'That you, Quill?'

'It's me. How's everything at home?'

'All right, I guess. If you don't count that blonde sniffin' around Sher'f McHale.'

Quill considered several replies to this. Doreen had several strong prejudices, which included a fixed belief that no single woman should travel more than fifty miles from home unaccompanied by armed guards. This supported a determination to see Quill and Myles married as soon as possible.

She fell for Doreen's bait. 'What blonde?'

'Some divorcee what's been making up to the sheriff. Been here a couple of days, I guess. Stay on with that Nadine Peterson till the baby comes. Don't look like she's goin' to be movin' on soon, 'less you two get back here where you belong.'

'Myles isn't the sheriff anymore, Doreen. Davy Kiddermeister's the sheriff. And we'll be home as soon as we've finished up here.'

'Huh. Thought you'd say that.'

'Then why did you bring it up? Myles isn't the type to chase blondes.' She weakened. 'How old is she?'

'The blonde? 'Bout your age, I guess. Younger maybe. So I guess I'd better bring him along with me.'

'Who? Myles? Along where?'

'If you ain't coming home with this hurricane coming...'

'Doreen, I saw the weather map. The thing's a hundred miles off the coast of South America and may be headed this way. And if you listen through all the baloney the television's blabbering, it isn't even a hurricane yet. It's a tropical storm. So where are you going?'

'Got tickets to the Palm Beach airport, don't we?'

'Do you? I mean, you do? What about Andy? I thought he was coming with Myles.'

'Ayuh. For Thursday. Unless we can't land because the hurricane took out the runway.'

'If the hurricane comes, it won't be until the week- end. You're kidding, aren't you? You're coming to Florida with Myles?'

'I don't kid,' said Doreen with some indignation. 'Stoke's goin' to some newspaper convention in Rochester for a few days and John don't need me here, he says, so yeah, we got tickets. You tell Meg Doc Bishop is sorry, but Nadine's 'bout due and he may have to do a C-section. You got a pencil?'

'Well, yes, but...'

'We're coming in on Delta.' She gave Quill the flight number and arrival time and then rang off at length, alluding darkly to the probable total of the long-distance charges for the call, the iffy state of the bank balance since Meg and Quill were off gallivanting and the inn was closed, and the outrageous state of American debt in general.

Quill hung up. The beep of an impatient taxi sounded. Meg called, ' 'Bye.' The front door slammed shut and Quill was left alone. 'Hey!' she shouted. No answer. 'Darn it!'

She went into the bathroom to shower and change. If Myles were here now, she could practice her approach to the hapless innocents at the Institute. You're not fired, you've been downsized. No. Right-sized. No. Face it - they were all going to be fired to make way for the chicken people. They were about to be deep fried. And Myles's advice would be to stay out of it. Completely.

'Well,' she said aloud to the absent Meg. 'Here's another fine mess you've got us in.' She had a couple of alternatives; she could call Myles, exchange affectionate greetings, and diddle away another twenty minutes when she'd see him Thursday anyway. And he'd know something was up from the tone of her voice. Or, she could check the third bedroom on behalf of Doreen - except the daily maid service - silent, (as far as Quill could see - invisible) changed the sheets and towels daily, whether anyone had used them or not. Or she could get dressed and go to meet her own personal hurricane at the Florida Institute for Fire Food monthly management meeting.

The traffic. She brightened. If she took I-95, she might miss the meeting altogether.

'You're early,' said Linda Longstreet, sounding delighted. 'Mr. Taylor said you were going to join us this morning.' Her delight was brief; she looked pale and as though she needed a good night's sleep.

'Traffic was great,' said Quill glumly. 'It said on the radio that a tractor trailer accident closed six west-bound lanes outside of Miami. Everyone else is stuck up there.'

They were in one of the institute's classrooms. Logically, Quill knew that it was impossible for all sides of a rectangular building to face the sea, but this room - as did all the others she'd seen - had a splendid view of the ocean. The walls were painted a pale raspberry. The floor was made of dark mahogany, slightly sticky in the way such floors were. A set of daguerreotypes of Parisian caf‚s were arranged on one wall. The air was scented with garlic, burnt sugar, and baking bread. Quill much preferred that to the odors of fried chicken.

It was very cold. A banquet-sized table - at least eleven feet long - occupied the center of the room. Twelve chairs were pulled up to it, four on each long side and two at each end. A yellow pad and pencil had been placed in front of each chair.

'They'll all start coming in a few minutes,' Linda said. 'Sit anywhere you like.'

'Who comes to these meetings?'

'Well, Chef Jean Paul, of course. He's the director. And each of the heads of the five other kitchens: des:. sects, entrees, breads, and so on. And me. And the board of directors, those of them that are here. This month we've got two of the five: Mrs. Gollinge, and Mrs. McIntyre.'

The lights flickered and went out. 'Oh, no,' Linda wailed. 'Not now, dammit. Please not now, with the board of directors here!'

The lights went back on.

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