don't I?'
Tiffany's mouth dropped open. For a moment, Quill would have sworn that she was so shocked, she forgot she was in front of an audience. Her breath came back with a sound like a medicine ball hitting concrete. 'You bought this place!'
'Yeah, I bought this place. About an hour ago. You think I'm going to let you make a horse's ass of me with this goddamn charity? In front of all my goddamn friends? You bet I bought this place.'
'You don't have any goddamn friends.'
Bea grabbed Quill's arm. 'Oh, no! The sculpture! I donated that piece myself!'
The crystal narwhale flew past Verger's head. The dolphin followed the narwhale, glanced off Verger's shoulder, and crashed to the floor. He yelled 'goddammit' - with what Quill felt was a remarkable lack of originality - and leaped for the safety of the half-wall in front of the cash register. The diners scattered like pigeons. Tiffany's shriek escalated to a yowl. Coffee cups, saucers, and wineglasses followed the crystal, shattering against the half- wall protecting the cash register in a fusillade of noise. It was like being trapped in a bowling alley. There was a muffled crash and clatter and another siren shriek from Tiffany, followed by a high-pitched marital squabble of Force 5 proportions.
'Good arm,' said a blue-haired lady at the table adjacent to Quill's. 'I've seen Tiffany on Oprah. She works out.'
Her lunch companion frowned. 'Too much muscle. I just don't like a woman with too much muscle. Now, that Debbie Reynolds? She's got a tape that tones without you bulking up so much.'
Quill sighed and looked out the window. The sun shone yellow-gold in a deep blue sky. Waves broke amiably along the curving cheek of the beach. A group of black-beaked terns scuttled along the shore. Striated white clouds streaked the far horizon. She'd caught enough of the weather report that morning to know that there'd been six inches of snow at home last night with another five predicted for the afternoon.
The shouts in the restaurant died away.
'They're going,' said Bea. Quill glanced at her. She smiled maternally. 'See? Ernst's taken care of everything. I told you he was marvelous.'
Quill turned her gaze unwillingly to the front of the dining room. The short man in the golf cap held both of Tiffany's hands in his. He spoke to her in a low, soothing murmur. Verger Taylor was gone. Everyone seated at the tables had resumed eating, drinking, or gossiping - most of them all at once.
Ernst Kolsacker released Tiffany's hands, gave her shoulder a comforting pat, and held the front door for her as she left.
'Quick, Bea,' Birdie said, 'He's going to leave, too. Whoo-eee! Ernst! Ernst! Over here.' She waved energetically. All the people who'd been staring at the Taylors turned like grouper fish in an aquarium to stare at their table. Quill refolded the maroon napkin with an air of unconcern. cleared her throat, and scratched the back of her neck. If she were at home, she'd be sitting in that nice rocking chair in front of the fireplace in Meg's kitchen. The air would be filled with the scent of roast game hen. Myles would be rumbling cheerfully over the newspaper in the corner. She would not be wanting to crawl under the table.
Ernst rolled toward their table like a golf ball on a difficult lie - erratically, but with a purposeful forward movement. He stopped, shook hands with several people, patted the backs of others, restarted, and stopped again. He arrived, finally, and bent over Bea, his arm around her neck. He gave her a friendly shake. 'Bea, you look younger every time I see you. Birdie, I like the new hairstyle.'
Bea beamed. 'Ernst, I'd like you to meet our young friend here, Sarah Quilliam. Quill? This is Ernst. Ernst Kolsacker. We've just been talking about you, Ernst. Sit down.'
He sat. Up close, he appeared to be in his early sixties, with a broad nose, fleshy cheeks, and the omnipresent Florida tan. He was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt. His hands and forearms were strong and muscular. A dedicated golfer, then; Quill had seen those same over-developed muscles in Tiffany Taylor.
'How do you do?' Quill asked politely.
'Not all that well,' he admitted. 'Sorry about that scene up front.'
Bea nodded decisively. 'That's what we wanted to talk with you about, Ernst. When is this ridiculous feud going to end?'
'You want my candid opinion?' He rocked back in his chair with a grin. 'When one or both of them is dead.'
-5-
Quill turned over on her back, swam a few strokes, and floated, looking up at the sky. The Combers Beach Club pool was surrounded by a waist-high stone wall painted white. Palm trees fingered the sky. The air was soft. The sun was behind Quill, settling into the mansions of Palm Beach. She flipped over and watched the fading light through her eyelashes: The colors ranged through all the oranges and yellows, with a bit of mauve where the sky drifted into blue. The light fanned out like the tail of an orange peacock.
'Want to paint it?' Meg sat down and dangled her legs in the water, palms braced against the lip of the pool. The edging tile was Florida-teal and -pink.
'There you are. I can't believe you took a cab back here.'
'I told you I wasn't going to ride with you again, and I meant it. I like subways. I like trains. I like airplanes. I hate traffic. And the way you drive in traffic turns my blood to ice.'
Quill was feeling too relaxed to rise to this bait. 'It's because you're too impatient.' She kicked out gently in the water.
'No sisterly advice today, please.' Meg dived into the water, surfaced with a gleeful shout, and began to swim laps.
Quill held her breath, went under, and swam through the body-temperature water. The shimmering blue on top was deceptive; underneath, the water was blue-gray and faintly turgid. She exhaled and swam to the top. Meg reached the end of the pool, turned, and stroked back. She stopped in front of Quill and slicked back her hair with both hands. 'You have to admit this place is beautiful. You should be doing some sketching.'
