phobic women - and some of them had sounded in a pitiful state. Tiffany had alluded to suicide attempts.
The working conditions were ideal. Meg and Quill were booked first class to Palm Beach. Tiffany was putting them up at the Combers Beach Club, a luxury condo that had been part of her divorce settlement. Quill was obligated for one lecture - Fundamentals of Inn keeping - Meg for three cooking classes. For Meg, the real attraction had been the ball and banquet slated for the end of their week. She would cook one dish, and one dish only: potted rabbit. And Tiffany promised that the editors of L 'Aperitif, the gourmet magazine that awarded the highly prized ratings for America's chefs, would be there.
'There's no doubt,' she'd told Meg with vigorous assurance, 'that you'll get back that third star. None at all.'
Meg, who'd lost the third star in an imbroglio several years ago, would walk on hot coals to get it back. The prospect of a week in the sun in the midst of a New York winter with light duties and a huge paycheck paled beside the chance to get her potted rabbit into the magazine editor's stomach.
The swinging doors leading to the kitchen opened and Myles came in. He was wearing a heavy parka. Snow sprinkled his dark hair. His face was red with cold. He bent down and rubbed his cheek against Quill's. 'It's clearing to the east,' he said. 'The airport's open. Looks like you'll be able to go.'
Meg grinned, jumped up from the table, and did a little dance. 'Third star, here I come!'
-1-
Margaret Quilliam stretched out on the lounge chair facing the ocean and exhaled with exaggerated pleasure. 'Bliss,' she said. 'Absolute bliss. It's ten degrees above zero in Hemlock Falls and here we are, cocooned in salty sea air precisely at body temperature. We couldn't have asked for more, Quill.'
Quill contemplated the view in a contented frame of mind. They were lucky to be getting paid to live here for a week in this kind of luxury.
The Taylor charity had sounded worthy. An institute for phobics, Tiffany Taylor had said. The first of its kind and completely privately funded. Quill didn't recall precisely what type of phobics were the focus of the fund - but Tiffany had made them sound in desperate need of help.
Quill took a fourth - or was it fifth? - swallow of Meg's version of Planter's Punch, then wished she hadn't. She was dizzy. It couldn't be jet lag - Palm Beach was a four-hour flight from upstate New York. It must be the punch. She'd warned Meg about the punch. She set the drink carefully on the patio deck, then linked her hands behind her head - more to steady it than to relax. Her hair was damp and frizzy with the humidly. She patted futilely at it and closed her eyes. That was a mistake. She was dizzier than ever. She blinked and sat up. 'What the heck did you put in that drink?'
'The punch?' Meg waved her glass in the air, beaming. The moon rose behind her, high and white among the palm trees. The ocean bumped gently against the shore in front of them. To Quill's left, the condominium pool shimmered aquamarine over the in-ground lights. Meg brought her drink close to one eye and, peering through the lucent pink, said, 'Mango, orange, and pineapple juice. A touch of cranberry. Cherries, oranges, and mint.'
Quill looked dubious. 'No rum?'
'Of course there's rum.' Meg was indignant. 'The very best rum. Dark rum. Light rum. Coconut rum. Something called Island Very Strong Rum. Rum.' Meg subsided, muttering, then resurfaced. 'I know a swell song about rum. Want to hear it?'
'No.'
'It goes like this.' Meg cleared her throat and began to sing. She was thirty to Quill's thirty-four and for twenty-nine of those years (Meg's vocalizing had started early on) Quill had never known what drove her sister to sing. She was awful. Her voice wandered, gypsy-like, through the keys. Her tone was thin and buzzy, like a Dremel drill or a very large bee.
'Away, away with rum, by gum, it's the song of the Temperance Union. We never eat cookies if they contain rum.'
'Meg.'
'For one little bite turns a man to a bum...'
'Meg!'
'Now ever have seen you a sorrier disgra-a-a-ace... than a man in the gutter with crumbs on his face!'
'Be QUIET down there!' The voice, male, floated somewhere above them.
Meg peered fuzzily into the night sky. 'Okey-dokey,' she said.
Quill heard the distant thunk-bang! of a glass patio door. Tiffany Taylor had mentioned the crabby tenant on the third floor. She'd also mentioned the condo rule against renters. 'Nobody'll mind,' she'd said, ''as long as you're quiet. And you aren't renters, exactly. After all, I'm paying you.' And she'd given that tinkling, artificial laugh. Ugh. Quill shook herself. 'Time for a cup of coffee, Meg. Stay right there.' She glanced upwards; there were no irate faces hanging over the third-floor balcony-at least not yet. 'And don't sing a word.'
'Where're you going?'
'To get coffee. And hide the rum.' The handle of the French door to the inside was smooth and weighty in her hand. Everything about the condominium was like that: polished, substantial, the best of its kind. The bleached oak floors were like pale mirrors. In the living room, buttery leather couches formed a U facing the French doors. The occasional tables were marble set on intricately detailed gilt bases. The island dividing the living room from the kitchen was made of a single slab of whorled mahogany.
Quill crossed the hardwood floor to the kitchen, the surface cool against her bare feet. Neither one of them had expected much from the kitchen itself: Quill because she'd guessed that most very wealthy people in Palm Beach ate at restaurants, and their hostess Tiffany Taylor was among the wealthiest; Meg because she was a professional cook and never expected much of anything from other people's kitchens.
They'd been surprised. The appliances were restaurant quality, and the shelves were fully stocked. The Subzero refrigerator held eggs, cream, butter, yeast, vinegars, and essential vegetables like onions, carrots, celery, and fresh herbs. The pots and pans were mostly copper-harder to clean than stainless steel (which made them inefficient for professional cooks) and expensive (which made them impractical - neither Meg nor Quill would ever make enough money to be in the Palm Beach league). But the cookware came in the right variety of sizes - from
