'How come you didn't give him the 'driving skills are not gender specific' speech?' Meg asked.
'Because it's kind of sad, don't you think?'
'What?'
'The way he looked when he mentioned Cressida's name. He still loves her, I think.'
Meg snorted. 'Love and Verger Taylor. Right. Okay. I know where we are. Take the long way around and we'll be there at just past seven.'
The drive to Cressida's home on Hobe Sound was an extraordinarily lovely one. The sun was setting in a gentle haze. The warmth of the air was a blessing. The two-lane road to Hobe Sound was tree-lined, heavily shrubbed, and very quiet. An occasional car passed them, going at a leisurely pace. All of the cars were police cruisers. The glimpses of the ocean among the heavy vegetation were infrequent, even though it was no more than five hundred yards away. The beach was rocky, the swells thick and slow. Quill like what she cold see of the houses; most of them were low, resting quietly on the dunes like huge, somnolent sea birds. No obvious opulence, just serenity and an appreciation of the land itself.
'There's the turn on the bridge,' Meg said. 'We're coming in backwards from the directions, so the house should be just ahead, on the right. Yes. There it is, Quill, see? The number four on the blue-painted board and the name: Tern House.'
Quill pulled onto a white concrete driveway lined with oleander, bougainvillea, and the white fire of tropical ginger. The way was twisty, and the little car handled the curves with quiet assurance. The house appeared slowly, first a flash of gray between two southern pines, then a long length of gray driftwood siding, and finally a circular drive. Quill parked the car a short way from the entrance. The driveway was well-worn cobblestone.
The front door opened as they approached and a maid in dove-gray greeted them with a polite smile. 'Miss Houghton is very glad you made it on time,' she said. They followed her into a short hall, paved with flagstones. 'Would you like to freshen up?' asked the maid. 'There is a toilet over here.'
'Thanks, but no,' Quill said. 'We're fine.'
It was dim in the twilight, and Cressida Houghton appeared from the depths of the house like a wistful ghost. 'Come in. It's so nice to have you here at Tern House. We're out on the lanai, if you'd like to come with me.'
They passed through the living room. The floors were wide-board mahogany, well polished. The furniture was old and comfortable. Quill saw two of her paintings - Iris studies - over a low chest on the wall facing the screened porch. Cressida stopped in front of them and touched each with one slender finger. 'I bring them down with me when I come here after Christmas,' she said. 'Otherwise they are displayed in my little apartment in New York. Such color, Quill. They're wonderful. Well. The boys are out here.'
Evan and Corrigan both got to their feet as they came out onto the porch. Evan's hair was tousled; he wore a white turtleneck sweater against the faint chill in the air. His eyes, very blue, met Quill's. She felt that shock of sexual recognition that bears no explaining - unconnected to loyalties, pledges, commitments. Disconcerted, she glanced past him, over his shoulder, to the view beyond the porch. The ocean spread before them, a huge, hushed presence just beyond the screens. 'Hurricane weather,' Evan said with a smile. He took Quill's hand and held it.
The look Cressida Houghton gave her was poisonous. She didn't move - or didn't seem to. But her face was a mask. Her eyes - the famous silvery eyes-were as cold as the nitrogen room at the Qwik Freeze plant back in Hemlock Falls.
Quill had the unsettling feeling that her throat had closed up, forbidding her to speak above a murmur, damping her reactions, slowing her down like a mouse in front of a very bright light. It was the proximity to this very famous, too-perceptive, very furious woman - an icon of grace and gracious living for people the world over. An icon that seemed to want Quill's blood to water the roses out front.
Meg broke the strained silence. She suddenly shook herself like a puppy and said, 'What a great view! How's about a walk on the beach?'
'What wonderful idea,' Cressida said. 'Perhaps after dinner. Please, sit down and tell Anna what you would like to drink before dinner. It's 'just fish', I'm afraid.'
Quill accepted a chilled glass of Vouvray. Meg, with a slight wink in Quill's direction, asked for Coke, which, to her somewhat shamefaced embarrassment, was duly brought in a Baccarat water tumbler, poured over shaved ice.
The dinner was 'just fish.' But it was simply, elegantly cooked, with a touch of fresh tarragon, green peppercorns, and slices of orange. The table was set with hand-dyed linens from Proven‡al and a basket of daisies, larkspur, and winter roses. The service was whisper-quiet, and Quill had to suppress the urge to sit bolt upright and shout 'chocolate!' like the guy who'd yelled 'fire!' in the old Smothers Brothers song.
Conversation was minimal. Evan looked frequently at Quill. At some point - Quill later recalled it was sometime between the fish course and the salad that ended the meal - he asked Meg if she'd sung to the chefs at the Institute that day. Meg looked at him blankly, opened her mouth, and closed it again. Quill introduced one topic of conversation: art, only to have her hostess murmur' 'wonderful, wonderful' in response to each comment she made. She tried politics - and was met with the gentle comment that he (the current president) had been a great friend of the family for a long while - and they never discussed him. Never.
Cressida, with a slightly disdainful eye on her guests, brought up the activities of Allen on the polo field, Tracy on the tennis court, and David and his sailing - none of whom were known to Quill or Meg. Finally, when Quill heard herself murmuring 'wonderful, wonderful, wonderful,' like Lawrence Welk after a sex-change operation, she gave up and ate as circumspectly as she could. In the British tradition, which Quill would have found pretentious anywhere else, Cressida led the ladies away for a short time after dinner, and Meg joined Quill in the bathroom. Quill liked the bathroom a lot. Like the rest of the house it was old, unpretentious, and there wasn't a Water Pik in sight. The walls were paneled with white pine, reminding her of the pleasant Nantucket beach cottages she and Meg had spent time in as girls.
'I can't stand it,' Meg hissed at her, closing the door. 'I want to play the banjo or something.'
'Chocolate!' Quill said, in a subdued yell. 'Chocolate! Chocolate! Chocolate!'
'Why'd you yell 'fire' when you fell into the chocolate,' Meg sang. 'Why'd you yell 'fire' when you fell into the choooc-late?'
'Because who would have come if I'd yelled 'chocolate!' Oh, dear.' Quill looked in the tiny mirror, ran her fingers through her hair; sighed, and gave up. The humidity made it curl like bedsprings. 'Hands down, this is the
