surprised to see it trembling. "So, go. Leave a couple days early, what do I care? Did I ever tell you you were a terrible snob, Meg?"
"Me?! Go chase yourself."
"So, fine," Quill repeated. "This is just fine."
"Of course it's not 'fine.' Don't say 'fine' to me in that nasty clipped sort of way. If you want to buy back the damn place and have me cook there, I'll cook there. But you'd be making a big mistake."
"It wasn't that damn place when I took you there after Daniel was killed in that car crash. It saved your sanity, you said, if not your life."
Meg turned so pale that the light dusting of freckles on her nose stood out "So it's my fault," she said between her teeth. "'Well, fine!" She turned on her heel, wheeled out of the back door, and slammed it so hard the eight-inch sauté pan fell to the floor with a clang. A second later, she came back in and hauled her duffel bag out of the closet where she'd stored it preparatory to this trip. When she left this time, she closed the door with studied care.
Moving carefully, Quill walked over, picked up the sauté pan, and replaced it on its hook over the counter.
"What in the heck was that rumpus all about?" Doreen came in from the front dining room, a load of tablecloths folded over her arm.
"Nothing." Quill grabbed a broom from the corner rack and began to sweep the spotless floor.
"Pretty loud kind of nothin'. I could hear you two all the way down in the basement. And that's a sixteen-inch- thick stone wall."
Quill didn't answer. Doreen set the tablecloths on the prep table and counted the stack. "This here primrose color stinks," she offered after a moment. "Shows all the stains and you can't bleach it worth beans. Told ya when you picked it out. Shoulda gone with the white. Meg thought the primrose stunk, too."
"White's boring. People respond better to color."
"People respond real good to a nice clean lookin' tablecloth."
"So?"
"So maybe you want to think about listening to certain people. When they know what's what. Like, I know laun dry, if you see what I mean. So you shoulda listened to me about the white. And Meg knows you."
"Stop right there," Quill said. She set the broom into the rack. "Do you have the list of reservations for this evening?"
"It's on the maître d' stand out front."
"You call all those numbers and tell the customers we're closed for today."
"You're kidding."
"Oh, no. I'm not kidding." Quill smiled sweetly. "Are you listening to me, Doreen? Have I ever told you you should listen more? Well, you should. It'll do you good. Lock the door, put the CLOSED sign up, and then GO HOME!"
The sauté pan fell back on the floor. Quill, shaking with rage, walked slowly out the back door, sat down on the back steps, and put her head in her hands. She felt the door open behind her, and then Doreen's rough palm on her head. She leaned against Doreen's hip and caught the scent of starch, freshly ironed cotton and pine disinfectant. "I'm sorry."
"Never mind." Doreen stroked her hair for a moment.
"Whyn't you go tidy up a bit before the chamber meetin'."
Quill sat up straight and looked at her watch. "Oh, Lord, is it that late already? It is. Damn it. Oh, damn it. Marge will be there, too, Doreen. Suppose she tells everyone at the meeting I asked to buy the Inn back."
"Suppose she does?"
"I'll just tell her to go soak her head, that's what I'll tell her."
"Don't you go gettin' into a scrape with Marge Schmidt, Quill. People think a lot of her in this town. 'Course, that's partly because she's one of the richest people in Tompkins County, and partly because she holds a pile of loans for half the village, but why they respect her don't matter half so much as the fact that they do. So don't go borrowin' trouble."
Quill was in the mood not only to borrow trouble, but to take out a high interest mortgage. She washed her face, threw on a few strokes of blusher and some lip gloss, and decided to take the Oldsmobile to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. If
"Me?! Go chase yourself."
"So, fine," Quill repeated. "This is just fine."
"Of course it's not 'fine.' Don't say 'fine' to me in that nasty clipped sort of way. If you want to buy back the damn place and have me cook there, I'll cook there. But you'd be making a big mistake."
"It wasn't that damn place when I took you there after Daniel was killed in that car crash. It saved your sanity, you said, if not your life."
Meg turned so pale that the light dusting of freckles on her nose stood out "So it's my fault," she said between her teeth. "'Well, fine!" She turned on her heel, wheeled out of the back door, and slammed it so hard the eight-inch sauté pan fell to the floor with a clang. A second later, she came back in and hauled her duffel bag out of the closet where she'd stored it preparatory to this trip. When she left this time, she closed the door with studied care.
Moving carefully, Quill walked over, picked up the sauté pan, and replaced it on its hook over the counter.
"What in the heck was that rumpus all about?" Doreen came in from the front dining room, a load of tablecloths folded over her arm.
"Nothing." Quill grabbed a broom from the corner rack and began to sweep the spotless floor.
"Pretty loud kind of nothin'. I could hear you two all the way down in the basement. And that's a sixteen-inch- thick stone wall."
Quill didn't answer. Doreen set the tablecloths on the prep table and counted the stack. "This here primrose color stinks," she offered after a moment. "Shows all the stains and you can't bleach it worth beans. Told ya when you picked it out. Shoulda gone with the white. Meg thought the primrose stunk, too."
"White's boring. People respond better to color."
"People respond real good to a nice clean lookin' tablecloth."
"So?"
"So maybe you want to think about listening to certain people. When they know what's what. Like, I know laun dry, if you see what I mean. So you shoulda listened to me about the white. And Meg knows you."
"Stop right there," Quill said. She set the broom into the rack. "Do you have the list of reservations for this evening?"
"It's on the maître d' stand out front."
"You call all those numbers and tell the customers we're closed for today."
"You're kidding."
"Oh, no. I'm not kidding." Quill smiled sweetly. "Are you listening to me, Doreen? Have I ever told you you should listen more? Well, you should. It'll do you good. Lock the door, put the CLOSED sign up, and then GO HOME!"
The sauté pan fell back on the floor. Quill, shaking with rage, walked slowly out the back door, sat down on the back steps, and put her head in her hands. She felt the door open behind her, and then Doreen's rough palm on her head. She leaned against Doreen's hip and caught the scent of starch, freshly ironed cotton and pine disinfectant. "I'm sorry."
"Never mind." Doreen stroked her hair for a moment.
"Whyn't you go tidy up a bit before the chamber meetin'."
Quill sat up straight and looked at her watch. "Oh, Lord, is it that late already? It is. Damn it. Oh, damn it. Marge will be there, too, Doreen. Suppose she tells everyone at the meeting I asked to buy the Inn back."
"Suppose she does?"
"I'll just tell her to go soak her head, that's what I'll tell her."
"Don't you go gettin' into a scrape with Marge Schmidt, Quill. People think a lot of her in this town. 'Course, that's partly because she's one of the richest people in Tompkins County, and partly because she holds a pile of loans for half the village, but why they respect her don't matter half so much as the fact that they do. So don't go borrowin' trouble."
Quill was in the mood not only to borrow trouble, but to take out a high interest mortgage. She washed her face, threw on a few strokes of blusher and some lip gloss, and decided to take the Oldsmobile to the Chamber of Commerce meeting. If
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