"Sorry," said Meg.
"Meg, for heaven's sake," Quill said. "There might not be any classes if you don't let his mother join. I thought you wanted to compete for that rating more than anything." And besides, although she didn't want to say it aloud, who in the world would turn down the chance to meet Cressida Houghton?
"Look, Meg." Evan leaned forward, forgetting about his food and his wine in his earnestness. "Have you ever met Cressy?"
"No." Meg hesitated. "I've heard about her, of course. Who hasn't? She's as famous as Mrs. Kennedy was."
Quill nodded. Cressida Houghton had been the youngest of the Babe Paley crowd, the elegant, distant women that Truman Capote had written about in his ill-fated book, Answered Prayers. She was an intensely private woman, appearing only to promote her charitable interest in the homeless.
"Then you have no idea what calm she can bring, what good she can do. You give her half a chance and she can keep both Tiffany and Dad from embarrassing the family. You don't know her."
"What she's like?" Quill asked.
Corrigan interrupted his brother. "She's wonderful. Calm, beautiful - she's just great. She's not like Tiffany at all."
Evan agreed, although in a more temperate tone. "Or Mariel, for that matter. Mariel's worse than Tif."
"Mariel?" Quill asked.
"Dad's new bimbo," Evan said. "She's nineteen. An up and coming rock star. Or so she claims. I can understand why you'd turn somebody like that down as a student. She shaves her head and lives on brown rice. But my mother appreciates fine food."
"Hm" said Meg, who was weakening.
Corrigan pressed forward. "It's not too much to ask, is it? That she be there to keep the peace? That's all we wanted from you. Really."
Meg shook her head in a way that meant she was on the fence. She made one last stab at maintaining her class size. "Guys, I'm sorry, but the rule about six students is fixed. It's sacred. I just can't." She picked up a lobster claw with one hand, looked at it, and set it down again. "Quill, what do you think?"
"Why don't we go talk to her?"
"Talk to her?"
"Yes. See if what Evan and Corrigan have said is tr - " Quill stopped and attempted a retreat. "Look how late it's getting!"
"You mean see if we're lying?" said Corrigan. "We don't lie. We don't have to."
Quill considered this statement and decided it was one of the most arrogant she'd ever heard. She wanted to shake herself, to rid herself of the feeling she and Meg were involved in some complicated game whose master plan was known only by somebody else.
"We think you're up to something," said Meg. "We just don't know what the heck it is. And that's a good idea, Quill. If by some wild chance these guys are right, and Cressida Houghton can keep the lid on any blowups, I'd be crazy to stick to my six student rule. So, yeah. If we can meet her, and she's not going to send either Tiffany or Taylor himself into fits..."
Corrigan shook his head. "No way. They both respect her. She's already talked to Tif about televising this therapy crap."
"So Tiffany is dropping the Excelsior racket voluntarily?" Meg asked. "Not because your father is blackmailing her?"
Evan hesitated. "As far as I know."
"You know, Meg," Quill said, "it makes sense. Tiffany can get a lot more mileage out of Cressida Houghton's sponsorship of this - what are you calling it now, Evan, the Gourmet Week? - than an ersatz phobia institute. And I can't see Cressida Houghton involved in such a thing."
"That's right." Evan nodded. "Mother won't talk to the press. Never has and never will. And think about what you know of her relationship with Dad. Post-divorce, that is."
Quill said, "It's all been very good. Verger was quoted as saying she was the greatest lady he'd ever met."
"And even Tif respects her," said Evan. "She's scared of her but she respects her. I remember one Christmas, when we were little, just after Mother divorced Dad, Tiffany showed up at the house in Hobe Sound-well, never mind. Anyhow, take it from me, Tif behaves as good as gold when Mom's around. Think of it. You won't have to worry about anyone throwing pots and pans or pitching screaming fits on the kitchen floor. The week will go like silk."
Meg raised one finger in admonition. "If, and I say if what you're telling me is true, then I say okay."
"Really?" For the first time that evening, Quill felt that Evan's response was a genuine one. "You mean it?"
"Sure," Meg said. "Why not?"
Evan rose halfway from his chair. "Let's go right now. She lives out near Hobe Sound. That's a twenty-minute drive from here. We can be there by ten."
"Now?" Meg said in alarm. "It's too late to call on your mother now. Besides, we haven't finished eating."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow's Tuesday," Meg said. "I have to be at the institute early. I've got my first class at ten o'clock. We're hanging the rabbit for the students. For heaven's sake, we'd welcome your mother. I'll let Linda Longstreet know that she'll be there."
"And Tiffany," Quill murmured.
"We'll take care of Tiffany," Corrigan said. Meg sighed happily. "That's that, then. Now for goodness' sake let me finish this squab. It's getting cold." She deftly severed a wing, sliced off a piece of breast meat, and nibbled delicately. "Now that we've heard the easy part - the favor to you - what's the favor your father wants?"
Even grinned - not the ain't-I-a-cute-preppy-stud grin that had both repelled and attracted Quill, but a full-scale, malicious you're-going-to-love-this smirk. "Let's start with what he's planning for the institute. Hamburger U."
Meg inhaled sharply, coughed, sipped at water, and gasped. "I beg your pardon?"
"Not Hamburger U, actually. It's more like Poultry High. Poultry. Chicken," he said, impatient at Quill's bewildered look. "Fried chicken, to be exact. He's just bought up the Southern Fried fast-food chain. He's going to turn the institute into a training center for the franchises."
"Wow," said Meg. "Those great kitchens. Those marble counters. Those incredible stoves. All turned over to fried chicken?"
"And fried potatoes. And fried pies. And fried cauliflower, broccoli, and mushrooms. When that chain says Southern Fried, they mean it," Quill said. "I think they'd deep fry Kleenex if they thought it would sell. Evan, does this mean everyone at the institute will be fired?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Does the staff know yet? Does Chef Jean Paul know?"
"No. Which brings me to the second favor I have to ask. Dad thought you might attend the management meeting tomorrow morning. It's a monthly thing, apparently."
"Me?" Quill said. "Why?"
"To let them down gently."
"Me tell them about the Southern Fried people? Me fire them? Why me, for heaven's sake!"
"Because you have a nice way about you. Because you have a reputation for fairness. And mostly because you'll be leaving town at the end of this week."
"Forget it, Evan. I might as well stick my head in one of the gas ovens."
"Sorry, Quill. That's part of the bargain. It was Ernst's idea, actually. Or maybe it was Frank Carmichael's - he's our lawyer. To have you take the heat. You know Dad - he can be, well, abrasive. Ernst thought you'd provide less of a target than one of us. Or even one of the PR hacks we've got on staff. You can see the strategy here. Keep things calm, quiet, non-confrontational."