"Don't be too grateful," said Bea a little cynically. "We'd insist on a substantial portion of the equity in your restaurant. Your sister's pretty well known, you know. And there's money to be made there, if it's handled right. You sure you don't want to reconsider our offer of help?"
"I'm sure," said Quill firmly. "What I want to know is how I can get past Verger's - prejudices, I guess. I mean, he seems to lump both Meg and me with Tiffany and her dread - I mean, her charitable work. I thought that Evan - his son - might be the way to approach him and get him to see that we're really innocent of any - well - malice. He seems to think we want to embarrass him, too."
"Evan," said Bea thoughtfully. "That's Cressida's boy, isn't it?"
"Cressida?" Quill asked.
"Verger's first wife. She's a Houghton. Was before she married Verger and is again. She lives out on Hobe Sound. Good tennis player."
"Better at bridge," said Birdie. "Cressy's a whiz at bridge. Evan's a nice boy, but he is a boy."
"You remember him when he was eight and played croquet with you at Cressy's, Birdie. He's all grown-up now. Went to Harvard."
"Yale," said Quill.
"Whatever," said Bea dismissively. "But he must be twenty-four, at least."
"He's still wet behind the ears, Bea. I know what Quill should do. She should talk to Ernst."
"Birdie! How clever of you."
"Ernst?" Quill asked.
"Ernst Kolsacker," Birdie said. "Verger's business partner. The brains behind the whole Taylor empire, if you ask me: He's always been able to keep Verger from going too far over the line. That's it, Quill. I'll go give Ernst a call right this minute. You wait right here."
"You wait right here, Birdie. Look!" Bea pointed to the front entrance. "My mother always warned me: Speak of the devil and he appears."
Quill twisted around in her chair. The restaurant had filled up while they had been talking, and the noise level was high. The biggest racket was coming from Verger Taylor.
"Oh, my goodness." Quill felt a cowardly impulse to crawl under the table.
"Steady," Bea said. "He's with Ernst. See? That short fellow there, with the wire-rimmed glasses and the golf hat. Looks like a little teddy bear. He's a dear, dear man."
"Good friend of Arnie Palmer's, Ernst," Birdie murmured. "Never could see golf, myself. Now polo, in my young days..."
"Forget your young days, Birdie. We're both long past them. Now what in goodness' name is Verger doing here?"
"Oh, yikes," Quill said. "It's Tiffany!"
The crowd in front of the cash register parted as for Moses. Tiffany's white-blonde hair was drawn up tightly over her ears and she sported a large black hat slanted over one elegant cheekbone. She wore a short black skirt and a black-and-white suit coat that flared at the hips and nipped at the waist.
"She looks like a pissed-off penguin," Bea muttered.
Verger gave Tiffany a mock salute, with two fingers to his forehead, then stuck a cigar between his teeth. A camera flash flared; both Verger and Tiffany swung toward it.
Tiffany began to breathe through her mouth. She yelled, "On the count of three, Verger. On the count of three. If you're not out of here, I'm calling the cops. This is harassment, you following me around like this. You hear that? Harassment. So out. Out. Out! Get out of my goddamned restaurant!"
His tone was mild. "This isn't your restaurant, Tiffany. This is my restaurant. I own the goddamn building, don't I?"
Tiffany's mouth dropped open. For a moment, Quill would have sworn that she was so shocked, she forgot she was in front of an audience. Her breath came back with a sound like a medicine ball hitting concrete. "You bought this place!"
"Yeah, I bought this place. About an hour ago. You think I'm going to let you make a horse's ass of me with this goddamn charity? In front of all my goddamn friends? You bet I bought this place."
"You don't have any goddamn friends."
Bea grabbed Quill's arm. "Oh, no! The sculpture! I donated that piece myself!"
The crystal narwhale flew past Verger's head. The dolphin followed the narwhale, glanced off Verger's shoulder, and crashed to the floor. He yelled "goddammit" - with what Quill felt was a remarkable lack of originality - and leaped for the safety of the half-wall in front of the cash register. The diners scattered like pigeons. Tiffany's shriek escalated to a yowl. Coffee cups, saucers, and wineglasses followed the crystal, shattering against the half-wall protecting the cash register in a fusillade of noise. It was like being trapped in a bowling alley. There was a muffled crash and clatter and another siren shriek from Tiffany, followed by a high-pitched marital squabble of Force 5 proportions.
"Good arm," said a blue-haired lady at the table adjacent to Quill's. "I've seen Tiffany on Oprah. She works out."
Her lunch companion frowned. "Too much muscle. I just don't like a woman with too much muscle. Now, that Debbie Reynolds? She's got a tape that tones without you bulking up so much."
Quill sighed and looked out the window. The sun shone yellow-gold in a deep blue sky. Waves broke amiably along the curving cheek of the beach. A group of black-beaked terns scuttled along the shore. Striated white clouds streaked the far horizon. She'd caught enough of the weather report that morning to know that there'd been six inches of snow at home last night with another five predicted for the afternoon.
The shouts in the restaurant died away.
"They're going," said Bea. Quill glanced at her. She smiled maternally. "See? Ernst's taken care of everything. I told you he was marvelous."
Quill turned her gaze unwillingly to the front of the dining room. The short man in the golf cap held both of Tiffany's hands in his. He spoke to her in a low, soothing murmur. Verger Taylor was gone. Everyone seated at the tables had resumed eating, drinking, or gossiping - most of them all at once.
Ernst Kolsacker released Tiffany's hands, gave her shoulder a comforting pat, and held the front door for her as she left.
"Quick, Bea," Birdie said, "He's going to leave, too. Whoo-eee! Ernst! Ernst! Over here." She waved energetically. All the people who'd been staring at the Taylors turned like grouper fish in an aquarium to stare at their table. Quill refolded the maroon napkin with an air of unconcern. cleared her throat, and scratched the back of her neck. If she were at home, she'd be sitting in that nice rocking chair in front of the fireplace in Meg's kitchen. The air would be filled with the scent of roast game hen. Myles would be rumbling cheerfully over the newspaper in the corner. She would not be wanting to crawl under the table.
Ernst rolled toward their table like a golf ball on a difficult lie - erratically, but with a purposeful forward movement. He stopped, shook hands with several people, patted the backs of others, restarted, and stopped again. He arrived, finally, and bent over Bea, his arm around her neck. He gave her a friendly shake. "Bea, you look younger every time I see you. Birdie, I like the new hairstyle."
Bea beamed. "Ernst, I'd like you to meet our young friend here, Sarah Quilliam. Quill? This is Ernst. Ernst Kolsacker. We've just been talking about you, Ernst. Sit down."