Gavin finished setting the table, put the take-out meal in bowls, and called downstairs to his wife. "It's on the table, Filly."

"In a sec."

He sat down and began loading his plate, looking up as she entered the kitchen.

"What'd you get?"

"KFC. I couldn't think of anything else."

"That's fine." She helped herself to a drumstick from the bowl and scooped some macaroni salad onto her plate.

"So what's this new project that's so important?"

Felicity's eyes lit up, and she told him all about visiting the pavilion, meeting the weathered old Captain of the Woogen Tour Boat, and how she talked him into posing for a sketch and a snapshot. "It's a dream setting," she said, munching chicken, "the colours are so- so... and that boat. God, I thought Humphry Bogart was going to make an appearance."

Gavin grinned at her pleasure. "So am I off the hook for modelling for a while then?"

"Just until I rough out the sketch on the canvass. I promised the gallery I'd have those three paintings ready for the end of—oh God! The end of this week!"

"It's only Monday, is there much left to do? I mean, this is the last one, right?" He tossed a stripped bone into the KFC bucket and snared a fresh one from the bowl.

Felicity wiped her hands on her jeans and pushed away from the table. "Monday night, Gavin. The pictures are promised for Friday which leaves only three days to finish the last one, get them all varnished, dried and wrapped for delivery." She ran her fingers through her hair in dismay. "You've got to get dressed and help me—now!"

He sagged in his chair as she darted from the kitchen, a strip of chicken dangling from his mouth. "I've got a meeting tonight!" He cried after her.

*****

"Have you had a client in here called Proctor?" Serge drew up next to Darlene, studying her technique with the crisp hair of an elderly customer and pointing silent instructions.

"Felicity Proctor, yes. She has quite a nice head; just a few split ends. She's an artist. Why?"

"No reason," he examined his face in the mirror, giving the client a warm smile as she watched him blankly, "I think I saw her husband in the store the other night."

Darlene placed her hands over the woman's ears. "Serge, he's a married man."

"All the more interesting, darling." His leer was almost frightening. "Listen, have you heard there's a big meeting tonight at Paisley Mansion about the playhouse anniversary?"

"It's not the sort of news I'm privy to, Serge."

"Darling, this is for any and all who wish to help with our summer gala. Antonio and I are going. You should too, after all, the Fawn Do team was an integral part of our last public endeavour." He propped an elbow in one hand and looked at her through lowered lids.

"Who else is going then?" A twinge of interest intruded.

"Well, Antonio and I are for sure. And a little birdie suggested that Henry will be making an appearance."

She clamped her hands tighter and gave him her full attention. "Henry? He never mentioned anything. Why?"

"Why?" He said, jabbing fists onto his hips, "Because Henry's the best bartender in town—and Arthur Paisley knows it, sweetums."

Darlene thought about it, nodding." Well if Henry goes, I'll be right there with him."

"Bravo! And I'll get to see the yummy Mr. Proctor." He winked and swished back to his studio.

"Do you mind? I can't hear."

"Sorry Mrs. Drummond, I was just checking the balance." With a long sigh, she shook her head and resumed combing.

******

Arthur Paisley stood on the edge of his flagstone patio gazing benevolently down over Paisley Taft Park. The pristine lawn sloped away from the edge of his garden, gathering flowering bushes and a variety of trees as it flowed down into the lightly rolling parkland. The steeple on the Methodist church, across town, came and went from view behind the fluttering branches of the taller trees.

He plumped his ample stomach and turned to take a question from one of Hartley Meloncore's catering team. Hartley was flitting about the patio and darting in and out of the open French doors, directing his legion of workers as they set out tables of finger food and trays of glasses for the bar.

Along the top of the low, stone wall surrounding the patio, and around the edge of the garden, at the head of the slope, a parade of ornamental moon lights cast a faint orange glow across the verdant lawn and the back of the house. Three wrought iron tables with chairs and paisley umbrellas, stood sedately in separate sections of the garden, where the lawn retained a reasonably level point of view; flickering candles in cut glass chimneys reflected their jittery dance in the glass surfaces.

Arthur gave a harrumph of satisfaction and retreated to the house.