"Sorry about what?" Meg arrived at the table, flushed and beaming. "Sorry about coming here? I was at first but I'm not now. Quill! You should see that stove. I want that stove. I lust after that stove. I'm in love with that stove."
"It's a pretty nice stove," Corrigan agreed. He looked stunned.
"Did Meg behave herself in the kitchen, Corrigan?"
"What? Oh. I guess. She asked the chef if he knew all the verses to 'Tennessee Birdwalk.' "
"Did he? Don't answer, I can tell by the way you look. They both sang it together."
"I like this place already," Meg said in satisfaction. "Now if the food has the same character as the chef, we're in business. You know, Quill, if this thing with Tiffany Taylor does get torpedoed, we should stay here a full week anyhow. We can toddle up and down Worth Avenue testing all the food. It'll be great."
"I can assure you that Tiffany's going ahead with the gourmet week," Evan said. "It may not look like it, but my father's indulged her in all kinds of idiot ideas. It's the charity crap that's not going to happen. The Excelsior. The Institute for Gold Diggers. Dad's sending that phony psychiatrist away."
"I knew he was a phony," Meg said in satisfaction. "What is he, an accountant? An osteopath?"
"He's a shrink, all right. An M.D. From Johns Hopkins, as a matter of fact."
"You're kidding." Meg, who clearly didn't care, nibbled a piece of bread.
Quill sighed. "You know, I feel kind of sorry for your stepmother, Evan. I mean - it's a silly sort of charity, I grant you that. But she's committed to it. Neither Meg nor I would have come here if we weren't certain of that. I know your father thinks she's doing it just to embarrass him, but..."
"Don't you?" Quill considered. "I think there's some of that. But I don't think it's all of that. And my goodness, he's big enough to shrug off a little criticism, isn't he?"
"He dumped her, you know." Meg looked critically at the plate of ceviche the waiter set before her and picked up a fork. "I don't think anybody should underestimate the wrath of a dumped ex-wife. Think of all the things she could be doing instead of this little banquet and these little therapy sessions. In front of the cameras of all the major television stations." She chuckled, ate a forkful of the ceviche, and nodded. "Excellent. Very, very excellent. I like this, Quill." She put the plate aside, selected a clean fork, and took a portion of Corrigan's pate off his plate. "Now this - no. We make a better pate. Too much pepper. The sorrel's wrong for the liver. And someone in the kitchen went nuts with the onion." She handed the fork to Corrigan, who held it with a bewildered expression, then began to eat the pate himself. "As I said, just think of all the mischief she could be doing instead of this little charity. She could be suing him in court for all kinds of stuff..."
"She is," said Evan. "She is suing him over my grandmother's house in Cannes."
"Or she could be going on those talk shows and talking about their sex life."
"She's booked on Oprah next month."
"Or trying to wreck his credit or something."
"Wreck his credit?" Corrigan asked with alarm. "Well, that'd be the way to get to a real-estate mogul, wouldn't it? The point is, I think that if everybody ignored everybody else, stuff would quiet down and the whole family would get off the front pages of the newspapers." She gave Evan a sharp glance. "If that's what you want."
"That's what I want," said Evan. "You have no idea how hard it is to have a life while all this crap is going on."
Impulsively, Quill put her hand on his. "It must be awful."
"It is, rather." He turned his palm up and curled his fingers around Quill's wrist. She tugged free, broke off a piece of roll from the bread basket, buttered it, then set it on her salad plate. Evan picked it up and ate it, smiling. "I was hoping you could help make it less awful."
"Madame's steak salad." The waiter, carrying a loaded tray, set Quill's dinner in front of her, Evan's salmon in front of him, then several entrees each in front of Meg and Corrigan. He placed a half-dozen clean forks at Meg's right hand. "Enjoy the meal, Maitre Quilliam."
Meg grinned, pleased to be recognized. Quill regarded her salad in dismay. It was large. Beautifully presented, but large. The steak had been char-grilled, chilled, and cut into thin strips. She counted three kinds of lettuce - radicchio, Boston, and butter-and two types of sweet pepper. The vinaigrette smelled wonderfuclass="underline" a hint of garlic, balsalmic vinegar, and spicy mustard. She wished she and Meg were sitting alone, so that she could enjoy it. She raised her eyebrows at Evan. "I don't see any way that we can help you and your brother, Evan. I'm sorry."
"Oh, but you can."
"How? We can't go home, if that's what you want, because we've accepted this project. If Tiffany cancels it, that's fine. But..."
"Oh, no. I don't want you to go home. Far from it. I want you and Meg to stay here and do your best for the Institute."
"You do?"
"Of course I do. The thought of Tiffany pitching another screaming fit in front of the cameras gives me the cold chills. I think I've brought Dad around to letting her go ahead with the plans this week - not the therapy crap of course - that's too much even for Dad. But the food stuff's no problem. Meg's classes, your lecture. He's even agreed to let the banquet go on as long as Bittern doesn't give a speech. It's good that a Taylor, even an ex-Taylor, is sponsoring something this classy."
"What about Dr. Bob and his 'woman's reach must exceed her grasp or what's a heaven for' psychology?"
Meg asked. "What's going to happen to him?"
"We're taking care of that," Evan said.
There was a brief silence. Quill took another sip of wine and considered the large flower arrangement on the bronze pedestal behind Evan's chair. She liked the trumpet lilies.
Evan, who had regained his sophisticated air, said, "So don't worry about Dr. Bob. Everything on the food end is going to be fine. As long as you do one little thing for my father and one little thing for me."
Quill gave an exasperated tcha!
He held his hand up. "Don't turn me down before I even bring it up. I want you to let my mother join Meg's cooking classes."
"Your mother?" Quill said.
"Cressy," said Corrigan, suddenly. "Cressida Houston. She and my father divorced quite a while ago."
"I know that. And of course I know who Cressida Houghton is. Everyone in the Western hemisphere knows who Cressida Houghton is." Quill ate quietly for a moment, then said, "I don't understand."
"Mother's a fan of yours, Meg." Meg's eyebrows rose in rude skepticism but Corrigan persevered, "Well, not a fan, precisely, but she'd love to take your courses. Tiffany told her that the classes were filled, and that you absolutely refused to have more than six people at a time in your cooking courses..."
"That's true," Meg said. "Six is the maximum number of people I can teach in one session."
"We told her we'd met you," Evan added. "Actually, Cory did, and she put it to us like that." He snapped his fingers. "Wants to join the class, and can't because it's full."