Authors: Claudia Bishop
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Detectives, #New York (N.Y.), #Women Sleuths, #Sisters, #Unknown, #Taverns (Inns)
Murder Well-Done (6 page)
"Sure. But I'm only halfway through and it's due back at the Cornell library next week. Mrs. Doncaster at the library here said the waiting list is two weeks for the Hemlock falls copy. You could buy your own copy. The Wal-Mart's carrying it. It's been deep-discounted to twenty bucks."
"Twenty dollars? I'll get on the waiting list at the library."
"That won't give you enough time. You want tot read it before he gets here, don't you?"
"Before who gets here?"
"Evan Blight."
"Evan Blight? Evan Blight's coming to Hemlock Falls?"
"Well, sure."
"Wow."
John, walking into the foyer, shook his head, gave Dina a pat on the back, and opened the office door, gesturing Quill in side. "After you, you felon, you," he said, and shut the door in Dina's interested face.
Quill walked over to her desk and regarded the pile of mail stacked in her In-box. John settled into the leather chair behind the desk. She tugged at her hair and attempted unconcern.
"Quill. Some of this mail has been sitting here for two weeks."
"Hmm," Quill said. "Anything urgent?"
"If you mean are we going to get the phones cut off, like the last time you let the mail sit, no. But there's this." He waved a scarlet envelope at her.
Quill sank meekly into the chair in front of the desk. "What/"
"It looks like a bench warrant."
"A what/"
"A warrant for your arrest. For a speeding ticket."
"Me? I didn't get a speeding ticket." Quill took the envelope with a strong sense of indignation. "I would have remembered getting a speeding ticket. Now the equivalent of a parking ticket, yeah. I remember that. Last week."
"You didn't remember the phone bill last year," John said mildly. "And the phones were shut off for three hours."
"Yeah, but." She opened the envelope and took out a piece of cardboard marked Bureau of Traffic Violations, Village of Hemlock Falls, Notice of Violation and Impending Default Judgment. This is your final notice.
"I never got a first notice," Quill said indignantly.
John waved a second, unopened envelope at her.
Quill ignored it and stared at the warrant. "We don't' have a Bureau of Traffic Violations in Hemlock Falls."
"We do now. Sheriff Dorset and Bernie Bristol arranged for it last week. Don't you read the Gazette? It was part of their campaign platform."
Quill turned the cardboard over. "It says here I can plead not guilty by requesting a hearing Wednesday morning at nine a.m. Which Wednesday?"
"Any Wednesday."
"But I didn't get a speeding ticket!" She read it again. "This says I got a speeding ticket last Friday. Davy Kiddermeister stopped me near the school. He gave me a warning and the equivalent of a parking ticket. But he didn't' give me a speeding ticket."
"You'd better give Howie a call and get on down to the courthouse tomorrow to get it straightened out."
"I won't. This is ridiculous!"
"Then they'll come after you."
"Who's going to come after me?"
"Deputy Dave, most likely. Maybe Dorset himself."
"I'll just call Myles. Oh. I can't call Myles, can I? He's not sheriff anymore. And besides.... " She trailed off. John's eyes were uncomfortably shrewd.
John held one hand up and took the phone with the other. He dialed, waited a moment, got Howie Murchison on the line, described the situation briefly, then said, "I can't, Howie. I've got a meeting with some suppliers. Meg will have to do it. You want tot talk to Quill? She's right here."
He held the phone out.
"Do what?" asked Quill, hesitating to take the receiver. "What will Meg have to do instead?"
"Just talk to him, Quill. He's agreed to represent you in traffic court tomorrow, but he wants more details."
Quill put the receiver to her ear. "Howie?"
Howie, who was one of the most patient, equably tempered men Quill knew, was admirably calm and agreed to meet her at the courthouse the following morning. He asked her questions about the ticket. Quill expostulated, Howie demurred; Meg, he said, would be needed as a character witness. He'd heard odd things about this sheriff. Quill thanked him, hung up, and looked at John. "Are you still upset?"
"About the mail? No, Quill. I know about you and mail. About the traffic ticket, yeah. It's dumb. Meg's told me often enough about you and traffic tickets. When you offered to take care of the mail last week when I was finishing up the year-end accounting, I should have followed up. But this ticket stuff isn't anything to mess with. I've heard funny things about this new sheriff."
"What kind of funny things?"
John shrugged. "Nothing specific. But the town's changing."
Quill made a face. "Everything's changing." She brooded a moment, shook herself, then said, "About the mail. I'm sorry, John. I booted it."
He reached over and squeezed her hand. "It seems to be taken care of. And you've had a lot on your mind lately. I thought you were going to Syracuse today."
"Yep."
"You'll feel more like yourself after you've settled things. Weather's getting bad. You want to give yourself enough time. Just let me run over a few of the arrangements for the rest of December, then I think you should get on the road early. You know this is the first year we're totally booked through the holidays."
Quill nodded. "Dina told me. I hadn't heard about Evan Who sis. When is he coming to Hemlock Falls?"
"Day after tomorrow."
"Two days before the wedding? He's not staying here, is he?'
"Yes, he's staying here."
"I thought we were booked up for the Santini wedding."
"I moved one of the bridesmaids to the Marriott instead." He leaned forward and flipped through the registry. "A Meredith Phelan. I called to ask about the change. She was charming about it."
Quill put her head in her hands. "why here!?"
"Elmer Henry wrote to him. He's a guest of S. O. A. P."
"Are they paying for him?"
John nodded again. "We received a deposit check from Harland Peterson in yesterday's mail. He's the treasurer. I thought it'd be better to have Blight here - it's good for business."
Quill exhaled. A long, long sigh. She'd always thought John's pragmatic approach to celebrity guests rude. It wasn't right to exile poor Ms. Phelan to the Marriott in favor of a more prominent guest. If she protested, John would merely point out that the Inn was making money.
But the implied insult to a prospective guest paled beside the public relations problem she was going to have. When word got out that they were the hosts for Evan Blight, proponent of manly men, Adela Henry would blow a gasket. The H. O. W. membership was furious with S. O. A. P. and all it stood for. Quill's imagination rioted. The foyer would be yet another scene of confrontation between agitated people of varying age, sex, and gender. Elmer, Harland, Dookie, and the other earnest disciples of primitive man (or whatever the heck Blight called it) would show up half-naked and painted blue right in the middle of the Santini wedding. Alphonse, his prospective in-laws, and Claire, the bride-to-be, would be furious. They'd all be furious.
She'd spend Christmas like a gerbil on an exercise wheel.
Her face got warm. She realized she was furious. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to throw something. "You know this is going to create more hassle for us. Why didn`t you just tell the stupid jerk to STAY HOME!"
John looked sympathetic, but firm.
Quill took several deep breaths, tried to calm down, then said gloomily after a long pause, "Everybody's paying for my bad mood."
"Not everybody." He laughed a little. "Me, maybe. And Meg. And Myles, of course."
She stretched her legs out, folded her hands over her middle, and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. The office had a tin ceiling which she'd never really liked. The stamped ivy design marched from molding to molding in regular patterns. She'd always found this regularity, this dependability that one square looked exactly like the next, a little depressing. "You know what?"
"What?"
"It's people I want to be dependable. Not art."
John blinked.
Quill sat up. "I've been thinking about this a lot, John. I mean, I'm thirty-four years old and I just realized I don't like people to be... to be... well, people. Normal, rowdy, un-self-controlled. That artist's retreat I went to? Just before Thanksgiving? For a bit after I came home, I was painting really well. Then I stopped. When Myles asked me to change my whole way of life and marry him. He wants children. John, companionship every day, someone to be there when he comes home at night. I can't do it. It freezes me. I want all the randomness, all the ambiguity, all the uncertainty, all the uncertainty of life in my paintings. And yet, not in people. And I don't know if I'm right or I'm wrong. Meg just told me I've got my emotions all wrapped up in Ace bandages. People like Meg may be right. If I don't allow that... that... direct sort of messiness of emotion into my life, it can't get back to my work."
Quill fiddled with a sofa cushion. It was a wild iris in needlepoint, the gift of one of their regular guests. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm so tired, John."
"You can, you know. Talk about it. I'm always here."
Quill took a breath. "You are. And I'm taking advantage of it. I swear as soon as - I mean after I get back from Syracuse you are going to see a new reformed Quill. I'll got through the mail. Remember to pay all my parking tickets. Be diplomatic to all the guests." She groaned suddenly. "Nuts. What am I supposed to do about this stupid bachelor party for Santini? Tell me you really don't want me to kick S. O. A. P. out and cancel H. O. W. and get everyone mad at me."
"Why don't we put the Santini bachelor party in the dining room, H. O. W. in the conference room, and S. O. A. P. on the terrace?"
"In winter?"
"Sure. We'll get some smut pots from Richardson's apple farm and line the terrace with nice primitive light and a modicum of warmth. They'll love it."
"A modicum," muttered Quill. "The warmth will certainly be less than a modicum. What's less than a modicum?"
John shrugged. "I don't think they'll complain. From what I can gather, the rites of passage involve exposure to extremes. They're spending all day in the woods barbecuing a steer the day of the meeting, and Elmer said they'll be bringing it with them. They don't want service or food - just the space. I'll get Mike to bring up the barbecue spit from the shed. And we'll put the bridal shower in the lounge. So all you have to do is let everyone know the schedule."
Quill sighed and looked at her watch. "I could catch Elmer in the park if I hurry. They're meeting there today. Meg roasted them a pig. And I'll tell Doreen about H. O. W. And I'm meeting with Senator Santini and Claire at five o'clock to get the particulars about the bachelor party and the shower and the rehearsal dinner. I wonder if he has any idea of the number of men that are going to show up."
"You'll meet the Santini party after Syracuse?"
She nodded, feeling that internal shift that meant her hesitation was over. She said goodbye, left the office, and went into the foyer to get her coat and boots. She'd been meaning to replace the coat, which was a tattered red down, and her hat, which was ugly but warm, but had been too depressed to do it.
"You're seeing sheriff McHale?" Dina asked as she crossed the foyer to the coat closet.
"Just lunch," Quill said with an airy wave of her hand.
Dina's large brown eyes were moist. Quill, to her alarm, detected sympathy. Nothing, absolutely nothing was private in this place. "Well, be careful. And, Quill?"
Quill paused, her coat slung over one arm. "What!"
Dina quailed. Twenty-four-year-old graduate students spent a lot of time waiting for opportunities to quail and made the best of it when the least little chance happened by. "Nothing. Just. Ah. Watch for icy spots."
Quill carried her boots through the dining room. Kathleen had gone, so Quill couldn't ask her why her crazy brother thought he'd given her a speeding ticket when he hadn't. A faint sound of singing came form the back of the kitchen. Meg, with a particularly tuneless version of "The Boar's Head Carol." The sound was too muffled to be coming from the kitchen itself. If Meg were in the storeroom, Quill could sneak out without a lot of last-minute questions.
Quill edged the swinging doors open a few inches. She could see part of the birch shelving, a few bundles of dried red peppers hanging from the beams, and a copper saucepan bubbling on the Aga. Quill pushed the doors open. Meg was nowhere in sight.
" `The bo-o-a-ar's head in hand bear I/ Bedecked with bay and rosemareee... ` "
Quill winced. Meg's music suffered more in minor keys for some reason. But it tended to deafen her awareness of the outside world. Quill made it to the back door and stopped to pull on her boots.
Meg popped her head out of the storeroom. "Off to Syracuse?"
Quill jumped.
"You're wearing that ratty down coat? And that fur hat?'
"What's wrong with this coat?" Quill asked defensively.
"It's ugly," Meg said frankly. "It's so ugly you can tell it a mile off. And that fur hat with the flaps? And to think some poor rabbit died for that hat. Yuck."
"It's warm," Quill said stubbornly.
"Leaving without saying anything?"
"Um," Quill said. "You were right. John is right. The weather looks a little stormy and I thought I'd get an early start."
" 'Don't know why' " Meg sand, " `There's no sun up in the sky/ Stormy weather... since my man and I... ` "
Meg dropped the egg whisk she'd been using as a microphone. "Oh, Quillie, don't. I didn't mean it about the coat and the hat. Well, I did, but who cares? Don't cry. It's not... it's not like he's dumping you. You're dumping him." She set the box of onions she was carrying on the butcher block and approached Quill rather warily. "I'm sorry. But you're right to push off the dock like this. The relationship just isn't going to work."
"There's no reason why it shouldn't," Quill sobbed, amazed at her own tears. "he's a great guy... "
"A terrific guy."
"and he's been absolutely wonderful, and patient, and so... so... calm. And steady."
"I know." Meg patted her on the back. "Do you want a glass of sherry or anything?"
"And this is going to hurt him so much."
"I know. What about a cup of - "
"You know?! And you're just going to let me go off like this and do it? Tell him I want to break it off? That I've really, really tried, but I just can't. I just can't. It's just... " Quill, convinced she was looking too piteous for words, scrubbed at her face with her scarf and made a conscious effort at coherence. "I don't like tin ceilings."
"Of course you don't."
"I need more than a tin ceiling. Not that tin ceilings aren't good for some people. Just not me."
"Twenty dollars? I'll get on the waiting list at the library."
"That won't give you enough time. You want tot read it before he gets here, don't you?"
"Before who gets here?"
"Evan Blight."
"Evan Blight? Evan Blight's coming to Hemlock Falls?"
"Well, sure."
"Wow."
John, walking into the foyer, shook his head, gave Dina a pat on the back, and opened the office door, gesturing Quill in side. "After you, you felon, you," he said, and shut the door in Dina's interested face.
Quill walked over to her desk and regarded the pile of mail stacked in her In-box. John settled into the leather chair behind the desk. She tugged at her hair and attempted unconcern.
"Quill. Some of this mail has been sitting here for two weeks."
"Hmm," Quill said. "Anything urgent?"
"If you mean are we going to get the phones cut off, like the last time you let the mail sit, no. But there's this." He waved a scarlet envelope at her.
Quill sank meekly into the chair in front of the desk. "What/"
"It looks like a bench warrant."
"A what/"
"A warrant for your arrest. For a speeding ticket."
"Me? I didn't get a speeding ticket." Quill took the envelope with a strong sense of indignation. "I would have remembered getting a speeding ticket. Now the equivalent of a parking ticket, yeah. I remember that. Last week."
"You didn't remember the phone bill last year," John said mildly. "And the phones were shut off for three hours."
"Yeah, but." She opened the envelope and took out a piece of cardboard marked Bureau of Traffic Violations, Village of Hemlock Falls, Notice of Violation and Impending Default Judgment. This is your final notice.
"I never got a first notice," Quill said indignantly.
John waved a second, unopened envelope at her.
Quill ignored it and stared at the warrant. "We don't' have a Bureau of Traffic Violations in Hemlock Falls."
"We do now. Sheriff Dorset and Bernie Bristol arranged for it last week. Don't you read the Gazette? It was part of their campaign platform."
Quill turned the cardboard over. "It says here I can plead not guilty by requesting a hearing Wednesday morning at nine a.m. Which Wednesday?"
"Any Wednesday."
"But I didn't get a speeding ticket!" She read it again. "This says I got a speeding ticket last Friday. Davy Kiddermeister stopped me near the school. He gave me a warning and the equivalent of a parking ticket. But he didn't' give me a speeding ticket."
"You'd better give Howie a call and get on down to the courthouse tomorrow to get it straightened out."
"I won't. This is ridiculous!"
"Then they'll come after you."
"Who's going to come after me?"
"Deputy Dave, most likely. Maybe Dorset himself."
"I'll just call Myles. Oh. I can't call Myles, can I? He's not sheriff anymore. And besides.... " She trailed off. John's eyes were uncomfortably shrewd.
John held one hand up and took the phone with the other. He dialed, waited a moment, got Howie Murchison on the line, described the situation briefly, then said, "I can't, Howie. I've got a meeting with some suppliers. Meg will have to do it. You want tot talk to Quill? She's right here."
He held the phone out.
"Do what?" asked Quill, hesitating to take the receiver. "What will Meg have to do instead?"
"Just talk to him, Quill. He's agreed to represent you in traffic court tomorrow, but he wants more details."
Quill put the receiver to her ear. "Howie?"
Howie, who was one of the most patient, equably tempered men Quill knew, was admirably calm and agreed to meet her at the courthouse the following morning. He asked her questions about the ticket. Quill expostulated, Howie demurred; Meg, he said, would be needed as a character witness. He'd heard odd things about this sheriff. Quill thanked him, hung up, and looked at John. "Are you still upset?"
"About the mail? No, Quill. I know about you and mail. About the traffic ticket, yeah. It's dumb. Meg's told me often enough about you and traffic tickets. When you offered to take care of the mail last week when I was finishing up the year-end accounting, I should have followed up. But this ticket stuff isn't anything to mess with. I've heard funny things about this new sheriff."
"What kind of funny things?"
John shrugged. "Nothing specific. But the town's changing."
Quill made a face. "Everything's changing." She brooded a moment, shook herself, then said, "About the mail. I'm sorry, John. I booted it."
He reached over and squeezed her hand. "It seems to be taken care of. And you've had a lot on your mind lately. I thought you were going to Syracuse today."
"Yep."
"You'll feel more like yourself after you've settled things. Weather's getting bad. You want to give yourself enough time. Just let me run over a few of the arrangements for the rest of December, then I think you should get on the road early. You know this is the first year we're totally booked through the holidays."
Quill nodded. "Dina told me. I hadn't heard about Evan Who sis. When is he coming to Hemlock Falls?"
"Day after tomorrow."
"Two days before the wedding? He's not staying here, is he?'
"Yes, he's staying here."
"I thought we were booked up for the Santini wedding."
"I moved one of the bridesmaids to the Marriott instead." He leaned forward and flipped through the registry. "A Meredith Phelan. I called to ask about the change. She was charming about it."
Quill put her head in her hands. "why here!?"
"Elmer Henry wrote to him. He's a guest of S. O. A. P."
"Are they paying for him?"
John nodded again. "We received a deposit check from Harland Peterson in yesterday's mail. He's the treasurer. I thought it'd be better to have Blight here - it's good for business."
Quill exhaled. A long, long sigh. She'd always thought John's pragmatic approach to celebrity guests rude. It wasn't right to exile poor Ms. Phelan to the Marriott in favor of a more prominent guest. If she protested, John would merely point out that the Inn was making money.
But the implied insult to a prospective guest paled beside the public relations problem she was going to have. When word got out that they were the hosts for Evan Blight, proponent of manly men, Adela Henry would blow a gasket. The H. O. W. membership was furious with S. O. A. P. and all it stood for. Quill's imagination rioted. The foyer would be yet another scene of confrontation between agitated people of varying age, sex, and gender. Elmer, Harland, Dookie, and the other earnest disciples of primitive man (or whatever the heck Blight called it) would show up half-naked and painted blue right in the middle of the Santini wedding. Alphonse, his prospective in-laws, and Claire, the bride-to-be, would be furious. They'd all be furious.
She'd spend Christmas like a gerbil on an exercise wheel.
Her face got warm. She realized she was furious. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to throw something. "You know this is going to create more hassle for us. Why didn`t you just tell the stupid jerk to STAY HOME!"
John looked sympathetic, but firm.
Quill took several deep breaths, tried to calm down, then said gloomily after a long pause, "Everybody's paying for my bad mood."
"Not everybody." He laughed a little. "Me, maybe. And Meg. And Myles, of course."
She stretched her legs out, folded her hands over her middle, and leaned her head against the back of the sofa. The office had a tin ceiling which she'd never really liked. The stamped ivy design marched from molding to molding in regular patterns. She'd always found this regularity, this dependability that one square looked exactly like the next, a little depressing. "You know what?"
"What?"
"It's people I want to be dependable. Not art."
John blinked.
Quill sat up. "I've been thinking about this a lot, John. I mean, I'm thirty-four years old and I just realized I don't like people to be... to be... well, people. Normal, rowdy, un-self-controlled. That artist's retreat I went to? Just before Thanksgiving? For a bit after I came home, I was painting really well. Then I stopped. When Myles asked me to change my whole way of life and marry him. He wants children. John, companionship every day, someone to be there when he comes home at night. I can't do it. It freezes me. I want all the randomness, all the ambiguity, all the uncertainty, all the uncertainty of life in my paintings. And yet, not in people. And I don't know if I'm right or I'm wrong. Meg just told me I've got my emotions all wrapped up in Ace bandages. People like Meg may be right. If I don't allow that... that... direct sort of messiness of emotion into my life, it can't get back to my work."
Quill fiddled with a sofa cushion. It was a wild iris in needlepoint, the gift of one of their regular guests. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'm sick of thinking about it. I'm so tired, John."
"You can, you know. Talk about it. I'm always here."
Quill took a breath. "You are. And I'm taking advantage of it. I swear as soon as - I mean after I get back from Syracuse you are going to see a new reformed Quill. I'll got through the mail. Remember to pay all my parking tickets. Be diplomatic to all the guests." She groaned suddenly. "Nuts. What am I supposed to do about this stupid bachelor party for Santini? Tell me you really don't want me to kick S. O. A. P. out and cancel H. O. W. and get everyone mad at me."
"Why don't we put the Santini bachelor party in the dining room, H. O. W. in the conference room, and S. O. A. P. on the terrace?"
"In winter?"
"Sure. We'll get some smut pots from Richardson's apple farm and line the terrace with nice primitive light and a modicum of warmth. They'll love it."
"A modicum," muttered Quill. "The warmth will certainly be less than a modicum. What's less than a modicum?"
John shrugged. "I don't think they'll complain. From what I can gather, the rites of passage involve exposure to extremes. They're spending all day in the woods barbecuing a steer the day of the meeting, and Elmer said they'll be bringing it with them. They don't want service or food - just the space. I'll get Mike to bring up the barbecue spit from the shed. And we'll put the bridal shower in the lounge. So all you have to do is let everyone know the schedule."
Quill sighed and looked at her watch. "I could catch Elmer in the park if I hurry. They're meeting there today. Meg roasted them a pig. And I'll tell Doreen about H. O. W. And I'm meeting with Senator Santini and Claire at five o'clock to get the particulars about the bachelor party and the shower and the rehearsal dinner. I wonder if he has any idea of the number of men that are going to show up."
"You'll meet the Santini party after Syracuse?"
She nodded, feeling that internal shift that meant her hesitation was over. She said goodbye, left the office, and went into the foyer to get her coat and boots. She'd been meaning to replace the coat, which was a tattered red down, and her hat, which was ugly but warm, but had been too depressed to do it.
"You're seeing sheriff McHale?" Dina asked as she crossed the foyer to the coat closet.
"Just lunch," Quill said with an airy wave of her hand.
Dina's large brown eyes were moist. Quill, to her alarm, detected sympathy. Nothing, absolutely nothing was private in this place. "Well, be careful. And, Quill?"
Quill paused, her coat slung over one arm. "What!"
Dina quailed. Twenty-four-year-old graduate students spent a lot of time waiting for opportunities to quail and made the best of it when the least little chance happened by. "Nothing. Just. Ah. Watch for icy spots."
Quill carried her boots through the dining room. Kathleen had gone, so Quill couldn't ask her why her crazy brother thought he'd given her a speeding ticket when he hadn't. A faint sound of singing came form the back of the kitchen. Meg, with a particularly tuneless version of "The Boar's Head Carol." The sound was too muffled to be coming from the kitchen itself. If Meg were in the storeroom, Quill could sneak out without a lot of last-minute questions.
Quill edged the swinging doors open a few inches. She could see part of the birch shelving, a few bundles of dried red peppers hanging from the beams, and a copper saucepan bubbling on the Aga. Quill pushed the doors open. Meg was nowhere in sight.
" `The bo-o-a-ar's head in hand bear I/ Bedecked with bay and rosemareee... ` "
Quill winced. Meg's music suffered more in minor keys for some reason. But it tended to deafen her awareness of the outside world. Quill made it to the back door and stopped to pull on her boots.
Meg popped her head out of the storeroom. "Off to Syracuse?"
Quill jumped.
"You're wearing that ratty down coat? And that fur hat?'
"What's wrong with this coat?" Quill asked defensively.
"It's ugly," Meg said frankly. "It's so ugly you can tell it a mile off. And that fur hat with the flaps? And to think some poor rabbit died for that hat. Yuck."
"It's warm," Quill said stubbornly.
"Leaving without saying anything?"
"Um," Quill said. "You were right. John is right. The weather looks a little stormy and I thought I'd get an early start."
" 'Don't know why' " Meg sand, " `There's no sun up in the sky/ Stormy weather... since my man and I... ` "
Meg dropped the egg whisk she'd been using as a microphone. "Oh, Quillie, don't. I didn't mean it about the coat and the hat. Well, I did, but who cares? Don't cry. It's not... it's not like he's dumping you. You're dumping him." She set the box of onions she was carrying on the butcher block and approached Quill rather warily. "I'm sorry. But you're right to push off the dock like this. The relationship just isn't going to work."
"There's no reason why it shouldn't," Quill sobbed, amazed at her own tears. "he's a great guy... "
"A terrific guy."
"and he's been absolutely wonderful, and patient, and so... so... calm. And steady."
"I know." Meg patted her on the back. "Do you want a glass of sherry or anything?"
"And this is going to hurt him so much."
"I know. What about a cup of - "
"You know?! And you're just going to let me go off like this and do it? Tell him I want to break it off? That I've really, really tried, but I just can't. I just can't. It's just... " Quill, convinced she was looking too piteous for words, scrubbed at her face with her scarf and made a conscious effort at coherence. "I don't like tin ceilings."
"Of course you don't."
"I need more than a tin ceiling. Not that tin ceilings aren't good for some people. Just not me."
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