Free Dread on Arrival by Claudia Bishop Page B

have to be laws against abusing that position,” Clare said dourly.
    Neither woman seemed to realize Clare’s comment all but admitted the tension between the two.
    The class in conflict resolution had been pretty adamant about getting things out into the open. Quill took the plunge. “Perhaps now would be a good time to have a really honest discussion about how unspoken resentment can destroy a friendship.”
    Meg shook her head, ignoring Quill completely. “She’s that bad. She’s worse than bad. Worse than you can even imagine. I’ll have to move to the Hundred Acre Wood and live under the name of Saunders.” She got up and began to rummage under the sink. “We need a second bottle.”
    Clare and Meg had finished up the second bottle of wine and settled into a profound—thankfully silent—funk before Quill thought it time to say something. “You’re right about one thing.”
    “I’m right about all of it,” Meg said.
    “It’s important for you and Clare to stick together.”
    Clare’s information had come from a friend in the inspection department. It was Quill’s opinion that the threat to close Clare’s kitchen down was mere saber-rattling on Carol Ann’s part, but there was no denying that the woman knew the two most important things about any restaurant: the chefs were lunatics and given the thousands of regulations in the New York State restaurant code, somebody was always in violation of one obscure code or another. “Not just you two … all the restaurants in town should unite.”
    “All what restaurants?” Meg said in an argumentative way. “There’s only four. There’s me. There’s Clare’s Bonne Goutè. There’s the resort, but they’re owned by this huge conglomerate and they can survive any number of audits so they don’t count. There’s Marge Schmidt and Betty Hall with their two restaurants and that’s it. Four. Against that obsessive-compulsive, neat-freak, squeaky-clean little bi …”
    “Meg,” Quill said.
    “… Nazi,” Meg finished. “You know what, Clare? We need a third bottle.”
    “I agree,” Clare said, enunciating her words very carefully. “I totally, totally agree. Totally, totally, totally. But if you want my candid opinion …”
    “We do,” Meg said earnestly.
    “We’re screwed.”
    “Screwed,” Meg echoed.
    “You’re forgetting something,” Quill said. “There’s Marge. And I’d back Marge Schmidt against Carol Ann for mayor any day of the week.” She stood up. “I’ve got a plan. And I’m going to bed.”
    Meg peered up at her blearily. “Marge? What kind of solution is that? Marge. Marge. That’s all you have to say?”
    “Just one more thing: I’d think twice about opening that third bottle of wine.”
    5
     
    ∼Meg Quilliam’s∼
Hangover Remedy
     
    8 ounces freshly squeezed tomato juice1 raw egg, lightly beaten2 tablespoons each chopped onion, chopped parsley1 tablespoon kosher salt1 chopped jalapeño pepperWhisk together. Drink.Quill woke to sunshine streaming in the window and the warm breath of her son in her hair. He smelled of peanut butter. The sunlight struck red gold highlights from his curly hair.
    “Are you up, Mommy?”
    She pulled him close to her, the familiar sense of poignant joy at the miracle of his presence in her life putting every other concern out of her head. “I’m up. Are you up?”
    “I’ve been up forever.”
    “Is that peanut butter I smell?”
    “Max is up, too. He wanted peanut butter. I told him: No, Max, no. Mommy said peanut butter is not for boys to make all by themselves. But Max didn’t listen. He still wanted peanut butter. So he had it.”
    “How did Max get the jar open?”
    Jack tucked his hand into hers, confidingly. “I tested it, in case it was not good for dogs.”
    “And was it?”
    “It was pretty good for dogs. But I tested it a lot before Max ate some.”
    Quill wiped a smear of peanut butter off his cheek. “I can see that you did.”
    She let nothing short of