door. Under the current circumstances, that's a consummation to be wished for devoutly. Probably because of the consummation devoutly wished for by the jerk at table seven.'
'Uh-oh,' said Meg. She grinned, shook her head, and skill- fully ladled three perfect brandied orange slices over a crisply browned game hen. 'Don't tell me you got hooked into playing Clarissa this year.'
'Julie Offenbach is sick,' said Quill gloomily. She sighed and consulted her order pad. 'We've got one more order. One medium-rare New York marinated in fungicide. No veg. Double cholesterol on the potato. Table seven.'
'Mr. Baumer?'
'Yes indeedy. He almost forced me to break my number one rule.'
'I thought the number one rule was don't hit the help.'
'That's number two. Number one is don't piss off the patrons.' Quill flopped into the rocking chair by the fireplace. 'It's been a long day. I've still got to pay bills and go over the accounting with John before I go to bed. And my feet hurt.' She glanced at her sister, wondering how and when to bring up the raw egg ban.
Meg, indifferent to the business side of the Inn, sniffed appreciatively at the copper pot filled with orange sauce on the stove. Her brown hair was shoved back from her forehead by a bright yellow sweatband. She liked to be comfortable when she cooked, and wore her usual chef's gear - a tattered Duke University sweatshirt, leggings, and a well-worn pair of sneakers. She looked at her sister's elegant feet. 'It's those shoes, kiddo. Handmade Italian leather is the worst possible thing for your disposition. Want to borrow a pair of sneakers?'
'I want to borrow a life.' Quill pushed the rocker in motion and closed her eyes. 'Preferably on a beach somewhere. In the Caribbean. With a gorgeous twenty-year-old lifeguard and an endless supply of rum punch.'
'Umm. I've heard that song before. And what about Myles? Face it. You love it here.' Meg piped potato rosettes around the base of the bird, added two rings of spiced apple to the brandied orange slices, and presented the platter. 'Ta dah! For table twelve. Bless his little heart. Ordered all my specialties, including game hen stuffed with The Sausage that made us famous.'
Quill got up and took the platter. 'Meg. About table twelve...'
Meg placed a silver dome over the bird. 'You said he was cute.'
'Very cute. The sort that could take us both away from all this.'
'Rich? Single? Got a yacht?'
'No, the sort that could take us away from all this because I think he might be from the D.O.H.'
Meg scowled. 'What are you saying?'
'I'm not sure. But he was scribbling notes. And he ordered the Caesar salad and the Steak Tartare' - Quill took a deep breath - 'and I wouldn't put it past Marge Schmidt and her creepy pal to have called them after that memo about the salmonella came out. She showed up here with the memo not ten minutes ago. Although I don't see how he could have gotten here so fast. Meg, you'll have to stop with the raw eggs. Just temporarily.'
Meg slammed down her wooden spoon, marched to the swinging doors to the dining room, pushed them open, and peered through. She looked back at her sister. 'That's an Armani, or I'm a short-order cook. People from the D.O.H. wear polyester.'
'Yes, but is he taking notes?'
Meg peered out the door again. 'How should I know? He's holding the Merlot by the stem. He's swirling the wine. He's inhaling it.' She shrieked suddenly. 'Quill! He's taking notes!'
'I told you he was taking notes.' She looked over Meg's head into the dining room. 'Oh, damn. There's Tom Peterson ready to order. Where's John!'
Meg let the doors close and said tensely, 'L 'Aperitif! You know, 'The Magazine to Read Before You Dine.' '
'I know L 'Aperitif; Meg.' Quill patted her sister's shoulder soothingly. 'Forget it. I'll just go out and get Peterson set up.'
Meg tore her sweatband from her hair and wound it around both hands. 'I'm going to scream.'
'Meg...'
'It's been eighteen months since we were last reviewed, Quill. Oh, God. And that managing editor hates me. She hates me. You know what they said in that article?'
'They love you, Meg. You're the only three-star...'
'My tournedos were dry! That's what they said. That I overcook my beef!' She grabbed the game hen out of Quill's hands, stamped to the stove, and ladled more brandied orange juice over the hen, drenching the potatoes. 'There! That'll teach the sons of bitches to call my cooking dry!'
'Meg!' Quill grabbed the platter back. 'You have absolutely no proof that this guy's a food critic.'
'Well, you thought he was from the Department of Health! In an Armani suit!' She shoved Quill toward the dining room. 'You go out there. You find out what kind of review he's going to give me. If he dares even hint that that bird is dry, I'll personally shove the rest of his bloody meal down his bloody throat!'
Table twelve faced the window overlooking the gorge. Edward Lancashire's eyes crinkled at the comers when he smiled. They crinkled as Quill set the game hen in front of him. 'Looks great.'
'Thank you.'
He looked around the dining room. Quill noticed his wedding ring, and discarded the possibility of a nice flirtation with Meg. 'Not bad for a Thursday night,' he said. 'You must do pretty well.'
'We do. Is there anything else I can get for you, Mr. Lancashire?'
He forked a piece of the game hen. His eyes widened. 'This is terrific. That's tarragon. Maybe a touch of
