”
“What do you think about the danger in the woods?”
He had heard about poisonous snakes in the bogs and deer-ticks dropping off the trees, but—“You mentioned a friend who’s a forest ranger. Is she one of Dr. Abernethy’s daughters, by any chance?”
“Yes, I knew her in college, and it was her raving about Moose County that brought us up here—the natural beauty, the perfect summer weather, the slow pace—”
“But nothing about danger in the woods?”
“It wasn’t an issue. I didn’t know Doyle would be so determined to photograph bear cubs. . . . The trouble is, Qwill, I’m a worrier! I worry about my husband’s safety! You can’t tell a worrier to—just—stop—worrying. . . . We’ve been married only two years. We have plans for a family and a wonderful future! And to complicate matters, I’m supposed to avoid stress. I practice the rules of health and tranquillity, but then . . . something like this comes along, and I worry!”
Qwilleran was nodding and looking sympathetic and wondering what he could say.
“Well, if only you could say something to him! He’d listen to you! He has a lot of respect for you. And you live here . . .”
He was thinking fast; the obvious solution to a problem is not always the best. “I understand your distress, Wendy, and you have my utmost sympathy. I want to help, but there’s a wrong approach and a right approach. I need to think about it . . . and I will think about it . . .”
“I’d be so grateful!” She stood up. “You’re working. I’ll go home.”
He walked with her to the water’s edge. “I’ll be in touch. Thank you for the books.”
The titles were He Knew He Was Right and The Eustace Diamonds. Two of his favorites.
First he made some coffee and then lounged on a porch chair with his feet up. Koko hopped onto the foot of the lounge and sat tall in a businesslike way, his blue eyes brimming with helpfulness, as if he sensed a problem was being solved. The trick, Qwilleran decided, is to involve Doyle in something more interesting than Wendy’s Valley of Death. If nothing else, it would provide more time to study the problem. It could be something to flatter the photographer’s ego, or fulfill his primal urge to take pictures, or the fun of taking an assignment for the picture page of a small-town newspaper.
Qwilleran made three phone calls: to the managing editor, who had gone to the dentist; to the attorney, who was in conference with a client; to Bushland, who was out on assignment. He left urgent messages with all three.
Barter was the first to respond, and he listened to the proposition with keen interest.
“Did you see the opening of Bushy’s exhibit yesterday? Big crowd! And I happen to know there was an editor from a prominent publisher of art books there! We’ve been talking about having the K Fund publish his landscapes, and we’d better act quickly before he signs with another publisher . . . Also, we have a noted photographer of wildlife vacationing here and doing some extensive shooting. We should grab him, and do a large-format hardcover art book titled The Beauty of Moose County as photographed by Bushland and Underhill.”
“Great idea! I’m all for it.”
“My point is that we should get them under contract fast, before this other publisher swoops in.”
“How fast?”
“Frankly, Bart, I think it would be to our advantage if you could fly the two guys to Chicago and back on the shuttle Wednesday.”
“No reason why we couldn’t. I’ll make the appointment and plane reservations, if you’ll alert the photographers.”
“Be happy to do that. Both of them should have samples of their work to show, by the way.”
Qwilleran had never actually seen any of Doyle’s work; all his exposed film would be taken home to Cleveland for developing. Still, it was good enough for a cover on the Smithsonian—that is, if it happened to be true. Young photographers had been known to boast.
By the time Bushland phoned, the Scheme was working, and it was all legitimate. There was nothing wrong with a little persuasive hyperbole and truth telling before the fact. They were techniques he had used often during his career.
When Bushy finally called, Qwilleran said, “There’s a wildlife photographer here from Down Below, who’s been doing a lot of shooting, and the K Fund wants to publish a large-format, hardcover art book featuring your landscapes and his wildlife, to be titled The Beauty of Moose County. For laughs we might include a full-page, full-color portrait of a thick, toasty, brown pasty.”
“No kidding!” Bushy said. “This is the best thing that’s happened to me since the helicopter rescued you, me and Roger from Three Tree Island!”
“It means moving fast, for various reasons. Our legal rep wants to fly you two guys to Chicago to sign contracts and show samples—on Wednesday. The hitch is that none of the wildlife stuff has been developed. Could he use the darkroom at the art center tomorrow?”
“Sure thing! Tell him to call the manager and say I okayed it.”
There was more. Bushy had met Doyle and his wife at the photo show—nice couple. Doyle had good credentials; no, Bushy couldn’t remember seeing the Smithsonian cover.
After that, Qwilleran returned to the porch to type his treatise on presidential whiskers, suggesting a nationwide poll of voters. Did they want their chief executive officer (a) clean-shaven, (b) with long sideburns, (c) with small neat moustache, (d) or other. Readers considered summer the silly season in the “Qwill Pen” column and gladly encouraged the silliness.
Although Qwilleran kept an eye on the creek for Doyle’s return, there was no sign of the yellow canoe. It would be ironic, he thought, if this were the day that Wendy’s fears were realized. But eventually the sleek craft glided downstream, and soon Doyle was walking back from the boat shed and Koko was announcing him as a trespasser.
Qwilleran went out to meet him. “How was the shoot today?”
“I got some great shots!” the photographer said.
Qwilleran recited his piece: K Fund art book—Bushland and Underhill—day-trip to Chicago to sign contracts—appointment set for Wednesday. “Sorry it’s such short notice,” Qwilleran said.
“No problem.”
“They’ll want to see samples. If you can develop and print tomorrow, the dark room at the art center is available.”
“No problem.”
Later, when Qwilleran dined alone at the inn, he recalled his conversation with Doyle, who had said, “I also caught a skunk in a more-or-less comic situation—and some young foxes. But don’t tell Wendy; she’ll know I went into the woods. I’m afraid she made a scene at dinner last night. She gets upset over little things.”
As Qwilleran chewed his steak reflectively, he compared the two photographers. Bushy, whose talent bordered on genius, was as excited as a little kid over the prospect of signing a contract for an art book. Doyle reacted with a cool “No problem.”
Qwilleran could only hope that the owl and the skunk and the young foxes were as good as the photographer thought.
When he returned to the creek, he had half a sourdough roll in his pocket for the ducks. He was pinching off morsels for the hungry flock when a pleasant voice called to him from the porch of Cabin One. Hannah was inviting him to have a glass of iced tea. Although already coffee-logged, he accepted.
“I can’t tell you what a wonderful time I had la
st night, Qwill! You’re such a gracious host.” There was a half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table, and she swept it into a box, explaining, “Danny was here this afternoon. I must tell you, Qwill . . . This morning I went next door and told Marge that I was lonesome for my grandson and I wished Danny could visit me for story-telling and games for a little while each day. She hesitated and then said yes. So this afternoon he came over, and we had a wonderful time. I taught him to sing ‘I’m a little teapot, short and stout; / Here’s my handle and here’s my spout.’ And I saw that boy laugh for the first time. Then I taught him how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ He’s had no upbringing and certainly not much family life. And he has only one tired white T-shirt. I gave him one that my grandson left here—blue, with a pocket, and he’s so thrilled with that pocket! He’s never had a shirt with a pocket.”
“Excuse me for changing the subject, Hannah, but what’s that on your ring finger?”
She blushed and said, “You didn’t meet Uncle Louie, our choral director, did you? We’ve been getting kind of interested in each other—he’s a widower—and today he took me to lunch and gave me this!”
“Well! Best wishes to you both.”
“And he told me to ask you something. He wants to compose a comic opera—sort of a parody of Gilbert and Sullivan—and he wonders if you’d write the libretto.”
Qwilleran stood up to leave. “Only if Koko can play the lead.”
Walking home along the creek and approaching Cabin Three, he noticed that the Underhill car was not there. That meant, probably, that Doyle had taken Wendy out to celebrate. Wrong! She came flying off the screened porch.
“Oh, Qwill! Thank you so much for what you’ve done! Doyle went to the art center to get a head start on the developing. There’s so much to do.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “The art book is only a good idea whose time has come.”
chapter twelve
Whiskers tickling the nose and a soft paw patting the eyelid could do it every time—quickly, quietly, efficiently. Qwilleran awoke with a start on Tuesday morning, as two furry bodies leaped from his bunk and headed for the kitchen. Despite the rude awakening he was in a good mood—still elated after Monday’s successes, still sharing the excitement of two young photographers about to publish their first book. He remembered his own first book, City of Brotherly Crime. It was completely forgotten now, and he was lucky to have salvaged a single copy, thanks to the late Eddington Smith.
It occurred to him momentarily that Doyle’s photos might not compare favorably with Bushy’s superb landscapes. That was a chance they were taking. An owl is an owl is an owl; there is always something noble about an eight-point buck and something comic about a skunk. Such thoughts were interrupted by a call from the attorney.
Barter said, “I’ve lined up the K Fund boys in Chicago, but the appointment will have to be Thursday, not Wednesday.”
“That’s all right. It will give Doyle an extra day to prepare his samples.”
“Will you write a preface to the book, Qwill?”
“By all means. And I’ll volunteer to write the cutlines.” Whatever Doyle’s wildlife shots lacked in originality, a skillful cutline could cover up with words.
He took his typewriter to the screened porch to work on his Tuesday column, and Koko was sitting alongside the machine, observing the operation—until a sudden sound or scent made his head jerk to the south and his whiskers bristle: Trespasser approaching!
It was Wendy, carrying a white bakery box. “Come in,” Qwilleran called to her. “What are you carrying so carefully? Koko thought it was a bomb.”
She said, “Doyle went to the art center, and Hannah and I drove to Fishport for some of those sweet rolls you like. You can keep them in the freezer—just a little thank-you for making things happen.” Her eyes were shining, and she bubbled with enthusiasm. “You know, Qwill, I’ve been so worried about Doyle that I haven’t been able to work on my family history, but suddenly I feel inspired again.”
“You never told me what inspired you in the first place. You said it was a dramatic incident.” Qwilleran sensed fodder for the ever-hungry space on page two. “I’d like to tape it.”
The tape recorder was set up on the snack table, and the following interview was later transcribed:
What prompted you to write a romantic family history instead of a genealogical chart?
I couldn’t see myself trekking to county courthouses around the country and searching for births and deaths and marriages. But I loved the stories my great-aunt told about our family, going back to about 1800. When she died, she left a trunkful of old personal correspondence that none of the cousins wanted, so my mother took it and stashed it away in the attic.
Then one day my husband and I were driving through the Ohio countryside, and we came to an intersection where a farm was being cleared for a strip mall. The sign said there would be a full-service gas station, two fast food places, a laundromat and a video store. The outbuildings were already knocked down, and they were working on the farmhouse itself—a large, plain two-story colonial. The front door had been removed, and the sash had disappeared from the windows. It had a ghostly look. But something caused me to shout “Stop! Stop!” I wasn’t yelling at the wreckers; I was telling my husband to stop the car.
We parked on the shoulder, and I saw a heartrending sight. A dump truck was backed up to the end of the building, and another was standing by. They had put a chute in an upstairs window and were throwing personal belongings into the dump truck: clothing, hats, shoes, underwear, stockings, cosmetics, hair brushes, framed photos, books, towels, bedding, lamps, a small radio, and then . . . a cardboard hatbox! Its cover fell off, and hundreds of letters flew out. The breeze scattered them all over the muddy lot.
I’d been controlling my horror and tears, but I broke down when I saw those letters in the mud. Doyle thought I was crazy. I didn’t know who had lived there, worn those clothes, read those books, saved those letters, but I cried my eyes out!
That’s when I took over my great-aunt’s trunkful of correspondence. I’m reading and cataloguing every one: date, names and addresses of senders and recipients, and type of content.
Organizing all this material into a cohesive history sounds like a huge undertaking.
It’s a challenge. First I’m absorbing all the events and emotions. Then I’ll decide whether to make it the story of a real family . . . or fictionalize it.
But first . . . I’m overwhelmed with the joys and sorrows, successes and failures, pioneer struggles to make a life, and crushing disasters. Those people even found humor in everyday life: an uncle being chased by a bull; a cousin marooned in a tree all night; an aunt ruining the stew when the preacher was coming to dinner.
Do you find the handwriting legible?
More so than my own! Penmanship was important in those days. They dipped a pen in ink and wrote slowly and carefully. Also, letters were formal and sometimes poetic.
When I get home, I’ll photocopy a couple of letters, Qwill, and send them to you.
After the tape recorder had been turned off, and Wendy had been complimented on a well-told tale, she said, “I phoned my mother in Cleveland last night while Doyle was at the art center. She knows about my compulsion to worry, and she approved your strategy to divert Doyle’s attention from forays into the woods. But when he returns from Chicago—then what? She suggested that we leave here this weekend and spend a few days at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island—a kind of second honeymoon, and a kind of second wedding present from her and Dad.”
“A splendid idea,” Qwilleran said, “although we’ll miss you both.”
alt="[image]"/>He took his Tuesday copy to the inn to be faxed before the noon deadline, and Lori gave him another picture postcard. It was another view of Sturbridge Village.
Dear Qwill—Love this place. Bought lots of things to ship home. Mona having reaction to allergy medication. If she flies home, I’ll turn in our rental c
ar and travel with Walter.
Love from Polly
Interesting development, he thought. Not once had she said, “Wish you were here.”
“Everything okay?” Lori asked.
“Everything’s fine.”
“We’re losing the Underhills.”
“Too bad. Nice couple.”
“Why can’t we have more Underhills and fewer Truffles?”
In the foyer, a new exhibit was being set up in the display case. Susan Exbridge, the antiques dealer, was officiating. It was an assortment of wood carvings, bowls, metal sculptures of animals and what looked like instruments of torture. A sign in the case described it as THE NUTCRACKER INN’S COLLECTION OF NUTCRACKERS.
“Qwill darling!” Susan exclaimed in her histrionic manner. “How do you like it?”
“They must have had a lot of nuts in those days.”
“Nuts were a staple food of early American settlers,” she said.
“I thought they just bashed them between a rock and a hard place.”
“In the late eighteenth century the ritualistic ending to a meal was nuts, and artists and inventors vied to design clever nutcrackers . . . But I can’t talk now. Phone me at the shop, darling!”
She left, and Cathy Hooper stepped up. “Don’t forget the preview of the reenactment tonight, Mr. Qwilleran. Eight o’clock.”
“I’ve already reserved a booth, Cathy, but thanks for the reminder.”
Qwilleran had asked Riker, “Will you and your lovely wife be my guests at a preview of the Saturday Night Brawl?”
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