undercover at the GM plant in Rochester.
"You think men like perfume, as a general rule?"
"Well, it depends. A lot of men want women to be different. So different that they can claim not to understand them at all. So they like high heels, frilly dresses, lots of makeup—things that are alien to them. Someone like—oh, Royal Rossiter—would like a woman to be herself. And that's the best kind of guy to have around, I think. Although I'm no expert, Marge."
"Best we got around here."
"Thanks. I guess."
Marge laughed. Then she said carelessly, "You remember old George Peterson."
"The car dealer? Gosh, he's been dead for five years, at least. He wasn't so old, Marge. Golly, Nadine's in her late forties and they'd only been mar—" She stopped. She'd forgotten. There was history there. "Yes. I liked George. I know that . . . you did, too."
"George liked this Chanel Number Five. Royal seems to like it, too. Said so today, anyways."
Quill took a deep breath. There were all kinds of reasons now to tell Marge of Royal's offhand interest in helping her buy the Inn. If she waited any longer, she'd be the worst kind of jerk. "Did Royal happen to mention that we'd talked about my buying the Inn back?"
Marge didn't say anything for a moment. Quill could see her chubby profile against the backdrop of cows and chewed up rosebushes. Her expression was hard to read. "Well," she said. "Well, well, well. He did, now, did he? Did he say why?"
"Why?" This caught Quill off guard. "Because it'd be a worthwhile investment, I suppose."
Marge laughed. It wasn't an unkind laugh, more of a heartily amused are-you-serious laugh. Quill was insulted. "I've learned quite a lot more about business since I've taken over the Palate, Marge."
"Any durn fool can run a business," Marge said. "No, I take that back. Any durn fool could serve successful dinners with Meg's cooking and you floatin' around looking like those long-haired wimmin in art history books. But real business, that's somethin' else. So, Royal's putting out a few feelers, is he? I'll have to think about that." She looked at her watch. "Train's about due."
This annoyed Quill profoundly. "How do you know I want to know when the train's due?"
" 'Cause you called that Muriel Sedgewick at the station to find out when it was comin' in tonight and she told me. Wanted to know if the sher'f was coming home for a while."
"He's out of touch for the next few weeks." Quill was afraid that her own careless tone would betray her the way Marge's had a few minutes before. But Marge had to know John was coming into town. First of all, he'd stop by to see her, since Marge and John respected each other a great deal, and secondly, Marge always found out what was going on sooner rather than later. She was worse than Doreen, since Doreen knew how to keep herself to herself. "No. Myles isn't due back yet. You remember John Raintree."
"Course I remember John. He's comin' back?"
"Just for a few days. He said to send you his regards."
"Well. Well, well, well." Marge's beady little eyes narrowed. "Royal give him a call? Or did you? Never mind. You prob'y don't want to answer that. Huh. You get on your way, Quill." She turned to leave, then threw over her shoulder, "You tell John I said hi. And you two drop around anytime you like. Anytime." She stumped away. Quill got in the car and drove to the station.
In the days when wealthy New Yorkers summered in Upstate New York, train stations had been wonderful af fairs, the promise of exotic otherwheres implicit in the wrought iron pillars holding up the roof, the granite tiles of the floors. Quill imagined the echo of porters, the ghostly circles of leghorn hats under the streetlights, the sweep of long skirts along the brick pathway. She'd never understood why the sound of a train whistle was such a lonesome call for so many; perhaps it was the minor key, or, more likely, the drawn-out trailing wail. She loved the sound of trains approaching, trains
"You think men like perfume, as a general rule?"
"Well, it depends. A lot of men want women to be different. So different that they can claim not to understand them at all. So they like high heels, frilly dresses, lots of makeup—things that are alien to them. Someone like—oh, Royal Rossiter—would like a woman to be herself. And that's the best kind of guy to have around, I think. Although I'm no expert, Marge."
"Best we got around here."
"Thanks. I guess."
Marge laughed. Then she said carelessly, "You remember old George Peterson."
"The car dealer? Gosh, he's been dead for five years, at least. He wasn't so old, Marge. Golly, Nadine's in her late forties and they'd only been mar—" She stopped. She'd forgotten. There was history there. "Yes. I liked George. I know that . . . you did, too."
"George liked this Chanel Number Five. Royal seems to like it, too. Said so today, anyways."
Quill took a deep breath. There were all kinds of reasons now to tell Marge of Royal's offhand interest in helping her buy the Inn. If she waited any longer, she'd be the worst kind of jerk. "Did Royal happen to mention that we'd talked about my buying the Inn back?"
Marge didn't say anything for a moment. Quill could see her chubby profile against the backdrop of cows and chewed up rosebushes. Her expression was hard to read. "Well," she said. "Well, well, well. He did, now, did he? Did he say why?"
"Why?" This caught Quill off guard. "Because it'd be a worthwhile investment, I suppose."
Marge laughed. It wasn't an unkind laugh, more of a heartily amused are-you-serious laugh. Quill was insulted. "I've learned quite a lot more about business since I've taken over the Palate, Marge."
"Any durn fool can run a business," Marge said. "No, I take that back. Any durn fool could serve successful dinners with Meg's cooking and you floatin' around looking like those long-haired wimmin in art history books. But real business, that's somethin' else. So, Royal's putting out a few feelers, is he? I'll have to think about that." She looked at her watch. "Train's about due."
This annoyed Quill profoundly. "How do you know I want to know when the train's due?"
" 'Cause you called that Muriel Sedgewick at the station to find out when it was comin' in tonight and she told me. Wanted to know if the sher'f was coming home for a while."
"He's out of touch for the next few weeks." Quill was afraid that her own careless tone would betray her the way Marge's had a few minutes before. But Marge had to know John was coming into town. First of all, he'd stop by to see her, since Marge and John respected each other a great deal, and secondly, Marge always found out what was going on sooner rather than later. She was worse than Doreen, since Doreen knew how to keep herself to herself. "No. Myles isn't due back yet. You remember John Raintree."
"Course I remember John. He's comin' back?"
"Just for a few days. He said to send you his regards."
"Well. Well, well, well." Marge's beady little eyes narrowed. "Royal give him a call? Or did you? Never mind. You prob'y don't want to answer that. Huh. You get on your way, Quill." She turned to leave, then threw over her shoulder, "You tell John I said hi. And you two drop around anytime you like. Anytime." She stumped away. Quill got in the car and drove to the station.
In the days when wealthy New Yorkers summered in Upstate New York, train stations had been wonderful af fairs, the promise of exotic otherwheres implicit in the wrought iron pillars holding up the roof, the granite tiles of the floors. Quill imagined the echo of porters, the ghostly circles of leghorn hats under the streetlights, the sweep of long skirts along the brick pathway. She'd never understood why the sound of a train whistle was such a lonesome call for so many; perhaps it was the minor key, or, more likely, the drawn-out trailing wail. She loved the sound of trains approaching, trains
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