this afternoon?'
'I'm not planning on dumping him,' Quill said indignantly. 'I'm terminating the relationship with tact and affection. And does he expect it? Probably not. This new job keeps him on the road. I don't have a chance to see him.'
'I can't believe we lost the election,' Meg said, momentarily diverted. The results of the town elections in early November had been the topic of exhaustive, repetitive discussion for weeks, Myles had been replaced as sheriff by newcomer Frank Dorset. Howie Murchison was no longer town justice. Bernie Bristol, a retired Xerox engineer from nearby Rochester, had campaigned successfully for Howie's job. The only member of the Old Guard left was Elmer Henry who was the founding father of S. O. A. P. The mayor had retained his job by the merest margin, since H. O. W. sympathizers represented slightly less than fifty percent of the voting population. While most townspeople put the election upset down to what Howie Murchison called the gender wars, Quill herself wasn't so sure. Meg was right. Something very peculiar was going on in the village.
Meg dropped the perennially promising discussion about town politics and bored back in on Quill. 'So what are you going to tell him?'
'I haven't thought about it.'
Meg went 'Phut!' and sprayed Quill.
'Don't go 'phut'!' said Quill.
Meg appeared to be honestly startled. 'I went 'phut'?'
'Yes. Do you go 'phut' all over Andy?'
'I don't go 'phut' over anybody.'
'You just went 'phut' all over me.'
'I give up. Sit there, be a jerk, and just forget it.'
Meg began to hum through her nose with an elaborate air of indifference.
'And while you're at it, don't make kazoo noises, either.'
'All right,' Meg said with a deceptive assumption of amiability. 'Why don't I just wrap my emotions in Ace bandages like a certain red-haired, straightjacketed, uptight, rule-abiding lady manageress - '
'Lady manageress?'
'Victorian enough for you? Yes! Lady manageress who can't stand it when the seas aren't calm.' Meg set her hands on her hips, leaned forward, went 'Phuut! Phut! PHUT!' and started to hum a Sousa march through her nose so unmelodiously Quill couldn't tell what it was.
' 'Stars and Stripes Forever'?' asked John Raintree, coming through the doors that led into the dining room. Doreen stumped in after him.
Meg grinned and increased her volume.
'Has Meg got a new idiosyncrasy?' John guessed. 'I liked the socks.'
'This one sounds like two cats fightin' over a back fence,' Doreen grumbled. 'Whyn't you go back to them colored socks? At least they was quiet.'
'Doreen,' said Quill. 'About this protest you mentioned at breakfast...'
Doreen glared at the grill sizzling in the fireplace, grabbed a pot holder, pulled the spit free with a sniff of disapproval, then disappeared out the back door, holding the spit. Quill gave it up. She'd find out only when Doreen was ready to spill it, and not before.
John frowned. He had an attractive frown. He was three-quarters Onondaga Indian, and his coal-black hair and coppery skin made him attractive altogether. He was a big success with a substantial portion of the Inn's female guests.
'What's wrong?' Quill asked. 'There's no problem with the florist, is there?'
'No. We've got three thousand sweetheart roses arriving early Friday morning and a whole crew of Cornell students to drape them allover the Inn. The flowers are fine. But on the way back from Ithaca, Lane mentioned that she's made a few changes in the reception.' John swung his long legs over a stool at the kitchen counter and drew his notebook from the breast pocket of his sports coat.
'We've got a final count?'
'One hundred and fifty. And she's changed to black-tie.'
Meg shrieked. 'It's for real!?'
Quill sat bolt upright. 'One hundred and fifty?! You mean the senator was right?'
'This was supposed to be a small informal ceremony!' Meg yelled. 'What are we going to do with one hundred and fifty guests? In evening dress, yet. That means champagne, salmon, the whole high-ticket lot.'
'The ceremony's still small. It's the reception that's gotten bigger. So, no dinner, just heavy hors d'oeuvres.'
Meg clutched her hair, muttered, and began scribbling frantically on her memo pad.
Quill took a deep breath. 'Where the heck are we going to put them all, John?'
'The dining room will hold a hundred and fifty.'
'The fire code's for one hundred and twenty. And I hate crowding guests.'
A cold eddy of air from the back room announced Doreen's return, minus the spit. 'Snowbank,' she said in response to Quill's raised eyebrow. 'Freeze that grease right offen it. And it's snowing a treat out there. You going to Syracuse, you better get a move on.'
