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their table on the far side of the room, now cleared. The waiter immediately returned and offered more coffee, which they turned down.
    While he was trying to talk them into just another half cup, Tenny joined them. She was probably forty years old, with long, streaky, dark blond hair pulled into a loose bun at the back of her neck. She shed her shawl and said to the waiter, "Bring me about a quart, Al, would you please? Shelley, I'm sorry about this. I'm sure it's all because your husband and his group are here, but how he knew about—"
    At that moment a young man Jane immediately categorized as a misplaced surfer stormed into the room. His artfully streaked blond hair, California tan, and muscular physique would have been very attractive if it hadn't been for the furious scowl that distorted his features.
    "Tenny!" he exclaimed, striding toward their table. "What are they doing? What are you doing about them?"
    "They're demonstrating and I'm having some restorative coffee."
    "But you can't let them just march around out there!"
    "I can't stop them. They have a permit. HawkHunter showed it to me."
    "HawkHunter! That—"
    "Pete, this is Mrs. Nowack," Tenny said quickly.
    That stopped him in his tracks. He gulped, visibly fought for control of his temper, and rearranged his face into a charming, if insincere, smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't kn—uh—Mrs. Nowack. How very nice to meet you. I hope you and your family and guests are enjoying your stay."
    Tenny and Jane launched into introductions. The young man was Pete Andrews, Bill Smith's nephew.
    "So you and Tenny are brother and sister?" Jane asked.
    "No!" they both said in unison.
    "Pete is Bill's nephew," Tenny explained, apparently embarrassed. "I'm Joanna's niece. Aunt Joanna is Uncle Bill's wife. Pete and I are no relation at all."
    "But you both work here?" Jane asked.
    Pete preened. "I handle all the entertainment aspects of the resort. Tenny handles the housekeeping." His almost-sneer made it clear that entertainment was the difficult, skilled, imaginative job and housekeeping was both easy and beneath notice. Jane and Shelley, who were both "entertainment directors" and "head housekeepers" of their own homes, exchanged quick glances.
    Shelley had sat up very straight and was getting her smiting-down-the-enemy look, so Jane quickly said, "I'm sure you both must work awfully hard. It's nice to see a business that involves the whole family. My late husband was part of a family business." Mention of a late husband usually managed to force people to be courteous, she had discovered.
    "Oh—uh—that's nice," Pete said. "And it's been nice meeting you both. I have things to—uh—"
    "Run along, Pete. Make sure you get all the quarters out of the video games," Tenny said.
    He scowled at her and left.
    She stared after him. "That wasn't really nice of me," she mused. "There's no sport in getting the best of him. Poor twit." Then, realizing she was with the wife of a potential investor, she said, "But he's really very good at what he does. Having spent all his useless life 'playing', he knows all about games and leisure pursuits."
    "I heard you mention HawkHunter," Jane said. "Is that the same HawkHunter who wrote the book?"
    Tenny nodded. " 'Fraid so."
    "Book?" Shelley asked. "What book?"
    "Oh, Shelley, you remember. We read it in book club about ten years ago. A very good book, but horribly depressing."
    "Sounds like most of what we read in that book club. Depressives Anonymous, we used to call it before we finally had the sense to bail out."
    Jane chuckled. "I think it was
Ethan Frome
that put us over the edge. This guy's book was just called
HawkHunter
, wasn't it?"
    "
I
,
HawkHunter
," Tenny corrected her.
    "Oh, yes, that's right. Anyway, it was sort of an Indian version of
Roots. A
story of his family from about the fifteen-hundreds up through his own childhood on the reservation. It really was fascinating, but bigoted in its own way. HawkHunter himself claimed not