Quill paused, her coat slung over one arm. "What!"
Dina quailed. Twenty-four-year-old graduate students spent a lot of time waiting for opportunities to quail and made the best of it when the least little chance happened by. "Nothing. Just. Ah. Watch for icy spots."
Quill carried her boots through the dining room. Kathleen had gone, so Quill couldn't ask her why her crazy brother thought he'd given her a speeding ticket when he hadn't. A faint sound of singing came form the back of the kitchen. Meg, with a particularly tuneless version of "The Boar's Head Carol." The sound was too muffled to be coming from the kitchen itself. If Meg were in the storeroom, Quill could sneak out without a lot of last-minute questions.
Quill edged the swinging doors open a few inches. She could see part of the birch shelving, a few bundles of dried red peppers hanging from the beams, and a copper saucepan bubbling on the Aga. Quill pushed the doors open. Meg was nowhere in sight.
" `The bo-o-a-ar's head in hand bear I/ Bedecked with bay and rosemareee... ` "
Quill winced. Meg's music suffered more in minor keys for some reason. But it tended to deafen her awareness of the outside world. Quill made it to the back door and stopped to pull on her boots.
Meg popped her head out of the storeroom. "Off to Syracuse?"
Quill jumped.
"You're wearing that ratty down coat? And that fur hat?'
"What's wrong with this coat?" Quill asked defensively.
"It's ugly," Meg said frankly. "It's so ugly you can tell it a mile off. And that fur hat with the flaps? And to think some poor rabbit died for that hat. Yuck."
"It's warm," Quill said stubbornly.
"Leaving without saying anything?"
"Um," Quill said. "You were right. John is right. The weather looks a little stormy and I thought I'd get an early start."
" 'Don't know why' " Meg sand, " `There's no sun up in the sky/ Stormy weather... since my man and I... ` "
Meg dropped the egg whisk she'd been using as a microphone. "Oh, Quillie, don't. I didn't mean it about the coat and the hat. Well, I did, but who cares? Don't cry. It's not... it's not like he's dumping you. You're dumping him." She set the box of onions she was carrying on the butcher block and approached Quill rather warily. "I'm sorry. But you're right to push off the dock like this. The relationship just isn't going to work."
"There's no reason why it shouldn't," Quill sobbed, amazed at her own tears. "he's a great guy... "
"A terrific guy."
"and he's been absolutely wonderful, and patient, and so... so... calm. And steady."
"I know." Meg patted her on the back. "Do you want a glass of sherry or anything?"
"And this is going to hurt him so much."
"I know. What about a cup of - "
"You know?! And you're just going to let me go off like this and do it? Tell him I want to break it off? That I've really, really tried, but I just can't. I just can't. It's just... " Quill, convinced she was looking too piteous for words, scrubbed at her face with her scarf and made a conscious effort at coherence. "I don't like tin ceilings."
"Of course you don't."
"I need more than a tin ceiling. Not that tin ceilings aren't good for some people. Just not me."
"You're absolutely right."
"Do you think he'll do something?"
"Like what/"
"I don't know. Yell. Or cry." Quill began to take off her coat. "I can't do it. I can't do it to him now. Not so soon after he's lost the election. It's like kicking him when he's down. I'll call the restaurant and tell him I have the flue."
"Quill, this detective agency he's joined is one of the best. They're sending him all over the world. Do you know how much he's making? If you're going to tell him, tell him now, while he's up about this job. He's off to the U.K. this afternoon, isn't he? You don't want to wait until eh gets back. That'll be weeks. And," she added frankly, "no one around here is going to be able to stand it if you don't get this over with. Soon."
"I know. And I know about the European assignment." She put her coat back on. "But I didn't know about the money. Of course, I know it has to be a lot better than that ridiculous amount he was paid as sheriff. How much is he making?"
"Seventy-five dollars an hour. After the agency cut."
Quill felt better. "Wow. Who told you that?"
"Marge Schmidt, of course. To tell you the truth, Quill, I don't think Myles would have stuck around Hemlock Falls as long as he has if it weren't for you. I mean, this isn't exactly a hotbed of crime. Although," she added reflectively, "we do seem to have an unusual number of murders per capita. But honestly, Quill, do you think a guy like Myles should waste himself on being a county sheriff?"
"He wasn't wasting himself." Quill, not sure if she was indignant on behalf of Hemlock Falls or Myles, or herself, kicked off her shoes and pulled on her boots. "So. It's my fault he's been stuck in this backwater, huh? I'm going to be doing him a favor by dumping him, as you so charmingly phrased it?" She straightened up. "Okay. I'm going. But don't you dare hum one note of `Release Me.' "
"It's going to be fine. Well, not fine. But you'll get through it."
"I thought I'd tell him how much I admire him."
"That's good."
"And that somewhere there's a wonderful woman who's not as tied up in knots as I am about commitment."
"That's okay, but I wouldn't dwell on it."
"And that I'm not worth it."
"Self-abasement, in these situations is usually not effective." Professional curiosity entered her voice. "Where are you meeting him?"
"That Italian restaurant just off Exit 56." Quill tugged her hair. "it's called Ciao."
"Oh, God." Meg swallowed a chuckle. "It's a New-Ager. Sort of self-consciously healthy while slipping you all the fats and carbohydrates a bottled salad dressing is heir to. Not too bad if you stay away from the pasta. They precook. Try the wood-smoked pizza. Don't' stay too long, okay? This weather's turning nasty."
"I'll be back around four-thirty. I've got to talk to Santini and Claire about the pre-wedding parties." Quill made a face.
Meg made a face back.
Quill, driving south on Route 15, was actually grateful for the storm. The plows had been through earlier in the morning, and at least three inches had fallen since then. The roads were slushy with packed drifts concealing stubborn patches of ice. Her Olds was a heavy car, with front-wheel drive, but it was slippery. She concentrated on driving until she hit the Interstate.
I-81 to Syracuse was clear and fairly dry, and Exit 56 came up too fast. She glanced at the little battery-run clock John had stuck on the dash when the car clock had died several years ago. One-thirty. She'd be early. She was never early. One of Myles's few complaints about her had been about her lateness Myles was always spot on time. Maybe she'd order a glass of sherry while she waited.
She looked at the sky, pregnant with heavy clouds. No sherry. She'd order hot tea, to keep her head clear for the drive back and her emotions under control. She parked. The lot was crowded, but she noticed Myles's Jeep Cherokee right away.