A clearly drawn map was printed at the bottom of the page.
"Okay," said Quill. "First, we find Luis."
Outside, the sun was glorious: warm, radiant, and effulgent gold. Quill's mood lifted into euphoria, Her early morning swim had left her feeling relaxed, and the weather was like a caress, Feathery white clouds drifted along the edges of the horizon. "I wish Myles were here right now."
"Thursday. He and Andrew will be here Thursday," Meg tugged at her hair absentmindedly; her mind was already dealing with clarified butter and pinches of spice, "How are we supposed to get there? Are they sending a car?"
"We're supposed to find Luis, And then I'm going to drive us."
Meg stopped dead. "You're going to what?" Quill put her hand at the small of Meg's back and propelled her gently forward. A sign to the left of the parking lot read: OFFICE-LUIS MENDOZA, MANAGER. A small, hand-written sign below it read: COMPUTERS REPAIRED. "The map's really clear. And how bad can Florida traffic be?"
"Quill. No offense, but if there's a worse driver in the seven states between here and New York, I would like to meet him. Or her. I am not, I repeat not, going to ride with you to an unknown destination in a car you haven't been in before. And that's flat. We'll get a cab."
"We don't need a cab. Look. This must be Mr. Mendoza." She waved at a young man with black hair and olive skin who'd come out of the office. He was dressed in a royal blue shirt with the Combers Beach Club emblem on the pocket.
"How do you know that's Mr. Mendoza?" Meg whispered. "It could be somebody else. And Luis Mendoza's the name of a famous boxer."
"It says 'Luis' on his name tag, he's carrying the kind of teeny screwdriver they repair computers with, and he's obviously a computer-repairing concierge with the name of a famous boxer. Which is what the sign says." Quill waved as they approached. "Buenas dias, Se¤or."
"Buena." He nodded politely to them. "You are guests, here, madam?"
"Yes. Mrs. Taylor's guests. I'm Sarah Quilliam, and this is Margaret Quilliam. We're here for a car, I think."
"We're here for a taxi," said Meg firmly. "If you could call us one, please, Mr. Mendoza, I would appreciate it very, very much."
"They just call me Luis here." He grinned. "And Mrs. Taylor's car is a very fine one. I doubt that you'd need a taxi."
"We need a taxi," Meg said.
What kind of a car is it?" Quill asked.
"A Mercedes. The small one. The one Senora Taylor doesn't like."
"A Mercedes?" Meg said. "She doesn't like a Mercedes?"
"The color," said Luis expressionlessly. "It's black. Where are you going?"
"The Florida Institute for Fine Food," Quill said. "The address?"
"Ummm..." Quill referred to the paper. "One Sea View Drive."
"Ah. One moment, please." He vanished inside his office, leaving the door open. Quill and Meg followed him in. The office was small, but efficiently furnished. A row of metal filing cabinets stood against one wall. Long benches ran the length of another. PCs, laptops, desktops, and printers lay in various stages of assembly on the benches.
Luis's desk was in the center of the room. There was a sleek IBM computer, printer, and external hard drive on it, and nothing else. He sat down and key-stroked rapidly. Quill, who was a little afraid of computers, admired his apparent expertise. The printer began to hum and spit out a colored map.
"Here you are," Luis said. "I just bought Find It! software. Amazing, isn't it? Tells you the quickest way to get to the institute."
"Thank you," Quill said. She took it. The instructions were different from those on the memo from New York.
"Now, if you'd like to wait just a minute, I'll bring the Mercedes around for you."
"A Mercedes," said Meg again. "Good grief."
"There, you see?" Quill smiled with what she hoped was a lot of confidence. They walked out of the office together and back into the sunshine. "One of the best cars ever if you have to be in an accident... not," she added hastily, "that there's going to be an accident. Look, Meg. Here's Luis's map. We take a left out of the parking lot, go to the light, and straight on through to Forty-fifth Street. We take a right on Forty-fifth, go down six blocks, and take a left again into the institute. Left-right-left. What could be simpler?" She reexamined the map from New York. "Even simpler than that is Interstate 95. That'll get us there in ten minutes."
"With you driving, quantum physics could be simpler."
"Oh, ha." She clutched Meg's arm. Luis drove a small sports car out of the garage and pulled up in front of them. "Oh, Meg. The car!"
"What about it? It's black. It's dinky..."
"It's a 380 SE! And it's incredible! Meg, please. No taxi. I've always wanted to drive one of these." She grinned happily at Luis, who grinned back. He got out of the car and handed her the keys.
Meg shook her head. "You? And a Mercedes? You're kidding."
"I am not kidding. You remember when I was driving a cab in New York?"
"There are a lot of traffic police who remember you driving a cab in New York."
"Well, one thing that experience taught me is to appreciate fine machinery. This is one of the best-made cars in the world."
"You've been my sister for how long?"
"Too long."
"And still you constantly surprise me. Okay. No cab. But if I'm late to this meeting, Quill, you're dead. And if we crash, you're even deader." She rolled her eyes at Luis, who made a sympathetic clicking sound. "Tell us to go with God, or something." She tossed her tote bag into the boot and slid into the passenger seat. Quill opened the driver's side door, slid in, and sat down with a feeling of awe.
"May you go with God," Luis responded in an accommodating way. He leaned over the door. "And watch out for the traffic on Broadway. It's a killer."
"The freeway looks faster," Quill said. Luis looked alarmed. "I don't think..."
"This car's got an automatic shift," Quill said. "Darn it. Watch out for the what?" She moved into reverse. Luis leaped out of the way. She put her foot on the accelerator and shot backwards.
Meg twisted around and said briefly, "Missed it."
"Missed what?"
"Never mind. Just slow down, Quill. If the map is right, we've got plenty of time."
"The traffic," Luis called. "Be careful! Don't take 95!"
"Ten minutes," said Quill confidently. "Tops."
An hour and a half later, Quill pulled into the parking of the Florida Institute for Fine Food and came to a shaky halt.
"We're late," said Meg, her voice tight. "I know we're late."
"It wasn't your fault," Meg said carefully. "I understand that it wasn't your fault."
"Meg, I've never seen such traffic in my life. Not even in Times Square. At rush hour."
Meg leaned back in the seat. The top was still down, and ninety minutes in the hot Florida sun had turned her face pink. "Lunatics," she said, staring upwards. "Crazed kids going a hundred miles an hour. Stroke victims going twenty miles an hour. Vacationers pulling U-turns on a four-lane expressway. Truck drivers cussing in at least three different languages. Even LA was never like this. Now, Quill, if you don't mind, I have just a few suggestions about driving in this type of - "