'That's true. I don't know that he's nutty. But he's written a nutty book. Do you know what state of mind you have to be in to write a book?'
'No,' said Quill, 'and neither do you.'
'I know that I have to be in a custard frame of mind to make custard. And dough is my world when I bake brioche. I,' Meg continued, jumped up and waving her hands, 'am one with the pig when I am in a roasting sort of mood.'
'I see things are back to normal,' John said, tapping at the door and walking in. There were dark circles under his eyes. Andy Bishop, the local internist, was right behind him, black bag in hand.
'Therefore,' Meg shouted triumphantly, 'Evan Blight is a fruitcake because it's a fruitcake sort of book he's written. Andy! My love!'
Andy Bishop skied in winter and played tennis in the summer and was always faintly tanned. He was slender, well-knit, and a mere head taller than Meg, who stood five foot two with shoes. He gave her a sunny, intimate smile, and then looked with concern at Quill.
'How are you feeling/'
'A little stiff and a lot sleepy. Otherwise, fine.'
'Let me just do a few physicianly things, then I'll let you alone.'
'Andy, I'm fine. Who called you ,anyway?'
'Let's just say I was in the neighborhood. Hey!' Meg wound her arms tightly around his neck and gave him a noisy kiss on the cheek. 'Thanks, sweetheart, but you have to let me do my medical thing, here.' He looked down at her. 'Are you okay? I'm not going to have two patients on my hands, am I?'
'You are going to have no patients,' said Meg. 'I'm giddy with relief, I think. And Quill's okay, at least physically. And who did call you? Not that I wouldn't have, sooner, or later. Probably sooner.'
'Doreen. Due to a little case of frostbite.'
'John!' Quill leaped to her feet, penitent. 'Are you okay? I didn't even think! And I had your parka!'
John made a slight movement in protest, and Andy went on smoothly, 'As I said, I was in the neighborhood. Sit right there, Quill, and let me take your flood pressure and your temperature.'
'Do it,' said Doreen, forestalling protest. 'You might check her for nits, while you're at it, Doc.'
'DoREEN!' shrieked Meg.
Quill held her arm out while Andy wrapped the blood pressure cuff around it and made an inquiring face at John.
'I'm fine,' he said.
'Everybody's fine,' Andy said absently. 'Ninety-three over sixty, Quill. I wish I had your metabolism. You're looking a little thin, though. Lost any weight recently?'
'Mmm,' said Quill.
'At least five pounds,' said Meg. 'Courtesy of that rat, the ex-sheriff McHale.'
'Meg,' said Quill, 'don't.'
'Well, he is a rat, If he'd stuck around the way he was supposed to, you never would have ended up in the clink. It's all,' Meg said obscurely, 'his fault.'
Myles, who was lousy at entrance lines, cleared his throat in a perfunctory way. He stood at the open door, his khaki raincoat rumpled, his battered leather bag in hand, a day's worth ,of stubble on his cheeks.
The silence was profound.
'Quill,' said Andy, 'I don't like this pulse rate at all.'
'Well,' said Doreen, 'I can get back to work, I guess.' She punched Myles on the shoulder as she passed. 'Don't tell anyone it's good to see ya.' John grinned, slapped him on the back and shook his hand, and followed Doreen out the door. Meg snapped Andy's doctor's bag shut, handed him the blood pressure cuff, and pulled him toward the hall.
'I haven't finished the physical,' he protested.
'Is she anywhere near sick?'
'Well, no. A little shocky, maybe, but...'
'Then you're being persistent.' She eyed Myles with enormous goodwill. 'Not that I have any objections to persistent men. On the contrary. See you for breakfast, Sis.'
'Don't call me Sis,' Quill said automatically.
The door closed to a second, uncomfortable silence. Quill sat down on the couch and covered her face with her hands. She held herself very still, then said between them, 'Did Howie call you? Or John?'
'No.' She heard him set his suitcase on the floor, then the rustle of his raincoat as he tossed it over a chair.
'There's coffee in the kitchen.'
'Would you like some?'
She nodded. He crossed the carpet with his quiet, measured step. The coffee gurgled into the cups. He set it down and she felt the heat of the cup next to her knee, which was wedged against the oak chest she used for a coffee table. Myles settled next to her. He smelled of foreign places, of cigarette smoke, and - faintly - of fatigue.
