"Thanks, Lori. That relieves my mind. I thought I had a feline masochist on my hands. How's everything in Moose County? I heard about Dr. Halifax."
"Wasn't that a shame? I don't know what we'll do without that dear man. The whole county is upset. Otherwise, everything's okay. I've been able to handle your correspondence without bothering Mr. Hasselrich."
"And how's the family?"
"The family's fine. Nick is still looking for a different kind of work. We were thinking of starting a bed-and-breakfast."
"Don't move too quickly," Qwilleran cautioned. "Give it plenty of thought. Get some advice."
After talking with Lori, he willingly changed his plans for the morning. He had intended to spend time at the public library, have lunch somewhere, and call on Colin Carmichael after two o'clock. Instead, he spent the next few hours sweet-talking Yum Yum, scratching her chin, fondling her ears, stroking her fur, and doing lap service. Only when she fell into a deep, contented sleep did he steal out of the house and drive down the mountain.
Upon reaching Five Points he was undecided. He had seen a certain bowl at the woodcrafter's shop in Potato Cove, and it kept haunting him. About fifteen inches in diameter, it was cut from the burl of a cherry tree and turned on a lathe until the interior was satin-smooth. In contrast, the top edges and entire exterior were rough and gnarled. He liked it. There had been a time in his life when art objects held little appeal for him, but that had changed along with his circumstances and increased leisure. On a previous visit to the cove he had lingered over the bowl, and now he decided to go back and buy it. He could have lunch at Amy's, walk around for a while, and reach the Gazette office in Spudsboro around two o'clock.
"Sumpin' told me you'd be back to git it," said Wesley, the wood crafter, gleefully. Word had spread around the cove that a stranger with an oversized moustache, who claimed to be a journalist, was hanging around the shops and buying high-ticket items.
Qwilleran loaded the bowl in the trunk of his car—it was even heavier than it looked—and drove to the Village Smithy to tell Vance that his candelabrum was a great success. While there he also bought a hand-forged cowbell with a tone that reminded him of Switzerland.
The blacksmith said, "Somethin's screwy with your car. It don't sound right. You git it from bouncin' 'round these mount'n roads."
"Glad you mentioned it," Qwilleran said. "Where's a good repair shop?"
"I kin fix it. Are you gonna be around? Gimme your keys."
"That's very good of you, Vance. I'll have lunch at Amy's and see you later."
At the Lunch Bucket the plump and pretty proprietor was behind the high counter, smiling as usual, and the baby was burbling in his basket.
Qwilleran said, "I have to confess I've forgotten the baby's name."
"Ashley," she said proudly. "Two months, one week, and six days."
"I like your mountain names: Ashley, Wesley, Vance, Forest, Dewey. Names like that have dignity."
"It's always been that way in the mountains; I don't know why. Women have first names like Carson and Tully and Taylor and Greer. I think it's neat. With a name like Amy, wouldn't you know I'm from the prairie?" She made a comic grimace.
"What brought you to Little Potato?"
"I dated Forest in college and loved the way he painted mountains—so real and yet out of this world. He painted all the signs for Potato Cove, too. They wanted him to paint the signs for Tiptop Estates, but he refused because he didn't believe in what Hawkinfield was doing to Big Potato. Anyway ... we were going to be married at the waterfall last June when all the wildflowers were out. Here's his picture." Amy opened the locket that she wore and showed Qwilleran the face of a lean, unsmiling young man with long, black hair. "Suddenly our whole life caved in. I'll never be able to think of Father's Day without getting sick . . . What can I get you to eat?"
Qwilleran ordered soup and a veggieburger, and while she was preparing it, he said, "There are conflicting reports on what happened at Tiptop on that day."
"I can tell you God's honest truth. Wait till I finish this burger." She ladled up a bowl of vegetable soup. "Here, you can start with this. It's especially good today. I hit it just right, but be careful—it's very hot."
"That's the way I like it," he said, thinking of the corn chowder at the golf club. It was thick with vegetables, including turnips, which he swallowed without complaint. "Excellent soup, Amy! A person could live on this stuff!"
"Sometimes we have to," she said as she carried the burger to his table and sat down.
Qwilleran was the only customer, and he wondered how this tiny, unpopular restaurant could survive. "Where do you buy your groceries?" he asked.
"We belong to a co-op where we can buy in bulk. Other things come from the Yellyhoo Market on the river. We buy right out of the crates and off the back of trucks. There's a big saving."
"You were going to tell me Forest's story, Amy."
