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casual."

"What are you wearing?"

Meg glanced down at her nightshirt. It was the purple one with the puppy logo and the message IN DOG YEARS, I'M DEAD. "I don't know. All I brought were my T-shirts. And my tocque, of course."

Quill sighed. "One of us should look like we know what we're doing, I'll have to put on a suit."

"Poor Quillie. Are you sure you don't want to go home?" She grinned in response to the look on Quill's face, turned on her heel, and disappeared. Her voice floated down the hall, "Don't answer that. I'll be ready in ten minutes."

Quill pulled a cream linen suit from its hanger and found a black scoop-necked bodysuit to go with it. The humidity was doing violent things to her hair, and after a brief struggle with the mass of curls, she combed it out and scooped it on top of her head. She checked her briefcase to make sure she'd kept all of Tiffany's directions. By the time she emerged from the bedroom, Meg (dressed in black trousers and a T-shirt that read LOOK BUSY! JESUS IS COMING!) was wandering disconsolately around the living room. Quill recognized the attitude: precooking nerves.

"Have you got your menus?"

"Yes."

"And your chef's gear?"

Meg picked up her tote bag. It was packed with her knives, her hat, and her tunic. "Yes."

"Don't brood, We'll get through this. You'll be magnificent. Even if it is pearls before swine."

"I'm homesick."

"You can't be homesick. We've been here less than eighteen hours."

"Seems like years. What do we do now?"

Tiffany's New York-based secretary had sent a sheaf of instructions relating to the condo, the car, and their itinerary to the Inn three weeks before they'd left. Quill snapped open her briefcase, pulled out the memo, and referred to page three, which read:

Monday A.M. Car has been left for you with Luis, the concierge. His office is to the left of the parking lot as you exit number 110. It will take you fifteen minutes to get to the institute, depending on traffic.

A clearly drawn map was printed at the bottom of the page.

"Okay," said Quill. "First, we find Luis."

Outside, the sun was glorious: warm, radiant, and effulgent gold. Quill's mood lifted into euphoria, Her early morning swim had left her feeling relaxed, and the weather was like a caress, Feathery white clouds drifted along the edges of the horizon. "I wish Myles were here right now."

"Thursday. He and Andrew will be here Thursday," Meg tugged at her hair absentmindedly; her mind was already dealing with clarified butter and pinches of spice, "How are we supposed to get there? Are they sending a car?"

"We're supposed to find Luis, And then I'm going to drive us."

Meg stopped dead. "You're going to what?" Quill put her hand at the small of Meg's back and propelled her gently forward. A sign to the left of the parking lot read: OFFICE-LUIS MENDOZA, MANAGER. A small, hand-written sign below it read: COMPUTERS REPAIRED. "The map's really clear. And how bad can Florida traffic be?"

"Quill. No offense, but if there's a worse driver in the seven states between here and New York, I would like to meet him. Or her. I am not, I repeat not, going to ride with you to an unknown destination in a car you haven't been in before. And that's flat. We'll get a cab."

"We don't need a cab. Look. This must be Mr. Mendoza." She waved at a young man with black hair and olive skin who'd come out of the office. He was dressed in a royal blue shirt with the Combers Beach Club emblem on the pocket.

"How do you know that's Mr. Mendoza?" Meg whispered. "It could be somebody else. And Luis Mendoza's the name of a famous boxer."

"It says 'Luis' on his name tag, he's carrying the kind of teeny screwdriver they repair computers with, and he's obviously a computer-repairing concierge with the name of a famous boxer. Which is what the sign says." Quill waved as they approached. "Buenas dias, Se¤or."

"Buena." He nodded politely to them. "You are guests, here, madam?"

"Yes. Mrs. Taylor's guests. I'm Sarah Quilliam,