`They're highly reputable. They wouldn't let Violet do anything foolish.'
`I'm sorry, Qwill. Excuse my outburst. It's just that . . . I haven't had anyone to talk to.'
`I understand perfectly. And the K Fund has a stake in the future of. Hibbard House now. I'll draw it to their attention. Has Violet been in touch with you since yesterday's announcement?' `No. I tried to call her. I think she's avoiding me.'
`It's been only twenty-four hours.'
`You're right, Qwill. You've said exactly what Jeremy would have said if he were here.'
That evening, when Qwilleran and Polly drove to the Boulder House Inn on the lakeshore, it was their first genuine Saturday-night dinner date in a long time. There was no mention of the Book Log Computer System.
`How's Dundee?' Qwilleran asked.
`Oh, he's so happy! Not frisky - just happily interested in whatever is happening in the store. You know the table where we feature the book of the week? Well, recently we did a table on A Place Called Happiness, and Dundee jumped up and presided over it like an author waiting to "pawtograph" his books.'
`Who wrote it?'
`A psychologist, Dr Dori Seider. It's selling very well and is up for discussion at the next meeting of the lit club. One of the Green Smocks thinks we should send a copy, anonymously, to our cranky mayor.'
`Amanda wouldn't read it,' Qwilleran said. 'She'd throw it at the messenger.'
`Dr Seider has two cats, you'll be glad to know. I have an autographed book that you can borrow, Qwill. She quotes John Milton's Paradise Lost: "The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven." What do you think of that?'
Qwilleran later recorded the rest of the evening in his personal journal.
Saturday, October 4 - There's something magical about the Boulder House: the lake view, walking on the beach, the sky full of sunset, Squunk cocktails on the parapet. Not to mention Rocky, the cat, who always greets us with ankle rubbing, a high compliment.
Polly's soft voice and musical laugh have returned. First I gave her a limerick I wrote a few weeks ago, when her sense of humour was below par:
A literacy maven named Polly
Says slang expressions are folly.
She refuses to say
Drop dead!' or 'No way!'
Or Dingbat' or `Oops!' or 'By golly!'
Then I gave her a brilliant new recording of Saint-Saens's Third Symphony, and we went to the barn and listened to it.
Chapter 19
On Sunday afternoon Qwilleran and two nervous Siamese would leave for their winter address. The more the departure was delayed, he had learned, the more nervous they became, as if they feared they would be left behind!
Moving fifteen miles away to Indian Village was no easier than moving fifteen thousand. Friends, neighbours, and business connections had to be notified.
Chief Brodie always volunteered to keep an eye on the property. Mrs Fulgrove would come in and empty the refrigerator, taking home any food she might be able to use; a few frozen desserts were purchased and added to the freezer to make it worth her while. And Pat O'Dell's crew would secure the premises against the winter weather.
Before leaving town, Qwilleran wanted to take one last walk through the woods and around Winston Park.
Walking back to the barn, Qwilleran realized that it would be the last of these pleasurable strolls for six months: emerging from the patch of dense woods into the barnyard, checking the kitchen window for the welcoming committee, unlocking the door, being surrounded by waving tails . . . how could he describe the good feeling he experienced?
On this Sunday afternoon there was only one cat signalling from the window, indicating a message on the machine. Wetherby Goode wanted him to call. First, though, he had to phone his attorney - at home.
`Sorry to bother you on Sunday, Bart.'
`No bother. It's a pleasure. Our office got the message that you're moving to the Village today.'
`Yes, and I wonder if you would stop at my condo on your way into town tomorrow morning. I have something quite interesting to discuss. Same condo - Unit Four in the Willows.'
Then Qwilleran phoned Unit Three. 'Joe, we're leaving for the Village. What's up?'
`Dr Connie is now in Unit Two. The Willows has a full house again. How'll it be if you all shuffle over to my place for a pizza supper? Polly will do the salad. Linguini's will deliver pizza and spumone, and we'll have beer, wine, and Squunk water for the Squunks.'
`Okay with me! Is there anything I can contribute?' `You might sing a song. I'll play the piano.'
The Siamese had spent several winters in the condo, but when they emerged from their travel coop, everything was new and strange. Even the fresh water in their drinking bowl was suspect - and the shag rug in front of the fireplace - and the plates on which their dinner was served. But by the time Qwilleran returned from the pizza party, they would be chasing each other up and down the stairs, rolling voluptuously on the shag rug, and burrowing behind the sofa pillows, looking for last winter's treasures.
Meanwhile, Qwilleran changed into something that would impress his host and evoke the admiration of Polly and Dr Constable.
At Unit Three, Qwilleran was greeted by Jet Stream, a husky tiger as extroverted as the man he lived with.
To the veterinarian he said, 'Dr Constable! What lured you away from Hibbard House?'
`Call me Connie,' she said. 'Well, you see, my divorce just became final, and I wanted to start a new lifestyle. I want to be able to cook and have pets and entertain guests. How are Koko and Yum Yum?'
`They're glad to have their favourite doctor in the neighbourhood. Is it the blue coat you wear? Everyone else at the clinic wears white.'
`This is not for publication,' said Connie, who was wearing blue denims. 'I wear blue to make my eyes look blue.'
`But it's true that cats respond to blue. Yellow and blue are the colours they see best, although they live in a world of fuzzy pastels.'
They went on at some length about the vision of cats until Wetherby interrupted.
`Are you two guys plotting to rob a bank? The pizza's here! Come and get it while it's hot!'
As they walked towards the dining area, Qwilleran said to Connie, 'As you know, I'm writing a book about Hibbard House. If you hear any tales about the old landmark that I can use or even if I can't - please let me know.'
At the table, the host said, 'Connie, you're lucky to be arriving at this time. Now that the K Fund masterminds the Village, the roof doesn't leak, the windows don't rattle, the floors don't bounce, and the walls between units are soundproofed. We're entering our Civilized Period.'
Polly said, 'There's a bird club that meets at the clubhouse once a week, and the path along the riverbank is ideal for birding. There's also a bridge club and an art club.'
Qwilleran added, 'And they keep the roads snowploughed and the walks shovelled. Linguini's and Tipsy's Tavern are nearby. In fact, we're close to the Hummocks and not far from Hibbard House.'
Wetherby said, 'And the view of the riverbank is super. Ask Jet Stream . . . Ask Brutus and Catta . . . Ask Koko and Yum Yum.'
Later, when they moved to the living room for coffee, he added, 'And now Qwill is going to sing a song.'
`Sorry, I left my music at home. But I'll entertain you with a limerick about our congenial host.'
He read from one of the index cards he always had in a jacket pocket:
A congenial fellow named Joe
Has learned how to make lots of dough
By forecasting weather
With salt and a feather,
But sometimes he has to eat crow.
Everyone laughed. Wetherby proposed a nightcap. Then they said goodnight, and Qwilleran accompanied the two women to their respective doors.