"She'll do it," Meg said.
"I will not do it!" Quill sat up straight, spread her napkin carefully over her lap, and began to eat the Taboo steak salad. It was delicious. "Never," Quill said, swallowing an exceptionally tender piece of filet, "in this life."
-6-
"A hurricane's coming," said Meg, appearing at Quill's bedroom door.
Quill struggled out of sleep. She'd been dreaming. A giant chicken wearing gold-trimmed sandals had been chasing her down the beach. It had Verger Taylor's head. She opened her eyes. Bright sun flooded through the bedroom in a reddish gold wave. "What time is it?"
"Seven. We're due at the Institute in an hour. My class starts at ten and I have a lot of stuff to prepare. Did you hear what I said?"
"A hurricane's coming. No kidding. And I'm starting it by agreeing to go to that management meeting. I can't believe you talked me into going. When Chef J. P. finds out about Verger Taylor's plans for Southern Fried, there's going to be floods of tears, a tornado of hot air, a hu-u-uge blowout. When..."
"Stop," Meg ordered. "I'm serious."
Quill sat up and rubbed her face with both hands. "You mean a real hurricane?"
"Come and watch the weather channel if you don't believe me."
"Meg! You're watching the weather channel? Everyone here watches the weather channel. It's so they can call people up at home in the Northeast and gloat. That is so... so... Florida. Next thing you know you'll be wearing pink and teal jogging suits."
"Just shut up and come out to the kitchen."
Quill reached for her robe and found she didn't need it because it was too warm - almost sultry. She looked out the window. The sky was spectacular. The orange and yellow light on the eastern horizon was deepened in places to a fiery red. Now that, she thought, was some- thing to paint. She stood watching the colors for a moment, jumped at Meg's shriek, scrubbed at her face with both hands to wake herself up, and went in search of her sister.
She was sitting on the high stool in front of the microwave. The small TV overhead featured two smiling blonde people - one male, one female.
"They're chirping," Quill said glumly. "I hate chirpy TV people at seven in the morning."
"Hush."
Quill poured herself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. The two TV anchors smiled into the camera.
"As you know, Doug," the woman said, "hurricanes are formed from high-velocity winds blowing around the low pressure center known as the eye."
"That's right, Kell," Doug responded affably. "The strength of a hurricane is rated from one to five. The mildest, category one, has winds of at least seventy-five miles per hour. The strongest-and rarest - is category five. These winds can exceed one hundred and fifty-five miles per hour - and on rare occasion, winds of over one hundred and eighty miles per hour.
Kelly swiveled in her chair with a beaming smile. The camera followed her like a dog after a treat. "And it's a category five that may be headed our way, folks. Right, Doug?"
"Right, Kelly. If tropical storm Helen turns into Hurricane Helen, she may be headed straight for West Palm Beach. Within the eye of the storm, which can be as much as fifteen miles in diameter, the winds stop and the clouds lift. But the seas remain violent."
Kelly and Doug went on to inform Quill that the strongest hurricane to hit the western hemisphere in the twentieth century was Hurricane Gilbert, which had winds gusting up to 218 miles per hour. Agnes, Gilbert's baby sister, created three billion dollars' worth of damage and 134 deaths. Quill reached up and shut off the television when Kelly started on the destructive prowess of Andrew, Gilbert's younger, meaner brother.
"Did you hear the talk about the swells?" Meg demanded. She flung her arm in the direction of the ocean, sparkling peacefully outside their door. "Twenty-five foot swells coming up this channel? Over that teeny, inadequate little pile of rocks they call a seawall? Through the French doors and into this oak-floored living room? Quill, what about that third star! I can't believe this. First Verger Taylor and his nutty family try to wreck things, and now nature."
"They said it may be headed here, Meg. Not for certain. And you know what the media's like. Remember Whitewater."
"Whitewater? What the heck's Whitewater got to do with becoming flotsam and jetsam?"
"Think about it." The phone rang.
"We should go home," Meg said. "Or at the very least move inland." The musical burr of the telephone continued, and she picked the receiver up with an exasperated "What?" She scowled.
Quill, glad for the diversion, asked, "Who is it?"
Meg gestured at her to shut up. "Hey. Yes. I'm not coming back. No. I was just telling Quill... she seems unimpressed. And she's probably right. As usual. Here. You talk to her." She thrust the receiver at Quill. "It's home. I'm getting dressed and going on to the Institute. My cab's due in twenty minutes."
"Meg, I'll be happy to drive you..."
"No way. Here." She shoved the phone into Quill's hand and marched off to get dressed.
"Don't leave before you talk to me, Meg! I want to go over what I'm going to say at this meeting. Can you think of anything good to say about the Southern Fried people?"
"They're not wasteful! They don't change the deep fat oftener than once a week."
Quill shuddered. She put the receiver to her ear. A familiar foghorn voice barked into it. She felt a pang of homesickness. "Doreen!"
"That you, Quill?"
"It's me. How's everything at home?"
"All right, I guess. If you don't count that blonde sniffin' around Sher'f McHale."
Quill considered several replies to this. Doreen had several strong prejudices, which included a fixed belief that no single woman should travel more than fifty miles from home unaccompanied by armed guards. This supported a determination to see Quill and Myles married as soon as possible.
She fell for Doreen's bait. "What blonde?"
"Some divorcee what's been making up to the sheriff. Been here a couple of days, I guess. Stay on with that Nadine Peterson till the baby comes. Don't look like she's goin' to be movin' on soon, 'less you two get back here where you belong."
"Myles isn't the sheriff anymore, Doreen. Davy Kiddermeister's the sheriff. And we'll be home as soon as we've finished up here."
"Huh. Thought you'd say that."
"Then why did you bring it up? Myles isn't the type to chase blondes." She weakened. "How old is she?"
"The blonde? 'Bout your age, I guess. Younger maybe. So I guess I'd better bring him along with me."
"Who? Myles? Along where?"
"If you ain't coming home with this hurricane coming..."
"Doreen, I saw the weather map. The thing's a hundred miles off the coast of South America and may be headed this way. And if you listen through all the baloney the television's blabbering, it isn't even a hurricane yet. It's a tropical storm. So where are you going?"