"I will take that as a yes. Come, Marge, Doreen. We'll retire to Marge's diner. I have a few ideas about the protest that I'd like you to hear."
"Protest?" asked Quill. "Wait a minute. What protest?"
"Never you mind," said Doreen. "I'll see ya later."
"Doreen!" Quill yelled in frustration at their retreating backs. "Are you planning to come into work today, or what?!"
"Labor troubles?" asked Al Santini in passing. "You should vote Republican."
"It's not going to affect the wedding, is it?" Claire, tagging behind her betrothed like a dingy caboose, clutched Quill's arm. She demanded in her nasal twang, "Daddy'd be reeely upset if anything affected the wedding."
Quill opened her mouth to assure Claire of the absolute integrity and quality of the Inn's level of service, but Claire rolled on, "You go ahead, AI. Quill? We need to talk. Where can we talk?"
Quill surveyed the dining room. It had emptied with dismaying rapidity. Even the nosy Nora had gone - before, Quill hoped, she'd heard any intimations of a political protest to be staged by H. O. W. "Of course, Claire. Let's sit down here."
"The tables haven't been cleared," Claire said. "I hate it when the tables haven't been cleared. You're sure that your staff is up to this? I mean, I've had my doubts about this little backwater even though Mummy said your sister is absolutely famous. But, I mean, my Go-od, there's nothing here. It's all very well for you. Mummy said everybody who's anybody knows about your painting, although I never heard of you in my art appreciation classes, and I guess you can paint on the moon or anyplace like that if you want to."
"Claire," said Quill. "Follow me over here. To the window."
Claire trailed Quill like a quarrelsome duckling. Quill pushed her gently into a chair at table seven, sat down opposite her, and fixed her with a firm - yet friendly - glare. "Now. How can I help you?"
Somebody, Kathleen the head waitress, most likely, who had been taking evening courses at the nearby Cornell Hotel school, had folded the crisp white napkins into elaborate tulip shapes. Claire picked one up, unfolded it, tried to refold it, and blew her nose in it. "Sorry. Allergies. Look. You've got to think of some way to keep my grandmother out of this wedding."
"Excuse me?"
Claire frowned. She was a natural blonde, in her late twenties, with the dry papery skin that affects thin women who spend too much time in the sun. In a few years, she was going to need the services of Nora Cahill's plastic surgeon. "Tutti," she said impatiently, "Daddy's mother. My grandmother."
Quill tugged at her hair, examined a curl, then said, "You don't want your grandmother at the wedding?"
"Of course not. She'll spoil everything!"
"This is just a little case of nerves, Claire. You'll be fine. I can't imagine how your grandmother could spoil your wedding. Is she ill? Are you afraid it might be too much for her? We have an excellent internist here, and a very fine small clinic. If she needs medical help, we'll be happy to make arrangements for a nurse."
"She doesn't need a nurse. She's crazy," Claire said resentfully.
"Oh, dear. Is it Alzheimer's? I'm so sorry, Claire."
"Good grief, no. She's not certifiable. At least a judge wouldn't think so. Stupid jerk."
Quill wasn't sure if this last referred to her, to the unknown judge, or to Tutti, and she wasn't about to inquire. Her own grandmother had been an elegant, forceful lady whom she had loved very much. "Gosh, Claire. I don't think I can do too much about your guest list. That's really the province of, um... the family. What does your mother say?"
"You know Mummy. She doesn't inhale without Daddy's okay."
"And this is your father's mother."
"My grand - "
"Yes," said Quill. Her temper - not at its equable best in the past few weeks - suddenly snapped. "I can't imagine how in the world I would prevent her from coming. Even if I wanted to. Which I don't."
"You could tell her the Inn is full. You could give her room to somebody."
"No," Quill said flatly. "As I said, we can suggest a good nursing service, if you really find it necessary..."
Claire sniffed scornfully. "A nurse for Tutti? Tutti can flatten a nurse in two seconds. Maybe less." She blew her nose once more in the napkin and dropped it disdainfully on the table. "All I have to say, if this wedding's wrecked..." She stood up, leaned over Quill, and hissed, "It'll be all your fault!"
-2-
Margaret Quilliam tucked a sprig of holly under the pig's ear and stepped back to regard her work.
"Guy I knew in the old neighborhood looked a lot like that after he welshed on a bet," said Alphonse Santini. He flung both hands up and cowered behind them in mock self-defense. Quill, who'd fled into the kitchen in search of respite, hadn't been pleased to find him there. "Hands out" was a gesture she was becoming all too familiar with, since Al had spent a large portion of the last three days harassing Quill and her sister Meg, when he wasn't aggravating the citizens of Hemlock Falls. The gesture always accompanied his notions of what was funny. Al considered himself quite a humorist.
"I'm sorry," she said, "about the fund-raiser. You've arrived at Hemlock Falls at sort of a peculiar time in the town's political history."
"That bitch Cahill," he said without rancor. "The press. Go figure."
"I don't think..." Quill paused. For all she knew, Nora may have prompted the H. O. W. revolt at breakfast, although to be fair, she couldn't see how.
"So. This roast pig's for a special occasion? Or what? Kinda early for Christmas."
The pig contemplated the ceiling. Meg contemplated the pig. Quill, whose testiness was increasing as the time for her lunch with Myles drew nearer, drummed her fingers on the butcher block counter. She stopped, not wanting to be rude. Ex-Senator Santini hacked into a well-used handkerchief, wiped his nose, and repeated his question about the roast pig. One of Meg's sneaker-shod feet began to beat an irritable tattoo on the flagstone kitchen floor. Quill held on to her own temper firmly and said in as diplomatic a tone as she could manage, "It's a special order for a men's organization in the village. Now, to get back to your wedding reception, Mr. Santini."
His eyes slid sideways at Quill. "I keep the title Senator, you get my drift? Even though I lost this time around. Most of my compadres call me Senator AI."
Quill, who'd been refusing Mr. Santini the honorific out of nothing more than perversity, decided to relent. For one thing, Senator Santini did have a miserable sloppy cold - or allergies - and he wasn't complaining about it. In Quill's opinion, far too many people with colds made their misery yours. For another, he was short for a man, about her own height, which made his frequent demands for attention more understandable, at least to Quill.
Quill had never gotten used to the fact that celebrities in person looked smaller than they did on television. This shrinkage made her sympathetic. Or maybe, she thought, they weren't smaller than they appeared. Maybe she'd only met celebrities who were smaller than the average person. The alternative was that her subconscious enlarged public figures based on the size of their reputations, which still didn't explain why she'd expected Senator Al to be bigger than he actually was, since his politics were so awful.