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."
Riker said, "Toulouse is a nice cat, but he has one bad habit. He pounces on the kitchen counter when Mildred is cooking and steals a shrimp or a pork chop, right from under her nose. When I lived Down Below, we had a cat who was a counter-pouncer, and we cured his habit with a spray bottle of water. We had a damp pet for a couple of weeks (that's spelled d-a-m-p), but he got the message and was a model of propriety for the rest of his life— except when we weren't looking."
The evening ended earlier than usual, because Polly was working the next day. No one else had any Saturday commitments. Riker, following his recent marriage, no longer spent seven days a week at the office, and Qwilleran's life was unstructured, except for feeding and brushing the Siamese and servicing their commode. "My self-image," he liked to say, "was formerly that of a journalist; now I perceive myself as handservant to a pair of cats—also tailservant."
He and Polly drove back to Pickax, where she had an apartment on Goodwinter Boulevard, not far from his converted apple barn. As soon as they pulled away from the beach house he popped the question: "What's all this about going to Oregon? You never told me."
"I'm sorry, dear. My old roommate phoned just before you picked me up, and the invitation was so unexpected, I hardly knew how to decide. But I have two weeks more of vacation time, and I've never seen Oregon. They say it's a beautiful state."
"Hmmm," Qwilleran murmured as he considered all the aspects of this sudden decision. Once she had gone to England alone and had become quite ill. Once she had gone to Lockmaster for a weekend and had met another man. At length he asked, "Shall I feed Bootsie while you're away?"
"That's kind of you to offer, Qwill, but he really needs a live-in companion for that length of time. My sister-in-law will be happy to move in. When I return, we should think seriously about spending a weekend on the island at an interesting bed-and-breakfast."
"A weekend of inhaling fudge fumes could be hazardous to our health," he objected. "It would be safer to fly down to Minneapolis with the Rikers. You and Mildred could go shopping, and Arch and I could see a ballgame."
He stroked his moustache in indecision, wondering how much to tell her. He had an uneasiness about the present situation that was rooted in the old days, when he and Riker worked for large newspapers Down Below. They kept a punctilious distance from advertisers, lobbyists, and politicians as a matter of policy. Now, Riker was getting too chummy with Don Exbridge. XYZ Enterprises was a heavy advertiser in the Moose County Something; Exbridge had lent the Rikers a cottage for their honeymoon; and he had expedited the building of an addition to their beach house.
To Qwilleran it looked bad. And yet, he tried to tell himself, this was a small town, and everything was different. There were fewer people, and they were constantly thrown together at churches, fraternal lodges, business organizations, and country clubs. They were all on first-name terms and mutually supportive. And there were times when they covered up for each other. He had met Don Exbridge socially and at the Pickax Boosters Club and found him a hearty, likable man, ever ready with a handshake and a compliment. His cheerful face always looked scrubbed and polished; so did the top of his head, having only a fringe of brown hair over his ears. Exbridge was the idea man for the XYZ firm, and he said his cranium could sprout either ideas or hair but not both.
Polly said, "You're quiet tonight. Did you have a good time? You look wonderful—ten years younger than your age." Under his blazer he was wearing her birthday gift—a boldly striped shirt with white collar and a patterned tie.
"Thanks. You're looking pretty spiffy yourself. I'm glad to see you wearing bright colors. I assume it means you're happy."
