At that point some twinges in the left ankle reminded Qwilleran that he had been sitting at a desk too long. He sank into his lounge chair, propping both feet on the ottoman, and thought about Moose County . . . about the sunny June days up there . . . about the old doctor's suicide . . . and about Melinda Goodwinter's wicked green eyes and long lashes. Her return to Pickax after three years in Boston had crossed his mind oftener than he cared to admit. Her presence would definitely disturb his comfortable relationship with Polly, who was a loving woman of his own age. Melinda, for her part, had a youthful appeal that he had once found irresistible, and she had a way of asking for what she wanted. To be friends with both of them, to some degree or other, would be ideal, he reflected wistfully, but Pickax was a small town, and Polly was overpossessive. The whole problem would be tidily solved if he decided not to return to Moose County, and that was a distinct possibility, although he had not given it a moment's thought since arriving in the Potatoes.
Reaching for a pad of paper he jotted down some options, commenting on each to faithful Koko, who was loitering sociably. Yum Yum was on the bed, wretchedly nipping at her flanks and tearing out tufts of fur.
Move back to a large city. "Which one? And why? Pm beginning to prefer small towns. Must be getting old."
Buy a newspaper. "Now that I can afford one, I no longer want one. Too bad."
Travel. "Sounds good, but what would I do about you and Yum Yum?" he asked Koko, who blinked and scratched his ear.
Teach journalism. "That's what everyone says I should do, but I'd rather do it than teach it."
Try to get into acting. "I was pretty good when I was in college, and television has increased the opportunities since then."
Build a hotel in Pickax. "God knows it needs a new one! We could go six stories high and call it the Pickax Towers."
He had been so intent on planning the rest of his life that he failed to hear a car pulling into the parking lot, but Koko heard it and raced downstairs. Qwilleran followed, descending the stairs lamely. Through the glass of the French doors he could see the top of an umbrella, ploddingly ascending the twenty-five steps. It reached the veranda, and Qwilleran—sloppily attired, unshaven, and leaning on a cane—recognized the last person in the world he wanted to see.
CHAPTER 13
Qwilleran recognized the hat waiting outside the front door—a large one with a brim like a banking plane—and wished he could slink back upstairs, but it was too late. She had caught sight of him through the glass panes.
"A thousand pardons!" she cried when he opened the door in his grubby condition. "I'm Vonda Dudley Wix. I'm calling at an inopportune time. I should have telephoned first. Do you remember me?"
"Of course." He remembered not only the hat but also the young-old face beneath it and the scarf tied in a perky bow under her chin. "Come in," he said, exaggerating his limp and his facial expressions of agony.
"I won't stay," she said. "Colin told me about your misfortune, and I brought you some of my Chocolate Whoppers to boost your morale." She was holding a paper plate covered with foil.
"Thank you. I need a boost," he said, brightening at the mention of something chocolate. "Will you come in for a cup of coffee?"
"I don't drink coffee," she said as she parked her umbrella on the veranda. "It goes to my head and makes me quite tipsy."
"I don't have tea. How about a glass of apple juice?"
"Oh, feathers! I'll throw discretion to the winds and have coffee," she said airily, "if it isn't too much trouble."
"No trouble—that is, if you don't mind drinking it in the kitchen. My computerized coffeemaker does all the work."
Leaning on his carved walking staff he conducted her slowly to the rear of the house, while she chattered about her last visit to Tiptop, and how it had changed, and what delightful parties the Hawkinfields used to give in the old days.
Qwilleran pressed the button on the coffeemaker (the dial was set permanently at Extra Strong) and unwrapped the cookies: three inches in diameter, an inch thick, and loaded with morsels of chocolate and chunks of walnuts.
"They're a trifle excessive," said his guest, "but that's how my boss liked them. I used to bake them for J.J. once a week." Qwilleran thought, That's why he let her keep on writing that drivel. "This is the first time I've made them since he died," she added.
"I feel flattered." He poured mugs of the black brew.
"Are the rumors true, Mr. Qwilleran?"
"What rumors?"
"That you're going to buy Tiptop and open a bed-and-breakfast?"
"I'm a writer, Ms. Wix. Not an innkeeper. By the way, the cookies are delicious."
