me." Meg scrubbed at her face with both hands. "Oh, Quill, I'm so sorry that this got all screwed up. You know how much I like cooking at La Strazza."
"You can still cook at La Strazza during the week," Quill said steadily. "We have that all planned out. Bjarne's going to take over the kitchen here Monday through Thursday so you can train it to New York and keep the job, just as you did at the Palate."
"It's like this," Meg said. She didn't seem to notice that tears were running down her face. "Andy got an offer from the teaching hospital at Columbia to run a new pediatrics surgery. And La Strazza offered me two hundred thousand a year to take over the kitchen." She smiled through the tears. "The Times just hammered Anatole Supinsky for his pastries, and the management at the restaurant is petrified of the consequences. I mean, Anatole stormed out, after the review, but of course he stormed back, because what kind of chef turns his toque on two hundred thousand a year?"
"And I suppose you're going to take this full-time job?"
"Turn my back on two hundred K? To cook hamburgers? And work with youl This is, like, a no-brainer!"
"Were you going to leave a note?" Quill asked distantly. "Or was I just going to figure this out on my own."
"Quill!" Meg bit her lip, muttered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it," and started forward, arms outstretched. Quill put her hand up, warning her off. "Oh, Quillie! I can't believe this is such a mess! But there have been all these stupid plans about buying the Inn back, and
28 Claudia Bishop
all these incredibly boring meetings. Plus, you and My-les are in the middle of breaking up, and I didn't want to bother you with this while you were dealing with that."
"Lay off my love life," Quill said tightly.
Meg stamped her feet and shrieked, "See? See! And you wonder why I haven't talked to you? I can't talk to you! I never could talk to you."
"We talk all the time!" Quill yelled.
"We squabble affectionately," Meg said, with a curious sort of dignity. "That's different. There's no content to it." She pulled up the tail of her T-shirt and cleaned her face with it.
"That's enough," Doreen said firmly. "That there Horvath's dried off and ready for lunch. You come in and be nice."
"Nice," Quill muttered, "Nice!" She felt half a bubble off, like a level searching for a nonexistent plumb line.
"You change your clothes for lunch, Meg," Doreen directed. "And you, Quill, go brush your hair. It's stickin' out all over in this heat. And I don't want to hear a word about weddings, or accepting Anatole Su-pinksy's job, or movin' down east at the table."
Quill slammed into the Inn and went upstairs to change. Fifteen minutes later, after a cold shower and a change into clean clothes, she came back downstairs to check the dining room before the guests arrived.
Horvath had come to Hemlock Falls Monday of that week. Quill had scheduled one day for him to recover from jet lag and to experience Hemlock Falls's consid-
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erable charm, and one and a half days of business meetings. Which left Thursday afternoon for a celebratory lunch with Horvath and a few judiciously chosen guests. Since nothing had been signed, it'd have to be a "welcome to Hemlock Falls" lunch.
Quill had asked Mayor Henry and Marge Schmidt to join them. The mayor, because it was time for Horvath to start friendly relations with the village, and Marge because the Finns' half a million dollars was going to go straight into her pocket when the transfer of ownership was complete. Counting Meg, Quill herself, John Raintree, and Mark Anthony Jefferson, the table was set for seven.
Dina, who'd complained that the duties of receptionist were boring since the Inn was only accepting a limited number of guests, had asked to set the table. The cloth was primrose yellow. Deep gold roses floated in cobalt-blue bowls at each place setting. She'd used Quill's own sterling silver and her personal china, patterned in Kutani Crane. Quill loved the look of the china. But the exotic crane in the center of the plates seemed to have a malignant glitter in its eye in anticipation of this particular lunch.
Quill moved a salad fork three millimeters to the left. She'd changed into a long skirt and a teal scoop-necked body suit. She'd brushed her hair out and piled it on top of her head. A couple of tendrils fell in front of her ears, interfering with her peripheral vision. She felt as if red-gold snakes were stalking her. Well, maybe she was as monstrous as Medusa, if her own sister couldn't tell her she was getting married and
30 Claudia Bishop
moving away, and leaving Quill with total, absolute chaos on her hands.
John came into the dining room, moving with the easy athleticism of the long-distance runner. Quill greeted him with a watery smile. "Hey!"
"Hey yourself." He looked at the table. "Looks great."
"Dina's got a future as a decorator if she wants it. Or maybe we can train her to cook."
John's eyes were dark and his hair as black as a crow's wing. He was several years younger than Quill and, except for a two-year hiatus at a bank in New York City, had always been at the Inn to support her. Self-contained, quiet, he almost never revealed anything personal. He moved the fork three millimeters to the right. "You've talked to Meg."
"You knew about this wedding, too?" Quill's face grew hot. "I mean, do you have an invitation? / don't, you know. I don't even know where it is, or what Meg's going to wear." Her voice dropped into heavy sarcasm. "Tell me, John, is she registered somewhere? I should at least send her a vase!"
"Hey." John touched her arm gently. "Hey, hey, hey. Take a deep breath, Quill."
She did. Her temper ebbed.
John's tone was matter-of-fact. "How could I talk with you if Meg hadn't? This isn't really my business, Quill."
And of course, it wasn't. Of all the people Quill had met in her thirty-six years, John was the most rigidly ethical. Some of the tune, like right now, she wanted to brain him for it. All of the time she depended on it.
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"We'll manage through this, Quill. We'll take one thing at a time. Right now the mayor's at the front door."
Her smile was watery, but at least it was genuine. "Hmm. You red men have strange powers. From all that time in the forest, I expect."
"From seeing his van in the driveway a couple of seconds ago. And Adela's with him."
"Oh, nutsl Adela didn't get an invitation. I purposely didn't give Adela an invitation. What do you want to bet she asks Horvath if he eats a lot of herring?"
"I never bet on sure things," John said.
Quill laughed. "One of the things I love about you, John. You always make me—" She met his eyes and stopped in mid-sentence. He knew about her last conversation with Myles. He just didn't know what she was going to do about it. Since Quill herself didn't know what she was going to do about it, she'd buried herself in the work at hand. And ignored Meg, and bewildered Myles ... she bit her lower lip hard.
Part of the work at hand trundled through the archway into the dining room. Elmer Henry had been mayor of Hemlock Falls for almost twenty years (excepting a short hiatus when the voters of Hemlock Falls had abandoned the routine for the exotic reaches of feminism) and put Adela, his wife, in office. Both Henrys were short, and built in a way Quill (who was inclined to the tactful) called substantial and Meg (who was not) called fat.
Mark Jefferson and Horvath followed the mayor and Adela in quick succession. Meg trailed in. Like Quill, she'd changed her clothes—to a long denim dress and
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pink T-shirt. Her eyes were red. She avoided looking at Quill.
There was the usual controlled confusion while everyone was seated and Quill made introductions. Quill signaled Peter Hairston, the maitre d', to serve the starters. Marge wasn't here yet—but Marge wasn't known as Ten-to-Twenty Schmidt for nothing. She was always ten to twenty minutes late to meetings. It was, she'd explained, a matter of principle. Power resided with the person who made other people wait.
"You e
at a lot of fish in Finland," Mayor Henry declared, after exchanging "good-ta-meetchas" with Horvath. He looked at the pate Meg had selected as a starter with a dubious eye. "You got some ketchup for this ground-up meat, Meg?"
"Elmer!" Adela shook out her napkin carefully. "You don't ask for ketchup at a restaurant where our dear Meg is chef. Perhaps some salsa, dear? The mayor likes his meat sauced." She settled into Quill's designated seat with the deliberation of a large boat docking at a small pier. Quill raised a finger at Peter. He wiggled his eyebrows at her then quickly and unobtrusively added an eighth place.
Adela looked at the new setting in majestic disapproval. "I thought it was to be just us?"
"Marge Schmidt isn't here yet," Meg said. "And Peter? Ask Bjarne to whip up some salsa."
"I told you the invitation was just to me, Adela," the Mayor said. "You didn't invite her here, did you, Quill?"
"Nonsense," Adela said briskly. "Quill is always glad to see us, Mayor." Adela wore a large garden hat,
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one of an endless array. This one was white straw, with silk wisteria vines poking over the brim. Horvath was seated at her right. He ducked sideways to avoid the brim as she turned and looked at him. "I was telling the mayor that you eat a lot of herring in Finland," Adela said. "Do you have trouble getting regular food all the way up there?"
Horvath handled this tactlessness with aplomb. "We do not have any trouble," he declared. "What we have trouble obtaining in my country is McDonald's. Hamburgers and fries. How I love them." He sighed. Although his hair was still damp from his dunking in the koi pond, his good cheer seemed undiminished.
"Dear Meg should have taken your food preferences into account," Adela said. "I myself always try to accommodate the food tastes of our guests. What is it we are having for lunch, dear? Something normal, I hope. Not one of those stuffed stomach things you served us on Scots Night at that dear Palate Restaurant." Her hat brim swatted John in the eye as she turned to address Meg.
Meg didn't say anything for a minute. "Turkey," she said. "Big, fat, gobbling—"
"Rock Cornish game hen, chilled and glazed," Quill interrupted smoothly. "You'll have to tell us what you think of the orange glazing, Adela. It's one of Meg's specialties. She's perfected it over the years."
"Horned in again, Adela?" boomed a familiar voice. Quill rose and greeted Marge Schmidt with relief. The richest woman in Tompkins County, Marge was short, round, and had the eyes of a tank gunner. She sat down at the lunch table and grunted in pleasure at the sight
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of the pate. Although Marge's idea of dressing for dinner was to exchange her blue bowling jacket for a red one, her taste and appreciation for good food rivaled M. K. Fisher's. "Told you yesterday at the drugstore this was a business meetin', Adela. And if you let Elmer there put salsa on Meg's pate, I'll sit on your hat. John? Good to see you again." She nodded to Quill, grinned at Meg and Mark Anthony Jefferson, and narrowed her eyes to laser points at Horvath. "So you're the Finn with the funds," she said. She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. "Marge Schmidt. Used to own this joint."
"Ah. I read your contract to sell to the Quilliams, here." Horvath rose and bowed. "A masterpiece of clarity and financial acumen. I congratulate you."
Marge grunted dismissively, but her face flushed with pleasure. "So. You all come to terms yet? Got Horvath's signature on the dotted line?"
Horvath settled himself again. He shook his napkin out and smoothed it on his lap. "We have one stumbling block only."
"Stumbling block," Marge said flatly. "We'll take it down, then. See, in my line of work, Horvath, I like to take an ax to anything that stands between half a million bucks and me. So what's the problem?"
Quill opened her mouth to say now that the chef was going to work at La Strazza for two hundred thousand dollars a year, there wasn't any problem at all. Nope. They could have pizza for breakfast and Hungry Man frozen dinners for entrees if they wanted. John put his hand over hers and squeezed it lightly. Quill swallowed a bite of pate and kept quiet.
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"American food," Horvath said simply. "I would like very much to see American food on the menu. Pizza, for example."
"Italian," Marge said. "Yeah? What else?"
"Hamburgers."
"That's American," Marge acknowledged. "Fries, too, I expect. Now listen up, Hagar."
"Horvath," he said firmly. "Hagar is the name of a cartoon character exceptionally offensive to my countrymen."
"Whatever. I know somethin' about the way people eat. You aware of that?"
"Of course. Mr. Jefferson from the bank has told me all about it. He told me all about the real estate in your wonderful village."
Mark nodded amiably.
"Real estate?" Quill said, bewildered.
"Perhaps this is not the correct term."
"Whatever," Marge said. "So go on, Horvath."
"I know," Horvath said, "that you ran a wonderful diner. Hemlock Diner, Fine Foods and Fast."
"That's right." Marge said.
"And that it had some of the best diner food in these United States."
"You betcha." Marge's powerful jaws made short work of the mound of curled carrots underneath her pate.
"And that you agreed to buy back the restaurant the Quilliam sisters bought from you when you bought the Inn so that you could run your diner again."
Quill gave Horvath an admiring smile. Who said
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there was a language barrier? He'd done a fine job of negotiating the buy-sell-buy labyrinth.
"Not quite right," Marge said. "Leastwise, I'm gonna turn the Croh Bar into the diner. I'm leasin' the Palate out."
Meg frowned. "We're going to have another gourmet restaurant in Hemlock Falls?"
"Huh-un. Combination coffeehouse and gym. Gonna get the lease signed as soon as this deal here's wrapped up."
"A coffeehouse and gym?" Adela's substantial bosom rose. "Do you mean beatniks?"
"I mean a Starbucks and exercise place all rolled into one." Marge's beady little eyes rested pointedly on Adela's loaded fork. "You could use a good gym, Adela. And so could the whole Ladies' Auxiliary. I'm gonna talk to you about memberships right away. Anyways." She turned back to Horvath. "Yeah, I know something about customers and what people want to eat."
"Then you would agree. There should be marvelous curly fries. Chicken wings. Triple-decker hamburgers and those sour little pickles. Tacos. And ice cream. You Americans have the finest ice cream in the world. Blueberry Crunch. Berry-Berry, which is not, as I initially surmised, a sickness from Africa. And best of all, Rocky Road, with the marshmallows, almonds, and chocolate! I love these foods, which we do not have in Finland so much."
"Hmm." Marge rubbed her nose. "I get you, Horvath. Thing is, you can buy that stuff in any little one-horse town in America. Thing that makes Hemlock
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Falls different is her. You Finns got any idea how famous she is?" She jerked her thumb at Meg. "She's top of the line. I know a couple people traveled all the way from Seattle to eat here in upstate New York on account of Meg. There's more. You know how famous she is?" The thumb rotated in Quill's direction. "You take a look at those paintings in the Tavern Lounge. This is Quilliam, the artist. Know a couple of people traveled all the way from Syracuse to see her work." She laughed.
Horvath, beaming, nodded comprehension that this was a little joke. Marge continued with a confidential air. "You go to any big museum, you find a Quilliam in the corner somewhere. You don't find that in any old American town, either."
Peter removed the starter plates and placed the chilled cantaloupe soup. Quill took a large spoonful, cheered by Marge's partisanship. Of course, Marge was looking forward to a very large check for the Inn, so perhaps her enthusiasm was understandable.
"So get this, Horvath. You change the way Meg cooks you got people st
ayin' home in Frisco. You want burgers and fries, get yourself a swimmin' pool out back, put in a snack bar, and Bob's your uncle."
"You'll be successful," Mark interpreted. "I believe Ms. Schmidt has a point, Mr. Kierkegaard. This cantaloupe soup is wonderful, Meg."
"What kind of sherry you using these days?" Marge took a spoonful and rolled the soup on her tongue. Her eyebrows rose. "Cooking sherry? You?"
"I was in a hurry." Meg's cheeks were pink. She
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rested a thoughtful gaze on Horvath. "And I didn't think it mattered all that much."
"I see it does," Horvath said anxiously. "There must be no change in the quality of the food, Meg. None. None. None. My government would be very unhappy. This would change the deal. I understand completely. The success of the Inn depends upon the chef. Mrs. Schmidt?" He raised his glass of Montrachat.
"Miss," Marge said truculently.
"I salute you." He turned to John. "Mr. Raintree, I did not realize before how much this depended on Meg. Meg? I apologize to you. I will send you two dozen roses, more beautiful than even these." His stubby fingers touched the petals of the roses in the blue bowl. "And you, Miss Meg, will learn to make gourmet hamburgers! Delicately seasoned french fries! Corn dogs that have no peer! And we will all be happy!"
Adela burst into enthusiastic applause.
CHAPTER 3
"Didja hear me, Quill?" Marge whapped her water glass with her spoon.
Quill jumped. She'd been chopping the second-best strawberries in her dessert bowl into little pieces.
"Didn't think so," Marge said. "I was sayin' as how it'd be nice if you and Meg dropped down to the new gym for a cup of coffee."
"The new gym," Quill repeated alertly. "Of course." She tugged at a stray piece of hair. "Which gym? Who owns the gym?"
"Her name's Sherri Keni," Meg said. "She's opened up a coffeehouse with a gym in it at our old restaurant. Health food, carrot juice, that kind of thing. Marge mentioned it during the pate."
"She's set up already?" Quill said.
"Gave her the same deal as I gave you two," Marge
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said. 'Thirty-day lease till the financing comes through. She don't have much in the way of equipment yet. Gonna concentrate on aerobics for a while till the business gets rolling. She's your age Meg, maybe a year or two older."
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