now. Would you like me to take it somewhere before I leave for Syracuse?'
'One of the sous-chefs should be here soon. Unless the snow gets worse.' She pulled the clipboard that held the day's rota from the wall by the small TV and studied it. 'Bjarne's on today. He's a Finn and they're used to the snow. I'll get him to do it.' Meg moved the roast pig into one of the aluminum pans they used to transport food and looked at it with a frown. 'Do you think the holly's too Christmassy?'
Quill vaguely recollected Santini's offhand comment. 'On the pig? Maybe a little.'
'The holly's not in celebration of Christmas. It's a subtle reminder of the Druid influence on the S. O. A. P. rituals. Not that those idiots would know a Druid from a downspout.'
Quill looked doubtful. 'Suckling pig only serves twelve to fourteen, doesn't it? Last count, actual S. O. A. P. membership was thirty-two.'
'The meeting this afternoon isn't the whole membership. It's just the executive committee. Elmer Henry, Dookie Shuttleworth, Harland Peterson, and those guys.'
Quill sat in the rocker by the cobblestone fireplace, propped her feet on the hearth, and rocked back and forth. Menu planning had been a lot simpler before the Chamber of Commerce had split into two rival factions. S. O. A. P. wanted earthy, primitive fare with a gourmet touch, and H. O. W. was seriously considering vegetarian. She had a vague recollection that holly had something to do with Druid rites, but she wasn't sure what. 'I don't think that S. O. A. P. is based on Celtic mythology. I think it's AmerInd.'
'Do American Indians strip to the waist, paint themselves blue, and stick stones in their hair?'
'Is that what they do at those meetings?'
Meg grinned. 'So I've heard. But it's just gossip. The men won't talk about it, and the women don't know anything because the men aren't talking.' She began to pack the pig in aluminum foil. 'It's all Miriam Doncaster's fault, anyway. She never should have let the mayor have a copy of The Branch of the Root. It's a stupid book.'
Quill's mood wasn't improving, and wouldn't, she knew, until the final lunch with Myles was over. She said crossly, 'How do you know it's a stupid book? Have you read it?'
Meg raised her eyebrows. 'See this look on my face?'
Quill shoved the rocker into motion and muttered, 'Never mind.'
'Cheerful sarcasm,' Meg said, 'that's the look on my face. We're still recuperating from the Thanksgiving rush. We're headed into even worse chaos between Christmas and the most boring wedding of the decade, and you want to know if I've found time to read a seven-hundred-page book that's supposed to get white guys in touch with their maleness, for Pete's sake?'
'Good point.'
'You betcha,' She glanced at her watch, 'You go on to your lunch in Syracuse.'
'I've got lots of time.' Quill wriggled her toes in the warmth of the fire, The kitchen was redolent with cinnamon, sage, and garlic. Meg had left the Thermo glass doors to her grill open when she'd removed the roast. Every now and then a bit of cracking fell from the rotisserie spit onto the flames with a hiss. The smell of seared pork and the warmth of the fire contrasted pleasantly with the wind-whipped snow outside.
The back door banged and Bjarne the Finnish sous- chef burst into the room,
'I am late,' he announced. He was very tall - as most of the Finnish students seemed to be - and had a ruddy, hearty sort of face with bright blue eyes.
'So you are,' said Meg, 'Don't take off your coat. I want you to deliver this pig.'
'It is a beautiful pig,' said Bjarne, 'A prince of a pig.'
'It is, isn't it?' said Meg, pleased. 'It's for the S. O. A. P. meeting.'
'Ah,' said Bjarne, with an air of enlightenment.
'You've heard about them, too?' asked Meg,
'Oh, yes.'
'Have you been to a meeting, Bjarne?'
He shook his head.
'Well, take this pig and see if you can crash it. Then report back to us, Quill and I want you to be a spy.'
'I don't,' said Quill. 'Who cares what goes on at those meetings?'
'I do. Ever since the Chamber of Commerce split into these two factions, the village hasn't been the same. It's depressing. It's depressing me and everyone else. Although, to be fair, it's not what's depressing you. This business with Myles is what's depressing you.'
'Stop,' said Quill. 'It's not that the women aren't incredibly curious about S. O. A. P. Marge Schmidt thinks they hold sacrificial rites under the statue of General Hemlock in the park. Betty Hall thinks they toss the bodies into the gorge because Esther West told her she's heard weird noises at night near the waterfall.'
'Esther thinks The X-Files is based on factual information from the FBI,' Quill pointed out. 'She's not what I'd call a reliable source.'
'The X-Files is what's going to happen now that the Republicans have been reelected,' Meg said darkly.
'I know what happens at the men's group,' Bjarne offered, to Meg's surprise. 'There are drums. Drums are an important part of the ritual. The Branch of the Root connects the hand and the heart and the' - his pale blue eyes looked wistfully down at Meg - 'male root. Through the drum. The root of the primitive puts us in touch with ourselves. They chant. They eat. And beat drums.'
Meg, who was short, bent her head back to look Bjarne in the eye. 'How do you know? Nobody's even sure what the acronym means.'
