“May I carry that package to your car for you?”
“I’m walking.”
“Then let me drop you at your condo.”
On the brief ride to River Road she said, “I didn’t get a chance to compliment you on your column, Mr. Qwilleran.”
“Qwill, please.”
“Then you must call me Jeffa.”
“MacWhannell & Shaw will be pleased to have your help during the tax rush, Jeffa. Qualified accountants don’t grow on trees in Moose County.”
She invited him in for a drink, and he accepted, mindful that he was on thin ice. This woman knew all about his life-past, present, and future-but was unaware of it.
“Soon,” he said, “you’ll be receiving invitations to Last Drink parties-meaning the last drink before snow flies-after which you may be snowbound for up to a week. Have plenty of crossword puzzles on hand.”
“I always have my planetary calculations to work on,” she said. “My sideline is astrology.”
“Is that so?” he exclaimed, feigning surprise and expressing admiration.
“It’s a fascinating science-so exact! It’s possible to chart an individual’s whole lifetime of planetary influences, given the time and place of birth. It’s the calculation that’s absorbing. It can be done faster by computer, but I find the traditional method-with mathematics-more enjoyable. What is needed is the exact hour and minute of birth, taking into consideration time zones and standard or daylight time. Also needed is the latitude and longitude of the birthplace, in degrees and minutes.”
Soon, Qwilleran felt, she would ask if he knew his birth data. To deflect her train of thought he asked, “Have you charted the lives of your family? And do they check out as the years go by?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m here,” she said. “My son is facing a challenge, and I thought my motherly presence might give him moral support if nothing else.”
She was eager to talk about her family, and he listened with sympathetic nods and murmurs.
“You probably know my son as Caspar, named after a Revolutionary War hero, but we call him Cass. My father’s name was Jefferson, which explains mine. When my husband died, Cass urged me to come here. My daughter in Idaho wanted me to go there. I have grandchildren in Coeur d’Alene, a lovely resort town in the northwest part of the state. It was named by early French explorers… . but it was Cass’s challenge that brought me here. You know, of course, that he handled the construction for XYZ Enterprises. Even when he was a tot, I knew he was born to build. He went on to learn his craft in the East, then established himself here because of the hunting and winter sports. When a local developer took him in as a partner, Cass was in his element.”
“Yes, when I came here, XYZ was doing schools, medical buildings, housing-everything. It was the most prestigious firm in the county-perhaps three counties.”
“There was one thing wrong,” Jeffa said, “and you probably know what it was. The senior partner was greedy; he wanted to build fast and cut corners. Cass knew how to build with integrity, but he was overruled.”
Qwilleran was entranced by her soft Baltimore accent, but he was surprised to hear her relating details of family affairs. He thought, She’s lonely…. in a strange environment … in need of someone to talk to. Had no one explained the dangers, large and small, of talking too much in a small town? No doubt it was Qwilleran’s sympathetic mien that encouraged her; he also had a compulsion-as a journalist and a Gemini-to hear it all.
He said, “It was an unfortunate situation. Why did Cass compromise? Why didn’t he quit?”
“Well, first, he was making very good money. And there was the outdoor life that meant so much to him. And he was in love with a local woman.”
“People have compromised for a lot less.”
Abruptly she asked, “Do you know Don Exbridge?”
“Ido.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not by a long shot. I’ve never forgiven him for trying to ruin Breakfast Island. Fortunately, nature had the last word.”
“Did you see the item in the paper about XYZ? They’ve dissolved, and Cass is striking out on his own as a house builder… . The challenge will be, I think, overcoming his past reputation as a builder of leaky roofs.”
Qwilleran said, “Frank Lloyd Wright had the same image but came out smelling like a rose. Cass needs to meet Dwight Somers, an expert at building favorable images. And it wouldn’t hurt in a community like this, if Cass married that woman of his and started a family.”
Jeffa hesitated. “She’s married… . She’s currently married to Don Exbridge.”
Qwilleran stood up. “Then tell your son, Jeffa, that he really needs Dwight Somers. … Thanks for the refreshments. I’ve enjoyed the chat. I hope you’re very happy here. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
,* Arriving home he found a recorded message from Polly, calling from the library: “Come over at six o’clock if you’d like a surprise.”
He envisioned beef stew or fried chicken from a library volunteer; they often brought their beloved director home-cooked food, knowing she had little time to cook. He showered and dressed, wearing the royal blue madras shirt that she liked and the Scottish scent she had brought him from Canada.
At six o’clock sharp he let himself into her condo and was promptly confronted by Brutus and Catta. They seemed to be perturbed. “Everything okay with you guys?” he asked. “Did you pass your feline enteritis tests?” They seemed to be thinking, What is he doing here?… She’s getting ready to go out… . She fed us early.
Polly heard him and appeared on the balcony, putting on her best gold earrings. “I’m on my way to a dinner meeting of the bird club. I told you about it, didn’t I? I’m sure I did. But first I want you to read the letter on the foyer table.”
The envelope was hotel stationery, postmarked Phoenix, Arizona. He read:
Dear Polly,
Forgive me for leaving in such a rude fashion. Henry seemed to think secrecy was advisable. We’re being married tomorrow! You know how I have been feeling about living my own life. Well, Henry has convinced me that his Florence and my Harold (God rest their souls) would want us to look after each other in our remaining years. I don’t know where we’ll be living, so don’t try to reach us here. And please don’t mention that you’ve heard from us. I’ll write again.
Fondly, Maggie PS. My ladies are being well taken care of.
“We’ll talk about it when I get home,” Polly said as she rushed off to the bird club.
Qwilleran huffed into his moustache. He believed not a word of Maggie’s letter.
He shuffled home. What now? He was in the mood for a good dinner. He was still wearing his royal blue madras shirt.
As soon as he reached Unit Four, he phoned Jeffa Young.
“This is Qwill,” he said in a businesslike way. “It occurred to me that there are things you should know about political correctness and self-preservation in a small town. Are you free for dinner? Do you know Tipsy’s Tavern?”
“I’ve heard about the restaurant, and I’d love to meet her royal highness. I was just about to thaw some soup, but I’ll put it back in the freezer. How nice of you to think of me.”
Koko was sitting on the desk, eavesdropping. “Well, I’m batting five hundred,” Qwilleran told him with satisfaction.
It was a successful evening. She was delighted with the log cabin, the Tipsy myth, the honest food, and the grandmotherly service. He asked her about Baltimore and Coeur d’Alene, her grandchildren and her late husband’s import business. He also gave her the Qwilleran Orientation Lecture, for which she was grateful.