She sat in the car. Her toes got chilly as soon as she turned off the heater.
Myles would be civilized. He was always civilized. But anxious. If he was here early, it meant he was anxious. But civilized, Quill reminded herself.
The very first thing, she'd order a glass of wine, not tea. For both of them. He rarely drank during the day; a glass of wine might help both of them through this. And the order for wine would be a subtle signal, a flag that bad news was coming. Maybe without even having to say it.
Halfway across the parking lot, Quill paused in mid-slush. She knew, all too well (at least from watching Gerard Depardieu movies) the leap in the heart when a lover caught sight of his beloved across a crowded room. She could spare Myles that leap by going in the back way, scanning the crowded room for him, and quietly walking up behind him. A discreet touch on the shoulder, a welcoming but suitably depressed "hello," and then a few well-chosen sentences of farewell.
Quill resumed her march across the parking lot and went in the door marked exit. She'd find Myles. Walk up unnoticed. She'd sit. Raise her hand to forestall his kiss of greeting. Hope that the waitress would be quick, and not too perky, and not named Shirelle. Or call her honey. Then she'd order, quickly, tow glasses of merlot. No. Not merlot. Not from a restaurant that had a sign in the back room - "We Value Your Patronage - Thank You for Not Smoking." Any restaurant that valued your patronage before they got it probably bought merlot in plastic bar bags. And Meg avoided smoke-free restaurants on principle, a consequence of a year's study in Paris, where tobacco was considered a civilized finale to a meal. She'd ask for an Avalon cabernet sauvignon. It was great stuff. Not spectacular enough to make up for devastation, but it'd go a long way to assuaging what they both had to know was an intolerable situation.
The restaurant wasn't crowded at all. Of the maybe sixty tables scattered across the bleached oak floor, ten were filled. Myles saw her as soon as she walked down the hall leading to the restrooms and into the Euro-Tech ambiance of Ciao.
The blonde that was with him saw her, too.
And not just a blonde, Quill thought, suddenly conscious of her own hair, her snow-splattered boots, the muddy hem of her skirt, and, worst of all, the coat, conspicuous for its ugliness. A sophisticated blonde. With large breasts, tastefully presented behind a scoop-neck silk T. A slouchy Armani jacket. And, as she rose from the table, one of those boyishly hipped figures that made even jeans look elegant. Much less the bottom half of the Armani suit. She wasn't pretty, Quill thought. She was distinctive, with a decided aquiline nose, well-defined lips, and direct gray eyes.
Myles rose and waved. Quill crossed the floor. He introduced the blonde with a slightly apologetic air.
"Quill, I'd like you to meet Mariel Cross, my partner on the U.K. assignment. Mariel, this is Sarah Quilliam."
Her handshake was firm, decisive. "I won't interfere with your lunch. The Bureau got a fax Myles had to see. That's the only reason I'm here. The Brits need an answer by seven o'clock tonight. And with the time change, that's two o'clock here in Syracuse." She smiled. "I'm glad I've met you, though. I've heard a lot about you. I've seen your work. I like it very much."
Quill, who knew herself to be graceless whenever discussion of her painting came up, blushed and looked at her feet. Her boots were leaving muddy puddles on the polished floor.
"Well." Mariel hesitated, a behavior Quill instinctively knew was uncharacteristic. The woman oozed self-confidence. "I'll fax this back to the client, Myles."
"Fine. I'll meet you at the airport around six."
Quill sat down in Mariel's place. Myles covered her hand with his.
"I don't need to say anything, do I, Myles?"
"It's awkward," he said.
"She's really attractive. She has..." Quill paused, searching for the right word. "Presence. A lot of presence."
"You're beautiful," Myles said. His hand tightened on hers. "But yes, she has presence."
She was back at the Inn by four. "There you are," John said as she walked in the back door. Meg raised her eyebrows. Quill gave her a half-hearted wave. "Santini wants to push the meeting up. Can you see them now? I've got to check the wine shipment."
"Sure," Quill said listlessly.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine. Where are they?"
"Having tea. At the regular table."
Quill removed the coat, swearing to purchase another as soon as the damned Christmas rush and the stupid wedding and the barbaric rites of Santini's bachelor party were over. She grabbed the planning clipboard from its hook on the wall and pushed through the swinging doors into the dining room. There were six people at the table, Claire and a pretty girl whom Quill hadn't met, and the senator and three of his aides.
The youngest aide got up as she approached and pulled a chair out for her.
"You know Frank, Marlon, and Ed," Santini said breezily. Quill nodded. "And the ball and chain, of course."
"A - al!" Claire protested in her nasal voice. "This is Merry Phelan. One of my bridesmaids."
"Meredith," she said in a self-possessed voice. "How do you do."
Quill shook her hand. "I'm awfully sorry about switching you to the Marriott."
"Not at all a problem. As a matter of fact, I'm off there now. Elaine and I are planning a little shower for Claire Thursday night, and I want to check over some details."
Santini saluted as she left the table. She gave Quill a wink, and proceeded demurely out the entranceway. Santini waited until she was out of earshot, then hunched over the table.
"So," Al said, "glad you could make it a little early, Quill. I've got a good opportunity in the park around five. A fund-raiser with this men's club. Crazy assholes wanted to meet in the dark, but hey, no problem. I'm adaptable."
"S. O. A. P.?" asked Quill.
Frank - or maybe it was Marlon - consulted a thick notebook. "Right. Men's organization. Acronym for the Search for Our Authentic Primitive. Chief is Elmer Henry. Mayor, and a Republican. He's fifty-six. Married, to Adela Henry, aged fifty-eight. One of the Walters family, Senator. Used to be money there but not anymore. First Brave is Harland Peterson, big farmer around these parts, net worth in the (he named a figure which astonished Quill), a Democrat, unfortunately, but maybe he can be persuaded. The sheriff, Dorset, is a member and so is the justice, Bristol."
"Stop already." Santini swallowed a scone whole and said through it, "How much time I got with them?"
"Half an hour. Our data suggests that the hearth and home speech should be appropriate."
"Got that one socked. Okay. So, Quill, dolly. I got more time for you than I thought. The bachelor party Thursday night's for twelve. You got that?"
"One of these gentlemen..."
"Ed," said Ed, giving her a toothy smile.
"Yes, Ed, gave us the count several months ago. But no guest list."
"In the interests of security," Marlon, or maybe Frank, said smoothly, "we'd prefer to be circumspect."