"I mind." Crossly, Quill put the car into park and eased herself out of the front seat. She took a couple of deep breaths and said with a brightness even she found artificial, "Look how lovely this place is, Meg. It's all pink stucco. And it's right on the ocean."
"I don't give a hoot about the stucco. You either listen to me, or we spend the rest of the week in taxis. Which will totally destroy any profit we could have hoped to make out of this trip."
"We won't take the freeway next time."
"We'll take a cab next time. And the time after that. At least we can cower in the back seat together. I was afraid to close my eyes. I was afraid to keep my eyes open. I was petrified!"
"You couldn't be," said a hurried voice in Quill's ear, "the Quilliams?"
Quill jumped and turned. A pleasant woman with an anxious face took several steps backward. She was somewhere in her twenties. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a cardigan sweater and a long cotton skirt. Quilt wondered about the cardigan. The temperature was in the upper eighties and climbing. "I'm sorry if you're not the Quilliams, but I've heard about the way you squabble." She flushed, embarrassed. "I mean..."
"It's okay," said Meg. "We're the Quilliams."
"I'm Linda Longstreet?" she said, as though she questioned the fact. "You aren't Sarah and Meg?"
"I'm Sarah. Please call me Quill. And this is my sister, Meg."
"Thank goodness. Thank goodness. I was so worried. So worried. I thought something happened to you."
"We took I-95," said Meg grimly.
"Oh. At this time of day it shouldn't be too bad."
"It gets worse?" said Meg. "It can't possibly get worse."
"Oh, sure it can get worse. But please, come in. We've all been waiting. And waiting." She bit nervously at a forefinger. "And of course the electrical power would decide to play tricks on us this morning... But now you're here and everything's going to be just fine. Just fine."
"I'm really sorry," Quill said as they walked across the parking lot. "But we were trapped by an accident, and there was no way to call."
"What's wrong with the electrical system?" Meg asked. "Are the ovens down? Are the refrigerators down?"
Linda stopped in the middle of the lot. "It's not as bad as last week," she said reassuringly. "We didn't lose a thing. The food's just fine. I think." She looked around, bewildered, seemed to recall where she was, and headed toward the building again.
"And this is just an introductory meeting, isn't it?" asked Meg. "I mean - you didn't have anyone waiting for us. Did you?"
Linda stopped again. Quill had never seen anyone as easily distracted. "Well, they all left after the first hour, I'm afraid. Except for Chef Jean Paul. And he can't leave, you know, since he works here. And lives here. He's got an apartment over the Food Gallery."
"All left?" said Meg. "All who?"
"Well, there were the folks from Carpe Tedium..."
"From where?" asked Quill.
"It's a choral group. They rewrite songs from the forties for the nineties. Retired people, mostly. They sing stuff like 'Come to Me, My Melantonin Baby' and 'Prozac Lane' - instead of 'Primrose Lane,' you know? Here we are, just up these steps."
Quill followed Linda up a short flight of steps to a cool, green atrium. A large fountain splashed in the middle. An ice sculpture of a swan had been placed on the lip of the fountain. It dripped forlornly in the heat.
"That was the only casualty today," Linda said brightly.
Meg gave Quill a frantic look. Quill said, with determined good humor, "Linda, this building is lovely!"
"It is, isn't it?" said Linda, without looking around. "If I could just get some reliable electricians... We'll just go through here, through Le Nozze."
"So this is the institute's restaurant," said Meg.
They paused inside the door. The dining room was deserted at that hour, but preparations for lunch were under way. The tables had been set with yellow and blue pottery place settings. The clatter of pots and the smell of garlic came from the archway of a vast lighted room at the far end of the dining area. Quill got a quick impression of polished wood, French blue wallpaper, and tile floors. "It's great."
"It's cold," said Meg. "Is everything in Florida air conditioned?"
"Oh, yes. Basswood," said Linda. "The wainscotting, that is. And the striped wallpaper's from - oh, I can't remember." She halted, her hand on a door marked STUDENTS ONLY PLEASE. "Look, I'm afraid Jean Paul's in a bit of a snit."
"He is?" said Meg.
"Well, we wanted to surprise you. I mean, your reputation and all. So he had all of his fourth-level students - there's only six - prepare a sample of each of his souffl‚s. He's famous for his souffl‚s, you know."
"Souffl‚s," said Meg. "Oh, no."
"And they were timed you see, to be presented at precisely ten-ten, since he thought you would be here at ten o'clock and no chef, he said, is ever very late to meet another chef because it would be famously rude..."
"Wow," said Meg. "They all sank?"
Linda's expression was woeful. "They all sank. If you'd only been half an hour late, it would have been okay, because the clocks were all wonky from the power outage and it was really ten-thirty-five." She tipped sideways suddenly. Quill grabbed her before she could fall over. "Sorry. I forgot I was standing up. And he sent the audience home."
"He had an audience?"
"The Carpe Tedium people. I think I mentioned that before. They've been marvelous about fund-raising for the institute, and of course three of them are on the board of directors. Jean Paul wanted to give them the special honor of meeting you and eating his souffl‚s... Well." Linda took a deep breath and shoved open the door. "I guess we'd better face it."
"Oh, lord," Meg muttered. She shifted her tote over her shoulder. "You know, Linda, maybe if I called Jean Paul on the phone and gave him a chance to cool down..."
"Too late," said Linda. "He saw you pull into the parking lot. Through the kitchen window on the third floor. I think he's still there, in the charcuterie kitchen. But everyone else has left. It's just up these stairs, here." She turned and trotted up, puffing a little in agitation.
"There's something very anxiety-making about going up stairs to meet a cranky chef," Quill muttered. "You can't go too fast, because it's up. So you're going slowly, slowly to your doom. I'll just bet it isn't Jean Paul at the top of these stairs, it's Verge the Scourge himself, holding our mortgage in both hands, in pursuit of my fair white body."
"Shut up," Meg hissed. Then, as she followed Linda through a heavy, metal door, she said in an artificially hearty tone, "Mƒitre?"
The kitchen was empty. Long windows lined the out- side wall, giving a spectacular view of the ocean. Three large stainless steel bakery ovens banked the walls to the left of the windows; two heavy stainless-steel doors and several oak-faced storage bins lined the wall opposite. They'd entered though a door in the fourth wall. This wall was made entirely of glass, presumably so that an audience could look in and watch the professionals at work.