There were certain things Qwilleran remembered about Lady Anne, as he now called her: how she always recited the same poem on her birthday . . . how her fingers flew when she played “Flight of the Bumblebee” on the piano, and how she always wore a bracelet with dangling coins.
Now Arch Riker was back in his life, as editor-in-chief of the newspaper, and it seemed only fitting that he and Mildred and Polly should honor Lady Anne on her birthday.
At the end of the workday, the foursome gathered at the barn and drank a toast to Lady Anne. Then Polly read the Wordsworth poem—the one that began:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils.
The “Qwill Pen” had promoted the idea that everyone should have a birthday poem. Qwilleran himself had adopted Kipling as his birthday poet: “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you . . .”
Wetherby Goode, the WPKX meteorologist, had chosen Carl Sandburg: “The fog comes on little cat feet . . .”
Mildred, who had survived more than her share of personal tragedies, quoted Lizette Woodworth Reese: “When I consider life and its few years . . . I wonder at the idleness of tears . . .”
Polly quoted Wordsworth, although she said she had to change a word here and there: “My heart leaps up when I behold a rainbow in the sky . . .”
Arch quoted Anonymous: “I know two things about a horse, and one of them is rather coarse.”
Then the host rushed his guests off to the Old Grist Mill, where two champagne buckets crowded with daffodils stood on a console table in the foyer. A card read: In memory of Anne Mackintosh Qwilleran.
Mildred asked, “How did you round up so many flowers—without baby’s breath or ribbon bows or other additives?”
“The daffodils were ordered from Chicago,” Qwilleran said, “and I told the florist to send them directly to the restaurant, because they were being used in a salad.”
Riker said, “Qwill was always a master of creative fibbing.”
That said, they drank a solemn toast to the memory of “Lady Anne.”
Then they discussed the Brrr birthday party: Five hundred pages had been purchased in the souvenir book. Twenty thousand T-shirts had been ordered—with the same logo being used on the official poster: “Brrr” and “200” in red on a white background, surrounded by a blue lifesaver. John Bushland was getting married again, and they’d live in Thelma’s house. Polly quoted book-selling statistics that related sales potential to square footage, and Qwilleran said that the script of “The Great Storm” would be ready for rehearsal Sunday afternoon—even if he had to stay up all night Saturday.
The week was not over. On Saturday, Qwilleran finished part two of the “Great Storm” script, and when Thornton phoned from the Art Center, he was invited to walk up the lane and listen to a run-through.
Qwilleran, besides reading and emoting, had to press the buttons that brought in the voices of eyewitnesses, so the timing was not as crisp as it would be onstage. Even so, Thornton found the show gripping and absolutely real. Qwilleran protested modestly, but actually . . . he thought so, too.
He and Polly agreed to forgo their usual Saturday-night date—she to study the psychology of a bookstore’s floor plan, and Qwilleran to psych himself up for the rehearsal the next afternoon.
Then, on Sunday morning, Gary Pratt phoned, his high-pitched voice reaching new heights of emotion:
“Qwill! You’ll never guess what! Lish just called. She’s still in Milwaukee! Can’t be here for rehearsal! Isn’t that a beast! She said she was doing some research for you down there, and it was taking longer than she expected. Is that true?”
“Basically, but it was a minor assignment and not worth missing a rehearsal.”
“She said to tell you she has some hot news for you.”
Qwilleran grunted noncommittally.
“Are you going to be up this way, Qwill? I need to talk and get something off my chest. Maxine said I should talk to you.”
“Any trouble?” Qwilleran asked.
“Well . . . yes and no.”
Unanswered questions were anathema to Qwilleran, and he found himself hungering for a bear burger, Hotel Booze style. On arrival, “You look like a sick bear,” he told Gary.
“I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” Gary said. “I got to worrying about something Lish said when she and Lush were hanging around the bar: Someday Mount Vernon would be hers, and she was gonna make it into a bed-and-breakfast and build condos on the back of the property. I didn’t think anything of it at the time; people like to talk big at bars. But last night I thought, Hey! Maybe she means it! There’s a story, you know, about a barfly who boasted he was gonna blow up city hall, and no one believed him.”
“But he blew it up!” Qwilleran said. “It’s a classic situation.”
“Yeah, and now that her grandmother has taken an apartment at the retirement center so she can have assisted care, when and if! Maybe she doesn’t have long to live! Maybe Lish can carry out her boast! My stomach turns over at the thought of that historic house going commercial! That beautiful house! It’s been called the jewel in the crown of the Brrr Parkway. Great spot for a B and B, right?” he added bitterly. “The thing of it is, I never liked Lish in school. She was stuck-up! She had her own car and a special permit for underage driving. She got all A’s. The only thing she didn’t get was . . . dates! The guys couldn’t stand her!”
“Why did you recommend her, Gary, for the show?”
“Well, y’see, I wanted to show her what kind of things we do here now, and what kind of people are living here. We’re not a bunch of hicks.”
Cheerfully, Qwilleran said, “It looks as if you’re up a creek without a paddle, friend, but there’s a solution to every problem. All it takes is a little thought. Any idea when Lish and Lush will return?”
“Maybe her grandmother does. Wonder what the old gal thinks of Lush. You just know she wants Lish to marry a doctor, and settle down, and raise a family, and be president of the PTA, and sing in the church choir! It’s funny! So why ain’t I laughing?”
EIGHT
Qwilleran had ambivalent reactions to the canceled rehearsal. He had worked hard to meet the deadline. And yet—if it meant the answer to the long-unanswered question about Koko’s background—he would call it an even exchange. Only someone who has lived for years with a psychic cat could understand his attitude.
On Sunday morning he phoned Polly, although he was sure she would be attending church services. He left a message: “Rehearsal postponed. Taking cats to the beach. Will call you tonight. À bientôt.”
Next he grabbed Yum Yum before she knew what was happening and pushed her, protesting, into the travel coop. Koko entered it willingly. Then Qwilleran filled a picnic basket with cold drinks in an ice pack, a ham sandwich for himself, crunchies for the Siamese, and two molasses-ginger cookies from the Scottish bakery. He wondered how these plain, flat, brown cookies could be so humble and yet so delectable. Upon further consideration, he put all four in the basket.
It was only a half-hour drive from the grandiose barn to the snug, friendly log cabin. On arrival the three of them trooped to the screened porch overlooking the lake.
It was a beautiful day. The water splashed gently on the shore. Sandpipers ran up and down like wind-up toys. A soft breeze wafted the tall beach grass that covered the side of the dune. And there was always one tiny bird, weighing a tenth of an ounce, perched on the tip of a blade of grass and riding back and forth.