Lending a Paw(57)

“I feel as if we have a little unfinished business,” I said. “So I was wondering if you’d be my guest to dinner tonight.”

“How kind of you.” Caroline glanced at her watch and I knew the battle was half lost. Charge!

Before she could open her mouth to ever-so-kindly reject my invitation, I plunged forward into the cannon’s maw. “My friend Kristen owns the Three Seasons, have you been there? Tonight she wants to try out a new recipe on me and anyone I bring. Since we have a few things to discuss, I thought this would be a great opportunity. Please say you’ll come.”

I smiled at her as winsomely as I could. When I’d talked to Lina, I’d also asked if she knew anything about Caroline’s eating habits. One call to Kristen and the plan was laid. “Do you think you’d like fresh linguine and asparagus with a light butter cream sauce?”

Caroline blinked. “Fresh asparagus? This time of year?”

I nodded. “Kristen found a woman in the Upper Peninsula who drives it down twice a week as long as it lasts.” I inched closer and lowered my voice. “And I happen to know the truck came in today.”

Caroline looked at her watch once again. “We do have things to discuss. Let me call my housekeeper. I’ll meet you at the restaurant in ten minutes.”

Score!

• • •

As per my request relayed via Kristen, the hostess settled us at a small table in a quiet corner. She laid down menus and a wine list—“The wine steward will be with you in a moment”—and disappeared into the labyrinth that was the main eating area of the Three Seasons.

Many restaurateurs would have made major changes to this former residence and bed-and-breakfast. Eliminated the walls between the front parlor, rear parlor, morning room, and breakfast room. Combined the formal dining room, sunroom, and library. The only major renovations Kristen had contracted were in the kitchen. Otherwise, she’d let it revert to the posh summer residence from days of old, white wainscoting here, pine paneling there, coffered ceiling over there.

Caroline and I were seated in the library, its shelves still heavy with a century of family books from Robert Louis Stevenson to Dickens to Ayn Rand. Kristen had vowed she’d let people borrow books if they asked, but so far no one had.

Caroline looked around. “I’ve never been seated in this room. What a delight to see so many old friends.”

I beamed. A woman after my own heart. But though I deeply wanted to talk books, I stuck with the topic of her first sentence. “You’ve been here before?”

“A handful of times, yes. Stan and . . .”

She paused as the wine guy approached. Since Kristen had already told me what would go best with dinner, I ordered a bottle as if I actually knew what I was doing. I passed the tasting honors on to my companion and was satisfied with her smiling nod.

Wining and dining. This trolling-for-donations thing wasn’t so bad. I decided to let the comment about Stan go for now. Give the wine and Kristen’s magic a little time to take effect.

Over the bread we discussed the wide variety of artists, mediums, and subjects we wanted to bring to the library show. During salad, we firmed up the mundane details of dates and hours. Then, with the pouring of our second glasses of wine and the arrival of our entrées, I broached the big subject.

“I suppose you know that Stan was one of the library’s major donors.”

“He was a generous man.” Caroline cut a small piece of asparagus even smaller.

“Very,” I agreed. “His will mentions a large bequest to the library, but the family is challenging. It may be a long time before the library sees any of that money.”

I twirled a piece of pasta onto my fork, wondering about the six sisters, wondering if any of them had thought they’d inherit. Though I had no idea what it took to successfully challenge a will, I was sure Stan would have made sure his will was locked up watertight.

“But,” I said, “the library board hadn’t made any firm plans for the money, so there’s no direct loss.”

Though Caroline’s face showed only courteous interest, I felt the click-click-click of conclusions being reached. “An indirect loss remains a loss,” she said.

“My boss is afraid that our regular donors are going to get cold feet because of the situation.” I smiled at her crookedly. “When I told Stephen I was going to try to have dinner with you tonight, he wanted me to ask you for a check.”

“But you haven’t.” Caroline tilted her head. “Or . . . have you?”

“I’m no good at this kind of stuff. Never have been. When I was a kid, I hated selling Girl Scout cookies.”