"Well, you have a point there," Riker admitted. "Let's drink to environmental conscience!" he said jovially, waving his empty glass at a tall serving person, who was hovering nearby. Derek Cuttlebrink was obviously listening to their conversation. "Another Scotch, Derek."
"No more for me," said Mildred.
Polly was still sipping her first glass of sherry.
Qwilleran shook his head, having downed two glasses of a local mineral water.
Everyone was ready to order, and Riker inquired if there were any specials.
"Chicken Florentine," said the server, making a disagreeable face.
The four diners glanced at each other, and Mildred said, "Oh, no!"
They consulted the menu, and the eventual choice was trout for Mildred, sweetbreads for Polly, and rack of lamb for the two men. Then Qwilleran returned to the subject: "Why did they change it to Pear Island? I say that Breakfast Island has a friendly and appetizing connotation."
"It won't do any good to complain," Riker told him. "XYZ Enterprises has spent a fortune on wining and dining travel editors, and every travel page in the country has hailed the discovery of Pear Island. Anyway, that's what it's called on the map, and it happens to be pear-shaped. Furthermore, surveys indicate that a sophisticated market Down Below finds "Pear Island" more appealing than "Breakfast Island," according to Don Exbridge." He referred to the X in XYZ Enterprises.
"They like the pear's erotic shape," Qwilleran grumbled. "As a fruit it's either underripe or overripe, mealy or gritty, with a choice of mild flavor or no flavor."
Mildred protested. "I insist there's nothing to equal a beautiful russet-colored Bosc with a wedge of Roquefort!"
"Of course! A pear needs all the help it can get. It's delicious with chocolate sauce or fresh raspberries. What isn't?"
"Qwill's on his soapbox again," Riker observed.
"I agree with him on the name of the island," said Polly. "I think "Breakfast Island" has a certain quaint charm. Names of islands on the map usually reflect a bureaucratic lack of imagination."
"Enough about pears!" Riker said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Let's eat."
Mildred asked Qwilleran, "Don't you have friends who've opened a bed-and-breakfast on the island?"
"I do indeed, and it disturbs me. Nick and Lori Bamba were about to convert one of the old fishing lodges there. Then the Pear Island resort hoopla started, and they got sucked into the general promotional scheme. They would have" preferred leaving the island in its natural state as much as possible."
"Here comes the food," Arch Riker said with a sigh of relief.
Qwilleran turned to the young man who was serving the entrees. "How come you're waiting on tables, Derek? I thought you'd been promoted to assistant chef."
"Yeah ... well ... I was in charge of French fries and garlic toast, but I can make more money out on the floor, what with tips, you know. Mr. Exbridgehe's one of the owners heresaid he might give me a summer job at his new hotel. You can have a lot of fun, working at a resort. I'd like to be captain in the hotel dining room, where they slip you a ten for giving them a good table."
"As captain you'd be outstanding," Qwilleran said. Derek Cuttlebrink was six-feet-eight and still growing.
Polly asked him, "Now that Pickax is getting a community college, do you think you might further your education?"
"If they're gonna teach ecology, maybe I will. I've met this girl, you know, and she's into ecology pretty heavy."
Qwilleran asked, "Is she the girl who owns the blue nylon tent?"
"Yeah, we went camping last summer. I learned a lot .. . Anything else you guys want here?"
When Derek had ambled away, Riker muttered, "When will his consumption of French fries and hot dogs start nourishing his brain instead of his arms and legs?"
"Give him a break. He's smarter than you think," Qwilleran replied.
The meal was untainted by any further argument about Breakfast Island. The Rikers described the new addition to their beach house on the sand dune near Mooseville. Polly announced that her old college roommate had invited her to visit Oregon. Qwilleran, when pressed, said he might do some free-lance writing during the summer.
In pleased surprise, Polly asked, "Do you have something important in mind, dear?" As a librarian, she entertained a perennial hope that Qwilleran would write a literary masterpiece. Although the two of them had a warm and understanding relationship, this particular aspiration was hers, not his. Whenever she launched her favorite theme, he found a way to tease her.
"Yes .. . I'm thinking ... of a project," he said soberly. "I may undertake to write ... cat opera for TV. How's this for a scenario? ... In the first episode we've left Fluffy and Ting Foy hissing at each other, after an unidentified male has approached her and caused Ting Foy to make a big tail. Today's episode starts with a long shot of Fluffy and Ting Foy at their feeding station, gobbling their food amicably. We zoom in on the empty plate and the wash-up ritual, frontal exposures only. Then . . . close-up of a cuckoo clock. (Sound of cuckooing.) Ting Foy leaves the scene. (Sound of scratching in litter box.) Cut to female, sitting on her brisket, meditating. She turns her head. She hears something! She reacts anxiously. Has her mysterious lover returned? Will Ting Foy come back from the litter box? Why is he taking so long? What will happen when the two males meet?... Tune in tomorrow, same time."
Riker guffawed. "This has great sponsorship potential, Qwilclass="underline" catfood, cat litter, flea collars ..."
Mildred giggled, and Polly smiled indulgently. "Very amusing, Qwill dear, but I wish you'd apply your talents to belles lettres."
"I know my limitations," he said. "I'm a hack journalist, but a good hack journalist: nosy, aggressive, suspicious, cynical"
"Please, Qwill!" Polly remonstrated. "We appreciate a little nonsense, but let's not be totally absurd."
Across the table the newlyweds gazed at each other in middle-aged bliss. They were old enough to have grandchildren but young enough to hold hands under the tablecloth. Both had survived marital upheavals, but now the easygoing publisher had married the warm-hearted Mildred Hanstable, who taught art and homemaking skills in the public schools. She also wrote the food column for the Moose County Something. She was noticeably overweight, but so was her bridegroom.
For this occasion Mildred had baked a chocolate cake, and she suggested having dessert and coffee at their beach house. The new addition had doubled the size of the little yellow cottage, and an enlarged deck overlooked the lake. Somewhere out there was Breakfast and/or Pear Island.
The interior of the beach house had undergone some changes, too, since their marriage. The handmade quilts that previously muffled the walls and furniture had been removed, and the interior was light and airy with splashes of bright yellow. The focal point was a Japanese screen from the VanBrook estate, a wedding gift from Qwil-leran.
Riker said, "It's hard to find a builder for a small job, but Don Exbridge sent one of his crackerjack construction crews, and they built our new wing in a jiffy. Charged only for labor and materials."
A black-and-white cat with rakish markings walked inquisitively into their midst and was introduced as Toulouse. He went directly to Qwilleran and had his ears scratched.
"We wanted a purebred," said Mildred, "but Toulouse came to our door one day and just moved in."
"His coloring is perfect with all the yellow in the house," Polly remarked.
"Do you think I've used too much? It's my favorite color, and I tend to overdo it."
"Not at all. It makes a very spirited and happy ambiance. It reflects your new lifestyle."