'You have doubts about it. I can see that. Both of you. Well, if you don't believe in the charity now, you will after you've met Dr. Bob.' Tiffany's perfectly taut brow didn't wrinkle with sincerity, which it should have, since her tone was passionate with it. Quill remembered reading that in a full face lift, the surgeon peeled the skin off the forehead, severed the frown muscles, and pulled the extra skin over the skull. Tiffany's brow I couldn't wrinkle if she wanted it to.
'It's not doubts, precisely,' Quill began.
'It's doubts,' said Meg flatly. 'We've been seduced by the beaches and swimming in warm weather when everybody else at home is armpit-deep in snow. But we're getting unseduced fast. Of course we don't believe in a charity for wealthy women who have divorce phobias. Charities are for people in need.'
'Exactly. Charities are for people in need. And need occurs at all levels of society. At all levels of income. Do you have any idea how neglected women such as myself and my friends are? Do you realize the kind of abuse we've taken from people like Verger?'
'Gee, no.' Meg's own forehead wrinkled quite satisfactorily, which, Quill knew, frequently presaged an eruption quite as volcanic as Kiluea Iki's. 'Unless your mother sold you to him at an early age, you had something to say about marrying him, didn't you? Plus, I can't say as I have a whole lot of sympathy for people who got the second-best Rolls in a settlement.' She grabbed her head. 'Aaagh! The bells!'
Tiffany glowed. 'It's Dr. Bob.' She uncrossed her legs and got up gracefully. 'You're sure you don't want to do something about your hair, Quill?'
'Shall I get the door?' asked Quill politely.
'He'll use his key.' She cocked her head, listening. Quill heard the door open, then the click of shoes on the wooden floor. Tiffany extended her hands. 'And here he is. Darling!'
'My dear.'
-2-
Quill had imagined Dr. Bittern as a slick, smooth Richard Gere look-alike. He wasn't. The doctor (psychologist? psychiatrist? osteopath?) was small and shaped like a fire hydrant. It was hard to tell how old he was. (Quill was discovering that in Palm Beach it was hard to decide how old anybody was. Florida seemed to be the appearance-surgery capital of the world.) Dr. Bittern had silvery white hair - very thick-wire rimmed glasses, and a small black goatee. He stopped several feet in front of Tiffany, crossed his hands on his paunch, and beamed at her with the smile of a happy baby.
'Kiss, kiss,' Tiffany cooed, pecking the air on either : side of his cheeks. 'And here is our cook.'
'Chef,' Meg corrected belligerently.
'Meg, may I introduce Dr. Robert Bittern? And Dr. Bob, this is Sarah Quilliam, Meg's sister.'
He inclined his head and, to Quill's surprise, gave Meg her proper title. 'Maitre Quilliam. An honor. And Ms. Quilliam? I have seen your art. It is wonderful.'
'Thank you - um - Dr. Bittern.'
He gestured toward the couch. 'May I?'
'Please,' said Tiffany. 'Please. Dr. Bob...' She fluttered down next to him. 'I am so glad you're here! I was just trying to explain the importance of our work to the girls...'
Meg made a noise like a steam kettle.
Tiffany acknowledged the reaction with a vague smile and murmured, 'Women, then, and I can't do it half so well as you. No, not a tenth so well as you. If you would?'
'Perhaps a cup of tea, before we begin?' Dr. Bittern sat erect, his back several inches from the couch cushions. His voice was precise and his feet were tiny.
'Meg?' Tiffany all but snapped her fingers.
Quill looked at her sister. Meg looked back. For a moment, Meg's reaction hung in the balance. Suddenly she grinned, shook her head, and got up. 'What kind would you like, Dr. Bittern? Black? Green?'
He waved a perfectly manicured hand in the air. His hands were small, too. 'Something peaceful. Scented. Not too strong.'
'Jasmine,' said Meg. She walked behind the couch toward the kitchen, then turned and made a horrible face at Quill.
Quill cleared her throat. 'You were telling us about the charity, Dr. Bittern.'
'Excelsior,' said Tiffany.
'I beg your pardon?' Quill said. It had sounded like a sneeze.
'Excelsior,' said Dr. Bittern. 'To indicate life's journey. One must move past the past. One must move onward, upward, to the pinnacle of experience.'
'Tennyson,' said Meg, setting a cup of tea on the marble slab in front of Dr. Bittern. 'Same guy who wrote about Lancelot cleaving the heads off his enemies. 'My strength is of the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.' Whack!' She drew her finger across her throat execution-style and wiggled her eyebrows.
'That is a different poem, I believe,' said Dr. Bittern gravely. 'But yes, the name comes from the pen of that noble poet.'
'So you're not an illiterate phony anyhow.' Meg settled cheerfully on the arm of Quill's chair. 'What kind of phony are you?'
'Hey!' said Tiffany. 'Hey!'
Quill shoved her elbow sharply into Meg's leg. 'Meg was up all night,' she lied, 'with a particularly difficult recipe...'
