go through the archway here to our reception area.” She stopped short and gestured toward the east wall. “And there’s the wine racks, of course. And here, as I say, is our reception area. We have a very good receptionist. Well, of course, you met her. Dina. Dina Muir. A very smart, very polite, very valuable employee.”
McWhirter raised one eyebrow in a saturnine way.
She patted the waist-high sign-in desk. “This nice old piece dates from the late-nineteenth century.” She edged her way past the desk to her office door and flung it open with a flourish. “And this is my office.” She craned her neck and stared straight up. “The ceiling’s made of tin. I fell in love with those wonderful decorated squares. Well . . .” At last, thankfully, she faltered to a stop.
He stopped in the doorway and looked around. There was a faint expression of distaste on his face. With his thin legs, beaky nose, and wattled chin, he reminded Quill of a turkey buzzard. She gestured grandly toward her little Queen Anne conference table. “Please sit down, and let me know how I can help you.”
“Do I know him, Quill? Sure. They call him Scrooge McWhirter,” Marge Schmidt had a gleam of humor in her basilisk eye. She hefted a large slice of icing-topped cinnamon bread from the napkin-covered basket between them and slathered butter over the whole.
“Scrooge, huh?” Quill swallowed and looked past the bread to a poster of the Grecian Isles on the diner wall. She was overdue for a vacation. “Any particular reason? For calling him Scrooge, I mean.”
Marge laughed unfeelingly. “Well, it ain’t because he’s filled with the old Christmas spirit, that’s for sure.” Quill’s stomach lurched. She wasn’t getting the flu. She was getting an ulcer.
“Scrooge McWhirter,” Quill said, as if this third repetition would invoke a kindly Christmas spirit.
He’d requested all her accounts and her appointment diary. He intended to interview each one of the staff in the coming week. And he had been quite nosy about training programs for staff—particularly staff that answered the phone.
Nonetheless—with a feeling that it was all in the lap of the gods, and they’d been treating her pretty well, lately, considering everything—she’d gone about her business the rest of the day in a mostly optimistic frame of mind. Until her breakfast date with Marge Schmidt the following morning.
“Tough, is he?” she asked Marge.
“Tough enough.”
She’d wakened that morning determined to get a grip on anything that needed gripping. And the day was shaping up to be a pleasant one. The Kingsfield contingent was due to arrive. They wanted to start shooting background for Good Taste right away. She talked to Meg, and they decided to offer a reduced menu in the dining room until after Christmas, since the guests were few and the walk-ins even fewer. She called the bank to make sure that the very large check, which sealed the contract to lease the name and premises of the Inn, was still residing in the company bank account. Everybody would get a Christmas bonus. The mortgage was paid up. New York State Electric and Gas would put the Inn back on its Christmas card list. The terrible anxiety—the sense of failure—that had dogged her for the past few months was gone. She was in charge, and things were going well. And then Marge had called and asked her to come to breakfast.
“Well, he’s certainly living up to his name,” she said.
All but one of the twenty-seven guest rooms at the Inn could compete with luxury hotels anywhere in the world. There was one cramped single, in the northwest corner of the Inn with a view of the now-defunct paint factory on the outskirts of the village. Quill put McWhirter in it because he’d asked for it.
Quill nibbled at a bit of cinnamon roll. “He ordered consommé and toast for dinner, and oatmeal with skim milk for breakfast. He knows he has the pick of the menu, too. Can you imagine
McWhirter raised one eyebrow in a saturnine way.
She patted the waist-high sign-in desk. “This nice old piece dates from the late-nineteenth century.” She edged her way past the desk to her office door and flung it open with a flourish. “And this is my office.” She craned her neck and stared straight up. “The ceiling’s made of tin. I fell in love with those wonderful decorated squares. Well . . .” At last, thankfully, she faltered to a stop.
He stopped in the doorway and looked around. There was a faint expression of distaste on his face. With his thin legs, beaky nose, and wattled chin, he reminded Quill of a turkey buzzard. She gestured grandly toward her little Queen Anne conference table. “Please sit down, and let me know how I can help you.”
“Do I know him, Quill? Sure. They call him Scrooge McWhirter,” Marge Schmidt had a gleam of humor in her basilisk eye. She hefted a large slice of icing-topped cinnamon bread from the napkin-covered basket between them and slathered butter over the whole.
“Scrooge, huh?” Quill swallowed and looked past the bread to a poster of the Grecian Isles on the diner wall. She was overdue for a vacation. “Any particular reason? For calling him Scrooge, I mean.”
Marge laughed unfeelingly. “Well, it ain’t because he’s filled with the old Christmas spirit, that’s for sure.” Quill’s stomach lurched. She wasn’t getting the flu. She was getting an ulcer.
“Scrooge McWhirter,” Quill said, as if this third repetition would invoke a kindly Christmas spirit.
He’d requested all her accounts and her appointment diary. He intended to interview each one of the staff in the coming week. And he had been quite nosy about training programs for staff—particularly staff that answered the phone.
Nonetheless—with a feeling that it was all in the lap of the gods, and they’d been treating her pretty well, lately, considering everything—she’d gone about her business the rest of the day in a mostly optimistic frame of mind. Until her breakfast date with Marge Schmidt the following morning.
“Tough, is he?” she asked Marge.
“Tough enough.”
She’d wakened that morning determined to get a grip on anything that needed gripping. And the day was shaping up to be a pleasant one. The Kingsfield contingent was due to arrive. They wanted to start shooting background for Good Taste right away. She talked to Meg, and they decided to offer a reduced menu in the dining room until after Christmas, since the guests were few and the walk-ins even fewer. She called the bank to make sure that the very large check, which sealed the contract to lease the name and premises of the Inn, was still residing in the company bank account. Everybody would get a Christmas bonus. The mortgage was paid up. New York State Electric and Gas would put the Inn back on its Christmas card list. The terrible anxiety—the sense of failure—that had dogged her for the past few months was gone. She was in charge, and things were going well. And then Marge had called and asked her to come to breakfast.
“Well, he’s certainly living up to his name,” she said.
All but one of the twenty-seven guest rooms at the Inn could compete with luxury hotels anywhere in the world. There was one cramped single, in the northwest corner of the Inn with a view of the now-defunct paint factory on the outskirts of the village. Quill put McWhirter in it because he’d asked for it.
Quill nibbled at a bit of cinnamon roll. “He ordered consommé and toast for dinner, and oatmeal with skim milk for breakfast. He knows he has the pick of the menu, too. Can you imagine
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