"Yeah, lotsa fun, lotsa food. Grandma remembered all my favorites. Do you think she'll marry Mr. O'Dell?"
"I don't know. Both have a very positive attitude. They both like to help people. They might make a good match."
Clayton was lost for a while in deep thought as he tackled the complexities of a banana split.
Then Qwilleran questioned him about life on the farm. It was a poultry factory. There were no farm animals, just watchdogs, and barn cats, but no indoor pets. Clayton had a stepmother who wouldn't allow animals in the house.
"I'd like to come up here and live with Grandma and go to Pickax High School. It's cool!" he said. "My stepmother wouldn't mind, but my dad doesn't want me to."
As they pulled into Celia's parking lot, Clayton said, "Thanks a lot, Chief. It was cool."
When Qwilleran returned home, he noticed heavy vehicle tracks and large footprints in the recently fallen snow around his condo, but he was not alarmed. It meant that some long-awaited furniture had been delivered. Fran Brodie, who knew his likes and dislikes, had been able to supply the basics for his condo, but additional items were straggling in. She had bought certain items of old pine farm furniture, almost contemporary in its simplicity, and had stripped the finish to a honey color. A light interior was a good choice for a building nestled in the woods. The walls were off-white, and honey was the color of the pine woodwork.
Qwilleran's unite had a lofty living room with large windows overlooking the river. On the opposite wall was a balcony with two bedrooms, and below it were the kitchen and dining alcove. He would use the alcove as an office, and he needed a table or desk surface large enough for typewriter, lamp, papers, books, files, and two supervisory cats.
On this day, as soon as he unlocked the door, Koko notified him that something had been added, yowling and running back and forth to the office alcove. The writing table was indeed large, and it had character. One could imagine that families had been fed on its ample surface, bread had been kneaded, tomatoes had been canned, babies had been bathed, sheets had been ironed, and letters had been written to loved ones during the Spanish American War. There was also a huge stripped-pine cupboard with open shelves above and cabinet below.
Qwilleran lost no time in loading the shelves with books recently purchased or brought from the barn. One shelf he reserved for the Melville set, volumes one to twelve, numbered in chronological order: Typee; Omoo; Mardi; Redburn; White-Jacket; Moby-Dick; Pierre; The Piazza Tales; Israel Potter; The Confidence-Man; Billy Budd; and Weeds and Wildings, the last being a book of poems. He could hardly believe his good fortune.
Koko was impressed, too. During the evening, when it was time for another reading from The Old Wives; Tale, only one cat reported. Koko was curled up on the shelf with the leather-bound volumes. Had he become a literary critic? Was he saying that Melville was a better writer than Bennett?
-5-
On the last day of the year it snowed as usual, and high winds were predicted. Wetherby Goode advised New Year's Eve celebrants to stay off the highways if possible. Then blow ye winds, heigh-ho! was his quotation for the day.
In Indian Village it was customary for neighbors to celebrate with neighbors, and there were numerous at- home parties. For those who liked elbow- to-elbow conviviality, there was a late- night get-together at the clubhouse: light supper, champagne at midnight, no paper hats, no noisemakers. Earlier, Qwilleran and Polly and two other couples would dine with the Exbridges. Don Exbridge, the X in XYZ Enterprises, was the developer responsible for Indian Village, and he and his new wife lived in Building One. They had a double unit, said to be quite posh, with gold faucets and all that. Qwilleran wondered if the Exbridges' windows rattled when the wind blew, heigh-ho, as they did in Building Five. He wondered if the floors bounced like trampolines, and if the Exbridges could hear the plumbing next door. He enjoyed a recurring fantasy: The K Fund would buy Indian Village - the only planned, upscale community in the county - then tear it down and build it right.
The Exbridges proved to be charming hosts, and the dinner was excellent. They had a cook and houseman in addition to gold faucets. Qwilleran kept his ear tuned to the fenestration, but there was no rattle even when the wind swayed the trees frighteningly. As for the floors, they were hardwood with Oriental rugs - not plywood with wall-to-wall carpet. The plumbing was discreetly quiet.
There was much conversation about the theft of the bridge club's money. The new clubhouse manager, Lenny Inchpot, had been questioned by the police; the money jar was kept in a cabinet in his office. Also questioned were the officers of the clubhouse association and the maintenance crew of the building. All agreed there was too much casual traffic in and out. The premises were available for rental, and there were catered parties, lectures, classes, art exhibits, and the like. There was a TV lounge, and there was a room with exercise equipment. Anyone could walk in and watch a soap opera or pump a little iron. There was even a cash bar during certain hours. Locking doors and issuing keys to members would be the first move.
When the time came to ring in the New Year, scores of residents converged on the clubhouse. The main hall had the air of ski lodge, with a lofty wood-paneled ceiling, exposed beams, and a big stone fireplace. Windows overlooked the floodlighted woods, enchanting in winter white. Indoor trees and baskets of ferns, with all the green perfection of plastic, were banked in corners. Silver letters were strung across the chimney breast spelling H-A-P-P-Y N-E-W Y-E-A-R.
Since dress was optional, it ranged from jeans to black tie. Polly was wearing her terra-cotta suit, admired by everyone, and Qwilleran was in suit and tie. He and Arch had considered wearing their baseball ties, but their women vetoed it; the Exbridges would not be amused. Amanda Goodwinter was there in her thirty-year-old dinner dress; she considered large parties an abomination but attended for commercial and political reasons. A husky man who looked dapper in a double-breasted suit wore a large lapel button inscribed: HIT ME! I'M THE WEATHER GUY!
Willard Carmichael and his houseguest wore dinner jackets. Danielle was spectacular in a low-cut, high-cut cocktail sheath, leading Arch Riker to mumble, "You'd think a banker could afford to buy his wife something longer."
"At least she had good legs," Qwilleran mumbled in reply, "but she makes Lynette look like a prison matron."
In a navy blue taffeta shirtdress with her grandmother's jewelry, Lynette had dined with the Carmichaels. She reported that Willard had prepared a delicious beef Wellington; Danielle's cousin was adorable; his deep voice gave her goosebumps; even his name was romantic: Carter Lee James. All the women were talking about him, she said.
For several years Qwilleran had been the pick of Pickax, as far as eligible bachelors were rated. One woman had donated fifteen hundred dollars to charity for the privilege of having dinner with him. Although he appreciated compliments on his writing, the adulation centering around his moustache was cloying. He would be glad to share his lionization with the new fair-haired boy in town.
When Lynette pointed him out, Qwilleran recognized him as the man who had been measuring the MacMurchie house; his voice was indeed ingratiatingly pleasant. He had blond hair, medium good looks, and a relaxed way with strangers, young and old, men and women. Compared to his blockbuster cousin, he seemed quite acceptable by Pickax standards. "His hair's bleached," Amanda muttered to Qwilleran.
Polly said, "He has a frank, boyish way of looking at one that's quite disarming."
Lynette said, "All his shirts and sweaters are monogrammed."
"How do you know?" Qwilleran asked.
"He's been playing bridge with us, and I had the three of them to Sunday brunch once. Carter Lee is crazy about my house!"
Danielle was in a giddy mood. Her electronic laugh frequently pierced the even level of background conversation.