The Q

by Beth Brower

And, perched on a stool behind the front counter, conducting her business—waiting upon customers, efficiently taking questions for the next edition, studying figures and markets and profits down to each percentage and comma and dot—sat Miss Quincy St. Claire, chief officer of operations, self-appointed auditor of all accounts, final editor overseeing the team of typesetters, proofers, and printers, and, in general, the central gear in the workings of her great-uncle’s business.

Companionship is one of the great arts of the human soul.”

But Quincy knew when a shadow was deep enough to avoid detection, and she never picked the shallower sort for sitting.

“I would build an argument so enticing and passionate you couldn’t deny me.”

“You may tell her we’ve a spot for an in-house accountant.” “Pardon?” Arch turned from the door. “Who?” “Your hostess. If she can balance budgets with the same zeal as she balances society, I might even be satisfied with her work.”

Quincy made a disagreeable noise; she had never cared for months whose names sounded frivolous. April was the worst of the lot. February was a close second.

Quincy thought the woman’s laugh should be attached to a machine that would warn you when someone particularly distasteful was at the door. She then wondered if such an invention were possible.

“Only that I believe”—Arch lifted his shoulders, and the look on his face was so unguarded Quincy surprised herself by listening—“that each one of us has times when what we need most is someone who is willing to sit quietly by, waiting for us. Not interfering, just being.”

What happens when a set of imperfect people spend their time talking about becoming better? Chances are one or two of them might actually choose to become better. Unless we buy the hedonistic drivel of the day, what keeps us from it? Are we so scared of failing? We’re human! We fail. We fall.”