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keeping his hand to
himself.
    Marianne's salads--westerners tend to serve salad as the
second course--were as good as her bread, and when I complimented
her on the variety of greens she seemed pleased. They came from the
greenhouses at this season, she said, nodding toward Angie.
    Mike said, "Hugo grows interesting stuff in the spring and
summer."
    Angie apparently heard us. She bent forward and began to
tell me about her Belgian endive, a rarity in those parts. Jay and
Bianca joined in after a moment, and I had the leisure to take a look
at Marianne Wallace. She had grayish eyes and brown, rather than
black, hair, but her round-faced prettiness and wide frame seemed
Nekana-like. They were a handsome people.
    The entree was lamb shanks and onions braised in beer, a
James Beard recipe I thought I recognized. Marianne served Angie an
omelet. I managed to keep a foodie conversation going with that end
of the table until, thank God, Bianca announced we'd have coffee and
dessert in the living room. I felt like flight, but the impulse made me
twice as angry with McDonald, so I took my time rising and leaving
the room.
    In the living room, however, I stationed myself near Bianca
on the theory that her husband would probably not grope me under
her direct gaze. He was looking a little surly, and Del Wallace kept
watching me with a lurking grin on his red face. I could cheerfully
have jabbed him with a fork, too. I almost asked Bianca where she
kept her swine.
    She was eager to talk shop and did so, in great detail. I had
trouble focusing on her words. Jay seemed to be making an effort,
another effort, with Keith McDonald, who was back at the guitar but
just fingering it. Got to keep that right hand limber. Del Wallace
downed another whiskey.
    Angie eavesdropped on our conversation, yawning from
time to time. Outside, sleet beat on the windows.
    "...and all the students should reach the farm by half-past
seven that Sunday," Bianca was saying.
    I said okay and watched Jay's jaw muscle knot. Tension
rising there.
    Michael brought in another tray--apple crumble with rum
sauce, and coffee--and excused himself to go study. Marianne joined
us, though. Ordinarily I hate a gathering that separates the men and
women, but that night I didn't mind.
    Angie was asking Bianca what kind of floral arrangements
she'd want for the reception before the workshop.
    "Do you grow flowers, too?" I said.
    She nodded. "Yes, though the market for organic flowers is
limited to edibles for upscale restaurants. People just don't think
organic when they buy flowers."
    Bianca said, "All the same, you'll stick with the guidelines,
Angie. That label's important to me--to our profits, too." She turned
to me. "Organic meat and vegetables can be sold at a higher price
than food that's full of pesticides and chemical fertilizers."
    I swallowed coffee. "I imagine the market's limited,
though."
    She shrugged. "True. We've got about as many guaranteed
sales to the specialized stores and restaurants as we're going to get,
but supermarkets will buy limited quantities labeled 'organic' now,
and they don't mind buying the surplus at the ordinary price either.
They also take our excess flowers."
    I said, "I buy organic tomatoes and lettuce when I can find
them at Safeway, but I've never bothered with organic flowers."
    Angie's face darkened. "Yeah, a few insect signs and people
will go for a bunch of dusted roses instead."
    "My friend Tom Lindquist grows an organic garden." I
spooned the last drop of rum sauce. "I like his flowers just fine. I
shake the bugs off and pop the blooms in a vase, but store-bought
flowers are so expensive I want them perfect--"
    "Even if they're destroying the environment?"
    Marianne said, "Tom Lindquist's grandmother was Madeline
LaPorte. My mother always said Aunt Maddy's gardens were
great."
    "Are you related to Tom?"
    She hesitated and glanced at her husband. "Sort of."
    "My brother-in-law is going to marry Tom's cousin."
    Marianne smiled. "That'll