'Perfect,' said Nora. Then, 'I hope nothing happens to spoil it for you. You did all the decorating in here yourself, too?'
The Lounge was a pleasant room, although during those times when Quill's work as a painter wasn't going well, she tended to avoid it. At her sister's insistence, the deep teal walls were hung with Quill's own acrylics from her award-winning Flower series. Sometimes, Quill would look at her work with deep - if slightly guilty - pleasure. More often she despaired of ever achieving that height of line and intense color again. This morning, if the staff hadn't been setting up a fund-raiser brunch for the Inn's most prominent guest, Senator Alphonse Santini (R., New York), she would have taken Nora Cahill to the dining room; her painting hadn't been going well at all. Not for the last few weeks. Not since the trouble with Myles. Which was going to be resolved once and for all at lunch in Syracuse today.
'Was the breakfast okay?' asked Quill. She looked dubiously at Nora's half-eaten crepe Quilliam. It was a specialty of Meg's, cheese souffl‚ with sour cream and caviar wrapped in a thin Cointreau-flavored pancake.
'Fine,' Nora said absently. 'Too fine. I've got a lot to accomplish while I'm here. I don't know now if I want to do it. The whole place is so seductive I just want to sit and stuff myself.'
A fire snapped warmly in the stone fireplace. The air was filled with the fresh scent of the pine wreaths over the mantle. The long mahogany bar gleamed with lemon-scented polish, and Nate the bartender whistled under his breath as he restocked the shelves. To Nora, here for a week's stay while she covered the Santini wedding, it must have seemed like a refuge. To Quill, who was facing the emotional equivalent of a train wreck - in the middle of the busiest holiday season the Inn had ever had - it felt like jail. She resisted the impulse to run shouting into the snow, and asked again how she could help make Nora's stay at the Inn more comfortable.
'I don't see how you could make it more comfortable.' Nora tucked one long leg under the other.
Quill watched Nora's show on the rare occasion when she had free time in the early evenings. Nora had brains and style underneath the glamour. The stories the station permitted her to cover on her own were pungent and well-balanced. 'I liked that story you did on teen mothers,' Quill offered. 'Every time the station lets you do investigative reporting, the show is wonderful. Are you working on anything in particular now?'
Instead of answering Quill's question, Nora admired her teacup. 'Even the china's terrific. I've never seen anything like it. It's like that Wedgwood pattern Kutani Crane, only the birds are more vibrant.'
'It's a rose-breasted grosbeak,' said Quill. 'The design was created right here in Hemlock Falls by some friends of ours. They made the Inn a present of a service for twenty-four. I use it a lot.'
'Heaven,' said Nora, waving a well-groomed hand. 'This place is absolute heaven. From the plates to the location. And so peaceful. All this snow and the gorge and the waterfall - it's like something out of a fantasy.'
'There are drawbacks,' Quill said.
Nora's eyes, which were black and uncomfortably sharp, flicked over her, but she said merely, 'Oh, right. Your sister's a three-star chef, the rooms are stuffed with some of the most gorgeous antiques I've seen outside of a museum, and in case you get bored, you can chat up the famous people who stay here.' The corners of her mouth turned up. 'Of course, I've heard about the ones who come to stay and leave in body bags. You've had more than your fair share of murders in your swell little village, haven't you?'
Quill rubbed her nose. 'I suppose that's true.'
'Well, it all sounds like fun. Frankly, a nice little domestic murder'd be a welcome change from the stuff I've got to deal with. Ten-car pileups on Interstate 81, teenage hookers, kids who've been beaten to death.'
Quill made a noise in protest. Nora shrugged dismissively. 'Life of a small-town anchor.'
Quill, who'd been reacting to the listing of society's horrors rather than the impediments to Nora's career, glanced at her in surprise.
'So I'm egocentric,' Nora said in shrewd response to Quill's expression. 'It doesn't take long to knock compassion out of you - not in my business. Too few plum assignments and too many hotshot kids waiting to take your place if you screw up. Nice guys finish last. If they even get in the race at all.'
Quill, despite the press of her schedule for the day, was genuinely curious about a life so different from her own. 'Why did you choose it as a career?'
'I could say: You don't know how many journalism students get inspired by the Woodward and Bernstein affair. I could tell you: I got suspended from school for staying home to watch the Watergate hearings when I was sixteen. But the truth of the matter is, I like to bug people. I like to get in their faces.'
'Watergate?' said Quill.
'Surely not.'
'Oh, yeah, I'm a lot older than I look, Quill. A large part of my salary goes to what's euphemistically known as aging face procedures. I had my first lift at thirty-seven. Which was two years later than Mrs. Kennedy had hers.' She grinned abruptly. 'You know, kiddo, come to think of it, I can see where you might have big-time problems as an innkeeper. Anybody could read your face like a book. How do you keep your guests from finding out how you really feel about stuff like face-lifts?'
Quill blushed so hard she felt warm. 'I don't... I mean, if a face-lift's what you want - ' She abandoned this defense, which sounded lame even to herself, and stood up. 'Would you like a few more of these pastry bows? I'd be happy to send Kathleen for some. Unfortunately I've got a full morning and I have to get to Syracuse this afternoon, so unless there's something specific we can do for you, I'm going to have to excuse myself.'
'Sit down and don't mind me, Quill. I'm in the business of needling people. What I'd like is a tour of the Inn. Officially, I've got two days vacation before I go back on duty to report on the senator's wedding - '
'Ex-senator,' Quill said automatically.
'And thank God for that, right?' said Nora. 'I mean the dirt I've got on that guy. I wish I could broadcast the half of it, but I can't. Not for a while yet. It'll curl your toes when I do, cookie, let me tell you.' She examined Quill thoughtfully, and a catlike grin crossed her face. 'You might find out yourself, soon enough. Anyhow, as one of the few members of the media brotherhood to be allowed to cover the Santini wedding, I'm practically guaranteed a network feed, but I might as well see what other programming I can scrape up while I'm here. The Inn'd be just right for a little Christmas Eve spot - you know, as background for the station's Christmas message. Maybe a ten- second spot on holiday food or child carolers. Too much to hope you've got a local bunch of photogenic carolers, I suppose.'
