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eight-inch sauté pans off the cobblestone fireplace mantel.
    The room was large enough, with a bank of windows overlooking the herb and vegetable gardens in the back, a line of Sub-Zero refrigerators on the east wall, and sinks and dishwashers on the west wall. Meg’s ten-burner Aga stove was to the left of the doors to the dining room. The huge oak beams crossing the ceiling had been exposed, and bunches of dried herbs, sauté pans, fry pans, and pot lids hug from them all year round. Salamis, cheeses, sausage, and an occasional ham swung from them in fall and winter. Large rubber mats covered most of the flagstone floor. At this hour—about forty-five minutes away from lunch—there was a crowd of people in the kitchen, from Meg herself, and Elizabeth Chou and Mikhail Sulaiman, the two sous-chefs, on down through the dishwasher.
    “I see Melissa isn’t in yet?”
    Meg didn’t look up from her clipboard. From the speed of the pen, it was clear she was planning the week’s menus, a task that took all of her attention.
    “Meg?”
    “She comes in at noon on Mondays.”
    Quill looked at the clock. Quarter to. She set the rocker going with a shove of her foot. Meg glanced at her. “How do squash soup, Parma ham with caramelized onions, and my spinach sound?”
    “For lunch?” Quill said hopefully.
    “For tomorrow’s lunch special.”
    “It sounds terrific.”
    “Good.”
    “Does Lydia Kingsfield like squash soup?”
    “Hates it,” Meg said cheerfully. “Especially with heavy cream. Have you noticed that L’Aperitif has been featuring a lot of low-cholesterol recipes lately?”
    Quill got up and stepped around Max, who acknowledged her existence with a lazy thump of his tail. She pulled a stool a little way from the prep table and sat on it.
    “So why the change in attitude? You weren’t exactly over the moon about the deal when we were in Mark’s office, but you didn’t declare war on it, either.”
    Meg put her hands over her eyes and held them there for a brief moment. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m doing the best I can.”
    “You know why you hate this deal?”
    “Because I’m giving up all rights to a free, independent existence?”
    “Because we didn’t have a choice.”
    Meg nodded her head in slow, grim agreement. “Oh, are you right about that.”
    “If we’d had a choice,” Quill continued stubbornly, “we would have jumped at it. Think about this, Meg. The largest and most successful gourmet magazine in the United States is going to market the Inn at Hemlock Falls’ jams and jellies and pickles. Just for a start. And we get some money every time a customer buys one of those jars. And not only will the line use some of your own recipes, Meg, but you get to approve each product that goes out under the label.”
    “There’s a bunch of other people that approve it, too,” Meg said sourly. “I have a vote, sure. But that’s it.”
    “And four months out of the year—in the off-season, yet— L’Aperitif is going to tape the new cooking show right here in the kitchen! We’ll have swarms of people booking huge amounts of time. We’ll be so busy we’ll have to add more rooms! Expand the kitchen! I mean, let’s face it, Meg. The kitchen could do with some major remodeling.”
    “But I don’t want expansion to happen,” Meg said quietly. “Do you? You remember that trip to Italy we took a few years ago to visit Corisande?”
    “Of course I remember it. It was a terrific trip.” Both of them had enjoyed the time with their niece.
    “And you remember that little bistro we found just outside Pompeii?”
    “In the distance you could see the sea,” Quill said. “Oh, yes. I remember.”
    “And just around the corner . . .”
    “McDonald’s.”
    “McDonald’s.” Quill sank her chin onto her hands. Those golden arches had been quite a shock. The restaurant had also been enormously busy.
    “We wanted a unique, boutique-style restaurant when we started this place, and that’s what we