Another woman with designer-style appearance and personality came briskly into the foyer, smiling and extending both hands in welcome. "We've been reading your column in the little newspaper here, and it's enchanting! We remember your by-line from Chicago, too. Are you looking for a place to stay? Be our guest!"
"To tell the truth, I've been on the island since Sunday," he said. "I'm traveling with pets, so I'm obliged to stay in one of the cottages at Domino Inn."
"Why don't you stay here and let the animals have the cottage? The Vacation Helpers will feed them and walk them for you."
"It's not so simple as that," he objected. "I appreciate the suggestion, but my purpose here at the moment is to find lodgings for a couple of friends. Arch Riker and his wife—he's publisher of the "little newspaper'—want to spend this weekend on the island. I believe they'd enjoy your inn."
While standing in the foyer he had scanned the adjoining rooms and had noted the impressive antiques and impressive decor and also the lack of guests. Someone was hovering in the living room, but she wore a salmon-pink uniform and was dusting the bric-a-brac.
"Let us show you around," Carla offered, "It took nerve to paint the plank paneling white, but I think it enhances our country antiques, don't you?"
There were loungy sofas in the living room, foils for the expensively severe tables, desks and cupboards. In the dining room Windsor chairs surrounded a long trestle table; its pedigree was palpable even to Qwilleran. Upstairs, only one door was closed; open doors revealed perfectly appointed bedrooms and sitting rooms that seemed to be waiting for a magazine photographer.
"Do you think your friends would like a suite?" Trudy asked as she handed him a card listing the rates.
There were four bedrooms and two suites. The Garden Suite was twice the price of a bedroom, and the English Suite was the most expensive of all, having a Jacobean canopy bed with twisted posts.
"I think Mr. and Mrs. Riker would like the English Suite," he said, chuckling inwardly at the thought of his friend's indignation. Arch could afford it, but he always played the tightwad. Furthermore, he had been goading Qwilleran for his Scottish thrift for four decades. It was time for sweet revenge.
"We put fresh flowers in the English Suite," one of the women said. "Do you happen to know what the lady likes?"
"Yellow."
"Perfect! Yellow looks lovely with the dark oak. We'll phone the mainland and have them shipped over by ferry."
With the arrangements completed, Qwilleran was invited to have champagne in the gazebo. "Make mine a soft drink, and I'll accept with pleasure," he said.
The gazebo was screened, not only against mosquitoes but against wandering cats. Several healthy specimens, two of them pregnant, were prowling about the backyard, waiting for the hors d'oeuvres.
"Everyone feeds them," Trudy said. "The island is really overcatted."
They sat in white wicker chairs while a timorous young island woman in salmon pink brought the champagne bucket, glasses, and a flavored mineral water for Qwilleran. He proposed a toast to the two merry inn-keepers and then asked the standard question: What had brought them to the island? The women looked at each other briefly for cues and then began an overlapping dialogue:
Carla: "Both our families have been members of the Grand Island Club since it began, so we've been summer neighbors all our lives, until—"
Trudy: "Our husbands died, and our children thought the Caymans were more exciting, so—"
Carla: "We sold our memberships and—"
Trudy: "Started traveling together, buying antiques and staying at country inns."
Carla: "We collected so much stuff, we had two options—"
Trudy: "To open an antique shop or start a bed-and-breakfast, so—"
Carla: "We decided we'd like an inn, because we love meeting people and playing the host."
Trudy: "And then we heard about the Pear Island opportunity. Imagine our surprise when—"
Carla: "We realized it was our own Grand Island with a different name."
Trudy: "Actually, we're delighted, because—"
Carla: "There's something about this island that gets into the blood."
As they stopped for breath, Qwilleran blinked his eyes and shook his head. Seated between them, he was turning rapidly from side to side to keep up with their dizzying recital. "May I change my seat in order to see both of you lovely ladies?" he asked. It was no exaggeration; he wondered how many hairdressers, masseuses, dressmakers, cosmetic surgeons, orthodontists, and voice coaches had labored to produce these perfect womanworks. Their well-modulated voices assumed a higher pitch, however, with each pouring from the bottle.
A tray of canapes was brought to the gazebo by the painfully awkward server, who was trying hard to do everything right. When she had gone, Qwilleran asked, "Do you staff your inn with islanders?"
