'Of course she does.' Quill swung back to the matter at hand. 'So. You were about to tell me what Verger wants to do with this building. Is he going to try and buy the Institute programs? Hire the staff? Make it the Taylor Institute of the Culinary Arts?'
'Not exactly.'
'Turn that gorgeous space into condos,' Quill improvised, 'or a garage, or a recycling center, or Taylor's Tire Kingdom? Have you noticed how imperial every- body gets in Florida? Tire Kingdom, Mattress Kingdom. And if they don't get imperial, they get galactic: Video World, Bath World, CD-Universe...' Quill, aware that she was babbling, pushed the wineglass to the center of the table. 'What is it about Florida, anyway?'
'You don't want to paint scenes from the beach, then,' Evan said.
'That wasn't a question.' Quill was surprised. 'No. I don't. My sister asked me the same thing. Why would you, of all...' Quill bit off her words. There was some- thing about Evan-about his whole family - that inspired her to insult. She folded and refolded her napkin, feeling off center. Just how clever was Evan Taylor?
'Why would somebody like me have the sensitivity to understand why an artist of your caliber hates the state? Is that what you were about to say?'
'You can't hate a whole state,' Quill said absently. Myles had said that. She missed him. 'And I've been rude. I'm sorry.'
'Sorry about what?' Meg arrived at the table, flushed and beaming. 'Sorry about coming here? I was at first but I'm not now. Quill! You should see that stove. I want that stove. I lust after that stove. I'm in love with that stove.'
'It's a pretty nice stove,' Corrigan agreed. He looked stunned.
'Did Meg behave herself in the kitchen, Corrigan?'
'What? Oh. I guess. She asked the chef if he knew all the verses to 'Tennessee Birdwalk.' '
'Did he? Don't answer, I can tell by the way you look. They both sang it together.'
'I like this place already,' Meg said in satisfaction. 'Now if the food has the same character as the chef, we're in business. You know, Quill, if this thing with Tiffany Taylor does get torpedoed, we should stay here a full week anyhow. We can toddle up and down Worth Avenue testing all the food. It'll be great.'
'I can assure you that Tiffany's going ahead with the gourmet week,' Evan said. 'It may not look like it, but my father's indulged her in all kinds of idiot ideas. It's the charity crap that's not going to happen. The Excelsior. The Institute for Gold Diggers. Dad's sending that phony psychiatrist away.'
'I knew he was a phony,' Meg said in satisfaction. 'What is he, an accountant? An osteopath?'
'He's a shrink, all right. An M.D. From Johns Hopkins, as a matter of fact.'
'You're kidding.' Meg, who clearly didn't care, nibbled a piece of bread.
Quill sighed. 'You know, I feel kind of sorry for your stepmother, Evan. I mean - it's a silly sort of charity, I grant you that. But she's committed to it. Neither Meg nor I would have come here if we weren't certain of that. I know your father thinks she's doing it just to embarrass him, but...'
'Don't you?' Quill considered. 'I think there's some of that. But I don't think it's all of that. And my goodness, he's big enough to shrug off a little criticism, isn't he?'
'He dumped her, you know.' Meg looked critically at the plate of ceviche the waiter set before her and picked up a fork. 'I don't think anybody should underestimate the wrath of a dumped ex-wife. Think of all the things she could be doing instead of this little banquet and these little therapy sessions. In front of the cameras of all the major television stations.' She chuckled, ate a forkful of the ceviche, and nodded. 'Excellent. Very, very excellent. I like this, Quill.' She put the plate aside, selected a clean fork, and took a portion of Corrigan's pate off his plate. 'Now this - no. We make a better pate. Too much pepper. The sorrel's wrong for the liver. And someone in the kitchen went nuts with the onion.' She handed the fork to Corrigan, who held it with a bewildered expression, then began to eat the pate himself. 'As I said, just think of all the mischief she could be doing instead of this little charity. She could be suing him in court for all kinds of stuff...'
'She is,' said Evan. 'She is suing him over my grandmother's house in Cannes.'
'Or she could be going on those talk shows and talking about their sex life.'
'She's booked on Oprah next month.'
'Or trying to wreck his credit or something.'
'Wreck his credit?' Corrigan asked with alarm. 'Well, that'd be the way to get to a real-estate mogul, wouldn't it? The point is, I think that if everybody ignored everybody else, stuff would quiet down and the whole family would get off the front pages of the newspapers.' She gave Evan a sharp glance. 'If that's what you want.'
'That's what I want,' said Evan. 'You have no idea how hard it is to have a life while all this crap is going on.'
Impulsively, Quill put her hand on his. 'It must be awful.'
'It is, rather.' He turned his palm up and curled his fingers around Quill's wrist. She tugged free, broke off a piece of roll from the bread basket, buttered it, then set it on her salad plate. Evan picked it up and ate it, smiling. 'I was hoping you could help make it less awful.'
'Madame's steak salad.' The waiter, carrying a loaded tray, set Quill's dinner in front of her, Evan's salmon in front of him, then several entrees each in front of Meg and Corrigan. He placed a half-dozen clean forks at Meg's right hand. 'Enjoy the meal, Maitre Quilliam.'
Meg grinned, pleased to be recognized. Quill regarded her salad in dismay. It was large. Beautifully presented, but large. The steak had been char-grilled, chilled, and cut into thin strips. She counted three kinds of lettuce - radicchio, Boston, and butter-and two types of sweet pepper. The vinaigrette smelled wonderful: a hint of garlic, balsalmic vinegar, and spicy mustard. She wished she and Meg were sitting alone, so that she could enjoy it. She raised her eyebrows at Evan. 'I don't see any way that we can help you and your brother, Evan. I'm sorry.'
'Oh, but you can.'
