The sly comment was overlooked—or purposely avoided—as the weatherman jumped up, tapped his watch, said he was due at the station, said a hasty thanks for the food, and left.
It was Tuesday before Polly felt “settled” enough to enjoy a dinner date. She left the library early, had her hair done, splurged on a facial, and went home to put on the summer suit she had bought in Chicago. The color was called “orange sherbet,” and she felt quite daring.
When Qwilleran arrived to pick her up, he exclaimed, “You look . . . wonderful!” It was the only adjective he knew that meant radiant, well coiffed, and well dressed.
“And you look handsome,” she murmured. He had trimmed his moustache and coordinated his blazer, shirt, and tie. Dressing carefully was a compliment they paid each other—and the restaurant—when they dined out.
They went to the Old Grist Mill, which combined country charm with contemporary chic. The owner, Elizabeth Hart, was from Chicago. Her maître d’, Derek Cuttlebrink, was from the town of Wildcat.
“You guys look spiffy tonight,” he said with the nervy nonchalance of a favorite son who is six-feet-eight. “What’ll it be? One dry sherry and one Q cocktail straight up?” He handed them the cards with a conspiratorial whisper. “Avoid the lamb curry unless you want to live dangerously.”
When the drinks were served, Qwilleran said, “Now tell me how things are going at the library.”
“We hired a very nice woman to be my successor, Myrtle Parsons. She was a school librarian in Bixby, and is so happy to be working here. We’re working together on everything that comes up. Last night she attended the monthly dinner meeting with the Dear Ladies, and they were very charming to her.”
“Dear Ladies” was Polly’s nickname for the white-haired, conventional, wealthy, and charming members of the board of directors.
Qwilleran said, “You may be able to leave the library sooner than you anticipated.”
“Oh, I hope so. The people at the K Fund have given me a six-hundred-page book to study. Everything from accounting procedures to zone and cluster plans.”
The appetizers were served. Qwilleran had french-fried oysters. Polly had tomato consommé. Too lemony, she said.
“The design of the building is exciting—a long, narrow building with an entrance that’s quite inviting. All windows will be clerestory or skylights; all wall space is devoted to bookshelves. Although there’ll be an elevator to the lower level, there’ll also be a rather grand staircase—the kind people like to walk down.”
“What will be downstairs?”
Her answer was interrupted by the arrival of the entrées. Qwilleran had bravely ordered the lamb curry. Polly had poached salmon with yogurt sauce, a twice-baked potato, and asparagus. She said the portions were too large.
Part of the lower level, Qwilleran knew, would be the Eddington Smith Room, offering pre-owned books donated by local families. It would be staffed by volunteers, and proceeds would go to the Literacy Fund. Then there would be an all-purpose room for book signings and a literary club like the one in Lockmaster. The Lit Club sponsored by the
Polly said, “There will also be a display case for exhibiting treasures behind glass: rare books and manuscripts, and collections of things related to reading and writing. These will be loaned by antique shops and private individuals.”
“No food?” Qwilleran asked.
“No food, no gifts. Just around the corner are a gift shop and an ice cream parlor.”
For dessert they ordered blackberry cobbler. Polly said it looked awfully rich.
“But I have been doing all the talking, Qwill. What has kept you occupied?” she asked absently.
“Not much,” he said. “What did you bring me from the big city?”
“A CD recording of Massenet’s piano pieces. They’ll sound wonderful on your big sound system.”
“Good!” he said. “Shall we go to the barn and listen to music?”
Qwilleran could have told Polly about his plans for the next day, but Polly was so thrilled about the bookstore and everything concerning it that he had no desire to dampen her enthusiasm. He had never seen her so animated!
The next evening he would drive to Lockmaster for the first book signing in how many years? Earlier in his life, while a crime reporter Down Below, he had authored a book titled
In Lockmaster, the adjoining county, he had many friends and readers of the “Qwill Pen” column, and Kip MacDiarmid, editor of the
