The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE SMELLOF COFFEE woke Mirelle but she lay, encased in a motionless body that apparently had no intention of responding to the stimuli. The desire for the coffee intensified and she managed to open one eye. She was lying on her stomach, her head turned towards the bedside table. Her favorite coffee mug loomed invitingly, steam rising lazily.

"That does it." As she flopped over and hauled herself up against the headboard, she heard Steve's chuckle. He was sitting in his bed, drinking coffee. "You made it," she said, half accusingly as she reached for the cup.

"You're damned right, all that chicory notwithstanding. How do you feel?"

"The way I look." Mirelle blinked violently to clear sleep from sticky eyes. Her shoulders were still stiff. Steve wadded up his quilt and put it behind her, nuzzling her neck affectionately. "I'll spill coffee on you."

"You're unromantic this morning."

"I'm unawake."

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her.

"You get prettier all the time."

"I age well… like cheese."

Steve burst out laughing.

If I can keep him in this frame of mind, Mirelle thought sleepily, Marian Martin hasn't a chance.

She put down her cup and beckoned coquettishly at Steve. His eyes widened and his grin broadened. He swiftly locked the door.

"The kids are glued to the TV," he said as he slipped under the sheets.

A knock on the door shattered the very nice mood they'd been creating. Someone turned the door knob. The vengeful side of Mirelle hoped that it was an in-law and not a child.

"Mary Ellen?" asked her mother-in-law, and Mirelle managed not to grin.

"Yes, Mother," Steve answered, his voice colorless but his face flushed. With anger or embarrassment, Mirelle wondered.

"Steven, isn't Mary Ellen awake yet?"

"Just," Steve replied with a baleful look on his face. "Come ON, hon, you've got to get up now."

She glared wickedly at him for such dissembling.

"There's a phone call for her," Mother Martin went on, "a Mrs. Ester- something." She sounded disapproving of such complicated names.

"I took the extension out last night," Steve said in a quick whisper.

"I'll be right there," Mirelle said. She gave Steve another lingering kiss and then grabbed his bathrobe.

"Mirelle, is there anything I can do for you for tonight's feast?"

"No thanks, Syl, but it's good of you to offer."

"You sound awful."

"I just got up."

"Now why didn't that woman just say you weren't up?"

"It's okay. My, God, it's 9:00 and I've got to be at the Bazaar at 10:00. Good thing you did call."

"How's it going?" Sylvia asked with dry sympathy.

"The Bazaar's going fine. Excellent attendance."

"You know I didn't mean the flipping Bazaar," Sylvia's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I'm keeping the fine edge of the wedge in place," and then Mirelle giggled earthily.

"Well, your spirits are good. I gather there are large unfriendly ears in the vicinity?"

"That's right. Are you going to give us the benefit of your presence at the Bazaar?"

"Wouldn't miss that height of the social season for the world!"

"Goodbye!"

"Did you sleep well?" asked her mother-in-law as she came back through the dining room. "Isn't that the robe I gave Steven?"

"Yes. I'm always snitching it: it's so nice and warm," and Mirelle sped up the stairs to avoid further comment.

As she pulled on her smock, she noticed the clay-stained front. She'd planned to throw it in the washer last night and have it drying while she breakfasted. Oh, well, stage-dressing, she thought and went back downstairs.

"We're heading down to Florida not a moment too soon," Dad Martin was saying as Mirelle sat down at the table.

She looked out the window at the grey day and the snow-covered lawns. Black lines of tire marks marred the roads and tangential curves indicated the treacherous road surface. Mirelle wondered just what traction she'd get for the Sprite on the hill.

"Looks like more snow," Steve added, glancing at the sky.

"I just can't get pleased with snow," Mother Martin said in a plaintive voice. "It makes driving and parking so difficult. Now, if the road department would only get going the minute it starts, and make an effort to keep the roads clear…"

"In this state," Steve told her, "they always hope that it'll stop before they need to call out the plows."

"That's exactly what I mean. Why, with all the unemployment up here, those people could stay off relief rolls if they'd get put to work clearing snow. And our taxes would stay down."

"You forget," Steve said patiently, "that relief is only partially federal, Mother. But the road department is all State so the more people you put to work on snow disposal, the higher your State taxes."

"Why, that's ridiculous, Steve," his mother said, almost offended by his rebuttal. "Elliot Randolph says…"

"That old reactionary…"

Mother Martin stiffened in righteous indignation. "Why, Steven Martin, you know perfectly well that Elliot Randolph keeps abreast of every important political issue."

"Yeah, he keeps abreast of it," Steve said, grinning, "but he can't see his breast, his double chins get in the way."

"Arthur Martin, are you going to let your son talk about Elliot Randolph that way?"

"Why not?" Mirelle rather thought that Dad Martin was amused by Steve's remarks. "He's free, white and twenty-one."

Mirelle hastily swallowed the last of her toast and excused herself. She took the leg of lamb out of the refrigerator, inserted the garlic slices, seasoned it, plopped it in the large roasting pan, set the dials on the oven timer, and closed the door on the roast.

"Mother Martin, I've got the roast all ready and the oven set to start so we don't have a thing to do but the vegetables and the salad for dinner."

"But dinner's not till late."

"I know but, with the automatic electric oven, it won't matter if we're late from the Bazaar."

"How about lunch?" demanded Mother Martin.

"Chicken pot pies at church," Steve chimed in.

"Old Kentucky recipe?" asked Dad Martin slyly.

"No, new Girl Scout," Mirelle replied. "Goodbye all."

Her relief at being out in the crisp cold air was tremendous. She opened the garage door and carefully backed the Sprite out. She hoped that Steve would get out with Roman and Nick, and clear the drive against the chance of freezing weather tonight. She eased the Sprite onto the road and took the hill in second with little trouble.

There were quite a few cars already in the church parking lot and some of the sand from her gravelly spot had been distributed to cut down on skidding. She was gratified to find the first four of last night's leftover number holders waiting for her. Patsy, by her greeting, had renewed her exuberance overnight.

"You know, it's funny," Patsy said as Mirelle settled her first subject down. "You're only doing children. Don't adults want to be done?"

"Adults are more apt to be self-conscious, posing in a busy place. But I suspect it's a case of parents being willing to spend on their children what they'd never dream of doing themselves."

"Guess that makes me not as grownup as I thought I was," Patsy said with giggling candor. "I sure didn't mind posing."

Mirelle was not sure that the fad of the bust would continue as it had started but she worked as quickly as possible. Children were easier to do than adults, their faces still more symmetrical than angular, fewer lines and odd features. The trick was getting the shape of the head right, and the hair pattern. Girls' ears were usually completely hidden by their hair, and a good percentage of the boys had simple long styles. Perhaps it was just as well that the majority of her subjects were young people. She was a trifle startled therefore when Reverend O'Dell slipped onto the stool.

"I assure you that this is not all vanity, Mirelle," said Ken O'Dell. "It's also the only way to get your attention. Your powers of concentration are formidable. I've spoken to you four times with no response. Oh no, I'm far from offended. On the contrary, you've provided an unusual excitement in what, I fear, is usually a rather tame event."

"Excitement?" Mirelle blinked in astonishment.

Ken O'Dell smiled at her. "Yes, my dear Mirelle. As I said, your powers of concentration are phenomenal." He leaned forward and spoke softly. "Glance casually around."

She did and saw a row of small faces, just able to clear the top of the booth, then a second row of curious observers and a rather surprising number of adults watching from the rear lines. She smiled nervously and turned hastily back to O'Dell.

"Oh, good Lord, how long has this been going on?" She felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Her back had been angled to the main part of the hall so that she'd only been conscious of the few children seated on the edge of the stage.

"I wouldn't know," O'Dell said with some delight. "I bought a ticket from Patsy at 10:30 and they'd begun to gather then."

"You're better than TV," Patsy added with a giggle.

Mirelle hunched her shoulders over her work and, in a few moments, was mercifully oblivious to the crowd. Kenneth O'Dell's face was far more interesting to her than all the youthful ones she'd done. To capture an adult in clay was to learn his individuality. As she began to draw the minister's features from the clay, she felt she was getting to know the man far better than she could have in years of casual encounters. Engrossed, she spent a far longer time on him.

"I always envied the unconnected heads of Cicero and Plato, and all those others who held court in the niches of my classrooms," Ken said when Mirelle allowed him to look at the bust. "I must be very vain to get such an inordinate pleasure out of seeing myself in similar noble immobility. And, from the number of relaxed countenances in my congregations on Sundays, I am, alas, no Cicero."

Mirelle put the model high up, regarding it with mixed satisfaction.

"I haven't done you justice, Ken. I'd like to do a life-size bust one day."

"You've done me far more justice than I deserve, Mirelle. Oh, I see your husband and his parents. I must go speak to them."

Mirelle reached out to touch his hand, about to ask him not to refer to her work. He regarded her expectantly, half smiling and then she shook her head, meaning that she had nothing of importance to say. His smile deepened and he patted her hand in a way that told her he had understood her unspoken message.

Countenanced and encouraged by their minister's example, two members of Sessions sat, each more or less amused and embarrassed by the gallery of observers. Mirelle found it necessary to talk to them as they posed and so their sittings took longer.

"Met your in-laws, Mirelle," said Ty Hopkins, who was church treasurer and the manager of the bank which she patronized. "Suggested that they look up my cousin, Will Tackman. He's a vice president of the First National in Orlando. Think they'll like it down there. Town's organized for retired people. Although, come to think about it, St. Cloud might be less expensive. It's smaller, of course. Your father-in-law was asking about investment property. I hope he's not the type to jump first, look later. There're some rather iffey retirement homes among the legitimate ones."

"Dad Martin's always been a good business man, in a small way, of course, but sound," Mirelle said but her mind had leaped on the notion that, if her in-laws did settle in Florida, it would be quite a blessing. "It was kind of you to give him advice."

"Kind?" Ty Hopkins grinned at her. "Not at all. Pure business. And speaking of pure business, have you ever thought of sculpting professionally?"

Mirelle stopped tooling the jawline and stared at Ty Hopkins.

"I've known you two years now, Mirelle, casually, 1 agree, but I've never heard you mention your work. I'd very much like to see you do something ambitious. You know the Bank's always showing paintings. No reason it can't show sculpture as well."

Mirelle murmured appropriate thanks, adding that she didn't think people in a bank were in the mood to buy art.

"Oh, don't think that," said Ty, raising his bushy eyebrows. He waggled a finger at her. "People DO notice what's displayed in the Bank. You'd be rather surprised at how many of the paintings we hang get sold right there. Humph," he added as she indicated the bust was finished, "my superiors will think I've got delusions of grandeur."

"Make a good paperweight," Mirelle said, keeping her face perfectly straight.

Ty's thick brows almost met over his nose as he feigned displeasure.

"Yes, now that would put me in the proper perspective. More than you know." There was such a bite to his words that Mirelle looked at him apprehensively. "No, no, Mirelle. No offense taken. Keep at it, girl, and when you have something to show, bring it in."

She watched him leave, still a little disturbed by his remarks, when she saw Sylvia and Jamie Howell advancing towards her corner.

"Whoever is next will have to wait twenty minutes while I eat. I'm starved," Mirelle said arbitrarily, ignoring a chorus of protests as she intercepted her friends.

"Next showing, 1:30," Patsy said and slipped out of the booth behind Mirelle.

"Quitter," Sylvia said, frowning with mock reproof.

"I never expected to see either of you here," Mirelle replied, shaking hands with Jamie. His sun lamp treatments were producing results.

"Wouldn't miss the da Vinci act for the world," Jamie said. "Actually we watched you immortalize the V-P. For a gal who works slowly, you've got quite a display." He gestured at the shelves full of drying busts. Then he shook his head deprecatingly. "I distinctly remember you informing me that you weren't the panther-on-the-mantel type: I was glad, happy for you. But now," and he clicked his tongue in disillusion. "I perceive that you are, in fact, of the bust-in-the-family-niche school. Deplorable!"

Sylvia was also shaking her head.

"If you're going to pick fault with an honest, charitable effort, you can both disappear," Mirelle said.

"Not when something smells as good as something does," Jamie replied, sniffing deeply and turning to locate the source.

"They're serving chicken pot pies in the kitchen."

"Chicken pot pies?" Jamie made his eyes wide with simulated excitement.

"Chicken pot pies NOT nine days old," Mirelle said with a laugh.

Jamie took each woman by the arm and propelled them vigorously towards the kitchen. As they entered the busy crowded room, Mirelle noticed with relief that neither Steve nor her in-laws were present. Jamie steered them to the nearest free table.

"I thought they'd outlawed child slavery in this state," he murmured as one of the Girl Scout waitresses bore down on their table.

"Oh, Mrs. Martin," the girl began breathlessly, "will you have time to do any of us? I mean, we're stuck here serving all day."

"Just catch Mrs. McHugh and tell her to give you a number."

"Oh wow! That's marvie. Pies all around?"

"Three for me," Jamie said in such a sepulchral voice that the little Scout eyed him nervously.

"He's been sick," Sylvia said with gentle solicitousness, laying a hand on Jamie's arm.

"I hope you're much better now," the girl said dutifully.

"I heroically revived, stimulated by the incredible aroma of those three chicken pot pies."

"Jamie!" Mirelle saw that the girl was unable to cope with such bantering.

"Coffee, tea, milk or Coke?" The Scout wrote down the orders and hurried off.

"They can certainly mobilize the resources of this church," Sylvia remarked, a trifle enviously. "Now at Greenvale…" she shook her head sadly.

"They conned Nick and Roman into being busboys," Mirelle said, pointing to Nick struggling pantrywards with a loaded tray.

"Odds he drops it," Jamie said.

"That wouldn't matter. The crockery here is designed to bounce," Mirelle told him.

Jamie began to shake his head, pityingly. "I never have figured out how organized religion can prevail on otherwise reasonable people to do service in the name of religion that they would begrudge doing for any other."

"What?" Mirelle wasn't certain that she'd heard aright and Sylvia was reduced to staring at him.

Fortunately the Girl Scout came with their lunches. Just as if he hadn't dropped an unsavory thought, Jamie forked open his pie and speared a generous portion of white meat chicken.

"Well, Christian charity for once is substantial." He took the first bite, still skeptical but his face was beatific as he began to chew. "And exactly as advertised. Delicious!"

"Well, I'm relieved to hear that," Mirelle said caustically.

Jamie eyed her, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, m'dear. I have always been somewhat nauseated by too much good done and doing. I distrust it intensely."

"Like beef tea?" Sylvia asked.

"I'm speaking of wholesale lots, not isolated incidents. For instance, I assume this Bazaar has some ostensible purpose?"

"Yes, the annual payment on the mortgage," Mirelle replied.

"Well, then, considering the hundreds and thousands of people starving, wouldn't it have been more Christian to spend the money on roofs over the heads that have none, than an additional roof over already well-covered heads? And…" Jamie cocked a finger at Mirelle, "it would be far more reasonable for you to apply the effort which you have expended here today in forwarding your own career instead of knocking out busts that will, I'm positive, be broken into so much dust in the next week or two."

"Hey," Sylvia knocked Jamie's arm to get his attention, "that's hitting below the belt."

"Perhaps," Jamie replied, returning her glance coolly. "But I find this an appalling waste of Mirelle's talent and time. It gets her nowhere…"

"That's for me to say," Mirelle put in, wondering why Jamie's unexpected opinion irritated her so much. "I wanted to do it. I did it. Furthermore, it may well have fur thered my career. Ty Hopkins said that I may exhibit my sculpture in his bank."

"Yah!" Jamie was scornful.

"Oh, now wait a minute," Sylvia said, "banks are good show places."

"Mirelle's work exhibited with the mossy millstone school of murky watercolors?"

"The quality of hers will stand out all the more," Sylvia replied staunchly.

"Indeed? To what end? Who'll buy in a bank? Certainly not the advanced tradeschool characters who infest this town. They haven't the perception or wit to appreciate what she does. Which, dear ladies, is why I find this situation so revolting."

Sylvia leaned across the small table and put a light hand on Jamie's arm. "My dear Mr. Howell, whatever you may think of this Bazaar situation…" Her eyes crinkled as Jamie groaned over her pun, "… it has forced Mirelle to do some intensive work. I intend to see that she continues: that she starts showing in whatever bank, left, right, Wilmington or Delaware Trust, and sells. And works. I happen to know it's no easier to get into a good gallery than it is to play Carnegie Hall, but the point is she'll be working, showing and seen. Quite likely she'll also sell. Because it's odd but these tradeschool degree boys pull down damned high salaries. And they've suddenly discovered that they've been missing things while they studied isocyanates and polymers and they might just as well pay their money to Mirelle for her sculpture. Those little busts you so contemptuously dismiss are a starter. Small but a starter and they are commercial."

"I'm not sure," Jamie replied with a caustic edge on his voice, "if the bust-in-the-niche is any improvement over the panther-on-the-mantel."

"My dear sir, of course it is," Sylvia reassured him. "Each bust is of a different person but when you've seen one prowling panther, you've seen them all. Speaking of prowlers, how're things at the in-law infested mansion, Mirelle?"

"More or less," she answered and rose. "I've got to get commercial again. See you tonight, Sylvia. And Sylvia…"

"I know, I know," Sylvia said, nodding vehemently. "I'll behave myself."

Mirelle was considerably disturbed by Jamie's remarks. If he deplored how she was using her talent, why had he come to the church? Sylvia had the right of it: you started and used what facilities were available: there was nothing onerous about using a bank. Nothing. James Howell had no call to be so supercilious. Of course, she was using her time to do something other than the commission he'd asked of her. Maybe that was what was annoying him. She'd get right to work on it after the Bazaar was over. Sylvia was also correct when she said that the Bazaar had gotten Mirelle started.

Patsy was rolling her eyes in mock despair when Mirelle returned to the booth.

"There isn't a single thing left to sell. Not a plate, cup, mug, Dirty Dick or creche animal. I have this whole list of prepaid orders." She stressed the last two words triumphantly. "You'll be busting until midnight the way the numbers have been selling."

"I can't," said Mirelle with a groan. "I've a dinner party to give."

"What'll we do?" Patsy was wide-eyed with dismay.

"Just don't give out any more numbers. I'll try to arrange additional sittings for those I can't get done today. Next customer," she called out, sitting down at her table and reaching for yet another clay block.

It was 5:20 before she finished, having decided that the difficulties of arranging sittings far outweighed finishing up today, no matter how fatigued she was. She had a nagging ache between her shoulder blades.

As she left the church, Mirelle catalogued the things to be done once she got home and decided that a bath headed the list. A good hot one would soak the fatigue out of her bones. She could get Roman to set the table and Nick to vacuum the living room. Steve could set up drinks. When she got in the door, Tonia cannonaded into her legs, crying bitterly.

"What's wrong with you, miss?"

"I don't like Grandmother," Tonia sobbed.

Steve came up from the game room looking like a thundercloud.

"I thought you were going to be back at 4:00," he said.

"My popularity was overwhelming. Did you check the roast?"

"Roast? I've had these brats screaming all afternoon."

Mirelle's head began to ache. She went out into the kitchen and was met with no warmth, no aroma of roast lamb. She yanked open the oven door. Grimly fighting the desire to shriek, she saw that the important automatic timer had been shut off. She wrenched the dials about to get the oven started.

"I don't like Grandmother," Tonia continued to sob, having followed Mirelle into the kitchen.

"You won't like me either if you don't do exactly as I ask," Mirelle said roughly. "Get Roman in here on the double."

Tonia, still gulping her sobs, obeyed that tone without argument. Mirelle checked the dishwasher, vainly hoping that someone had thought to turn it on after breakfast.

No such luck. She mentally tossed a coin between the steaming bath for which she yearned and enough clean silver and dishes to serve her dinner. She filled the slot with powder and slammed in the control, listening masochistically to the damned thing filling up with all that hot water.

"Is there anything I can do to help you, Mary Ellen, now that you're home?" Mother Martin asked.

"I hate to ask you to do anything for a dinner party that is supposedly in your honor," Mirelle said, keeping her voice as colorless as possible.

"Whatchya want, ma?" Roman asked from the doorway.

"I want my table set and you know where all the good china and crystal are. Now, Mrs. Hollander told me that you were her most reliable helper yesterday, do the same for me."

"Why, let me do that, Mary Ellen."

"I can do it all myself," Roman said.

"Now you go on and watch TV," Mother Martin replied. "Table setting's no job for a boy, anyway."

"In this house it is," Mirelle said before she could stop herself. "Roman, is the living room clean?"

"I'll check," Roman mumbled, sourly.

"Steve will fix the cocktail tray," Mirelle said, looking into the liquor cabinet.

"Drinks?" Mother Martin asked, immediately alert.

It had been so long since Mirelle had entertained her in-laws in her own home that she had forgotten that they did not approve of anything stronger than sherry.

"Yes, drinks," Mirelle said, trying not to sound defiant. "The Esterhazys and the Blackburns drink, and so do the Martins."

"Why, Steve never touched anything stronger than sherry," his mother exclaimed indignantly, implying that it was Mirelle's influence which had caused this deplorable change.

"Steve has been drinking a lot more than sherry in the way of business for some years now," Mirelle said. "My good linen is in the second drawer of the dining room chest. I'd planned to use the pink cloth and napkins. The water goblets are on the third shelf. There are pink candles in the top drawer and the pewter candlesticks are in the closet. I think there's just enough hot water for me to have a quick wash."

She met Roman on her way to the stairs.

"It needs vacuuming, Ma. Tonia's been cutting paper dolls again."

"Roman, just vacuum. Don't boss Tonia! She's in a state and I have no time to pacify her. My guests are coming in barely an hour and I'm bushed."

"Okay, Ma," and Roman flashed his helpful smile at her appeal.

Mirelle started the water in the tub, and laid out her dress. She was about to throw off the clayey smock when Mother Martin called up the stairwell.

"Mary Ellen, I can't seem to find the cloth you want."

Mirelle went down and found the cloth and the napkins exactly where she had said they were.

"I thought you'd said white. I'm sorry."

Mirelle got back upstairs to find that the small supply of hot water left from the dishwasher had cooled to tepid.

Savagely now she threw off her clothes and got into the tub. There was not much point in soaking because the water had neither the quantity nor quality for any therapy.

"Mary Ellen," called her mother-in-law in a shrill voice, "which goblets shall I use? You have so many."

Mirelle groaned. She called that she was coming, hastily toweled herself dry and, throwing on Steve's robe, tore downstairs.

This time she laid out everything that would be needed to set the table, wishing that she had insisted that Roman did it, and went back upstairs to lie down. But she was tense, waiting for the next complaining summons. Steve came in the room, still scowling.

"Who turned off the automatic timer?" she asked before he could voice the complaints she knew he was harboring.

"Hell, how should I know? What I want…"

"Your mother is going to object to your drinking," Mirelle cut in, disregarding him.

"The way I feel she can just object. I need a drink after today. God, how I wish you hadn't been involved in that Bazaar."

He was rubbing the back of his neck which, to Mirelle, was the surest sign that his mother had been needling him.

"I'm not sorry I was then, if that's the way the day went. What's wrong? Your mother's nose out of joint because the church took the onus from my art?"

Steve looked about to explode and then, utterly deflating, he sagged onto the bed beside her.

"That's just about the size of it, Mirelle," he said, pursing his lips angrily, nodding his head up and down. "No one was all that interested in their state visit to Florida. Great event, their joining the Randolphs in Orlando, a real social coup. No, everyone wanted to know about your work, wanted to talk about you."

"What happened to Tonia?" Mirelle asked, deliberately cutting off his recital.

"Tonia and her grandmother are not likely ever to agree, particularly over matters of hair styling and dress," Steve said, a trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Seems all well brought up young girls should have pigtails and pinafores."

"No pigtails with Tonia's face structure."

Roman barged in. "All neat as a whistle," he said and then carefully closed the door. "But Grandmother's setting the table all wrong," he added, his young face distorted with worry.

Mirelle sighed deeply and struggled out of the bed.

"Roman, fix the icebucket and the liquor on the tray, the silver one, while I dress," Steve said, peeling off his shirt.

"Righto," he said, delighted for assistant bartending was currently his favorite household task.

Mirelle was struggling into her dress when Roman came back, stamping down each foot.

"What's wrong with you? And please help me with my dress," she said, turning so he could pull up the zipper.

"Grandmother says I'm not to touch the bottles. What does she think I'll do? Take a snort when her back is turned?"

Mirelle took a very deep breath, as much to get the zipper moving as to control the unreasoning anger inside her.

"Roman, your grandmother has different ideas about bringing up children…"

"I'll say so," and her son sounded so much like Steve that the comparison startled Mirelle.

"Robert Marion," Mirelle said sternly, for it was unlike Roman to be rebellious.

"Aw, gee, a guy can't do anything around here suddenly without being treated like a baby!" He shifted his feet, digging his hands into his pockets and emphasizing his discontent with violent twitchings of his shoulders.

"I'm dressed, son. We'll fix it together," Steve said, coming in from the bathroom. He draped his tie around his neck and, arm about Roman's shoulders, the two walked out of the bedroom.

"In-laws." Mirelle ground out the words between gritted teeth. "God, does she always have to twist everything out of focus? Well, maybe this weekend, with her carping at our children all the time, will show Steve how to separate himself from the rest of the stupidities of his childhood."

She took a good look at herself in the mirror, to make sure her make-up hadn't smudged getting into the dress. Anger had brought color to her cheeks and fatigue blurred interesting shadows around her eyes so that Mirelle could objectively consider herself pretty tonight.

"The fringe benefits of in-laws," she muttered to her reflection, trying to grab a positive thought for comfort and morale.

Steve's voice had a decided edge to it as he and Roman finished their preparations in the kitchen.

"Make us a big bowl of popcorn, too, will you, Roman?" his father directed, picking up the tray. "What's wrong, Mirelle?"

"Roman said that Mother Martin has set the table wrong, but I can't tell how?" Mirelle said in weary exasperation.

Steve glanced at the table. "She's set all the serving pieces in front of her place, all the plates around and there are three extra settings, unless you intend cramming the children in with the adults after all."

Mirelle slapped her forehead with her hand and advanced on the table to correct it just as Mother Martin came bustling downstairs.

"Steven Martin, I want a word with you about Robert," she said at her most forbidding. "Imagine! Allowing a child to set up a cocktail tray!"

"He never forgets a thing, Mother," Steve said.

"But what if he should get the notion to drink something?" his mother demanded, shocked.

"He wouldn't because he's already done his sampling and he doesn't like the taste of liquor."

"He's tasted alcohol?"

"Yes, he has already tasted alcohol."

"Arthur Martin," she said, rounding fiercely on her husband as he entered. "Did you hear what your son said? He's allowed that child to have an alcoholic beverage."

"I also heard him say that Roman didn't like it," Dad Martin reminded her. "Which, I think, makes much more sense than forcing the boy to sneak some in the garage."

"What do you mean, sneak some in the garage?"

"What Dad means, Mom," Steve replied with a glint in his eyes, "is that he caught Ralph and me with his Scotch in the garage one day when we were about Roman's age."

His mother clutched at a dining room chair for support at this new shock.

"When did that happen?" she demanded, regaining her composure.

"When I was eleven and Ralph was fourteen."

"And you never so much as breathed a word to me, Arthur Martin!"

"No," replied Dad Martin reasonably, "because I figured it was my business when my sons drank. We had a long talk and it turned out that the only reason they'd tried some was because they'd heard you talking so much against it. Steve and Ralph both have good heads for liquor. Get it from me, I guess. And you've never objected to my drinking."

"You're an adult," she began in defense of her stricture.

"Yes, and don't forget that your sons are, too. So I think, Marian, you'd better stop interfering with the way Steve is raising his kids."

Mother Martin looked in astonishment at her husband, for once unsure of herself. Then, as he started to fix himself a stiff drink, she lapsed into grieved and disapproving silence.

Mirelle overheard the whole conversation as she quietly reset her table, redistributing the serving pieces by the hot pads and gathering up the plates to put them to warm. She checked the roast. Then she noticed the expression on Roman's face and realized that he had also heard the exchange.

"Now, listen to me, Robert Marion," she said quietly, "habits in child-raising have changed since Mother Martin's day, but she brought your father up to be a fine man. It's the end result that matters, pal. So you just close your big ears and your big mouth."

"Aw, Mom, as if I'd go blabbing…"

"Especially not to Nick."

Roman started to shake the popcorn pan furiously.

Mirelle tested the roast and decided that dinner was going to be a good hour and a half late. She fixed the salad quickly and got the dressing out to chambre. She turned on the small broiler for heating the canapes. Just on the dot of 7:00, she heard the doorbell.

"I'll get it. I'll get it," roared Nick, charging up from the gameroom, scrambling to get to the door first. "Who're you?" he demanded in surprise.

"Nick!" Steve gave him a shocked reprimand. "Ann, Red, good evening. This young gangster is Nicholas. Nick, do you think you could prove to Mr. and Mrs. Blackburn that you have some manners?"

"Sure," Nick replied, unabashed. "Very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Blackburn. Let me have your coat. I'll take yours, too, sir. Isn't it a lovely evening?"

"That's better."

"Shoulda tol' me who was coming. I thought it was Aunt Sylvia," said Nick, charging upstairs with hats and coats.

Mirelle saw the back of him as she came into the hall to be presented to Steve's boss and his wife.

Red Blackburn was a tall, heavy-set man, in his mid-forties, with red, attractively greying hair. His wife, Ann, was a very handsome woman with frosted blonde hair, nearly as tall as her husband, and dressed simply but with great style. They greeted Mirelle with conventional warmth and guarded appraisal.

Mirelle knew then that she was on review and wished she'd realized this possibility before she had invited them on what was surely going to be a trying evening.

No sooner had the Blackburns been introduced to the senior Martins than Sylvia and G.F. arrived. G.F. did his usual courtly bow over Marian Martin's hand and lingered a noticeable pause longer over Ann Blackburn's. Roman arrived with the first of the hot canapes and passed them deftly around.

"The next time I need a butler, are you for hire?" Ann asked, smiling up at Roman.

"My rates are low and I guarantee satisfaction," Roman replied in the accent affected by well-trained English butlers.

"Well," Ann exclaimed, delighted, "here's a live one!"

"Robert, don't be saucy," Mother Martin admonished.

"He's not the least bit saucy, Mrs. Martin, he's charming," Ann said. "I only wish my teenager could make an original statement to an adult without stuttering and blushing."

Roman flushed and barely saved himself from stumbling over his feet as he presented the tray to Sylvia.

"Why don't you ever flirt with me?" she asked in a loud stage whisper.

"Roman!" Steve's quiet word held a warning.

"That's an interesting nickname," Ann said.

"He was christened Robert Marion," Steve explained, handing Ann her drink. "But he couldn't say it and it came out 'Roman' which Mirelle preferred to the usual Bob or Rob."

"What's Mirelle short for?" asked Ann.

"Mary Ellen but my…" Mirelle hesitated because she caught Mother Martin's disapproving glance. The woman disliked any mention of Mirelle's past and particularly her European childhood. "… my tongue tripped, too, and it was contracted into Mirelle," and she damned herself for a coward, allowing Marion Martin's petty grievance to inhibit the truth.

"I always thought it was your French nursemaid who gave you that nickname," Steve said, and all Mirelle could do was smile.

"Oh, were you raised abroad, too?" Ann asked with real interest.

Mirelle saw Sylvia's raised eyebrows. "You were?"

"My father was in the diplomatic corps. As a child, I went all around the world."

"Ann's even been in prison," her husband added with a sly grin.

Mirelle saw Ann flush and was quick to note that, although Red might make a joke of it now, it had been no joke to Ann, then or now.

"Yes," she explained swiftly in a bright voice, "in China during the Japanese war in the late thirties. But we weren't held as long as some of our friends."

"Was your father ever posted in Vienna?" G.F. asked, into the brief silence.

"In a Japanese prison camp?" Mother Martin asked, startled into overriding G.F.'s tactful change.

"Yes." Ann replied in a flat voice that would have told anyone the least perceptive that she didn't wish to continue talking about the experience.

"You're Viennese, aren't you, G.F., and your family often entertained the diplomatic corps," Mirelle said brightly.

"But you must have been just a child," Marian Martin persisted.

Ann smiled with thin courtesy. "I was."

"It's such a mercy how easily children forget their unpleasant experiences and remember only the nice ones," Mother Martin said fatuously.

Mirelle saw the tightening of Ann's mouth and knew that she hadn't at all forgotten her unpleasant experiences.

"Yes, Mr. Esterhazy, my father was posted to Vienna," she said, determinedly looking beyond Mother Martin. "As a matter of fact, we were there when Hitler marched in. I remember that Mother was particularly furious because we had barely had time to get settled in the schloss before we had to leave," Ann's face darkened, "for the second time in rather a rush, leaving everything behind us."

"So many experiences are just wasted in children," Mother Martin went on, "when all you can remember about Vienna is being angry at leaving it. Now, Steve was there during and after the war and he's told us so much about Vienna. Of course, he was a grown man then and could appreciate the finer things."

G.F. turned to Steve. "You served in Austria?"

"Yes, with the occupation. I really love that city, even though the Viennese I met kept telling me that this wasn't the real Vienna, that the real Vienna would take years to bloom again. Then, just when I didn't want to, I was transferred home in '46. My points made me eligible for discharge."

"Steve had a brilliant war career," Mother Martin said, still fatuous. "Both my sons did and I'm sure Ralph would have been decorated, too, if he hadn't been wounded so terribly."

Mirelle looked sideways at Steve and saw the telltale jerk of his mouth at the mention of Ralph's wound. Something had happened then that Steve knew and his parents did not, something that still rankled deeply. In their early courtship days, Steve had drunk his army experiences out of his mind and his dreams. When they had first married, she'd often had to wake him out of 'killing nightmares' but, with time, the deep scars had healed.

"Steve was awarded the Bronze Star," his mother rambled on, directing her remarks to Red. "But he never would say why."

Red made a suitable rejoinder and then looked inquiringly at Steve who shrugged diffidently.

"Steve always says that they were handing them out with the C-rations that morning," Mirelle remarked when patently Steve remained silent.

"Mary Ellen, you shouldn't be so flippant about Steve's heroism."

"Steve is."

"You were infantry, Steve?" Red asked.

"Yes," and then he asked Red if he could freshen his drink.

"I've eaten all the cheese canapes," Sylvia announced, rising with the tray in her hand. "Mirelle, are there any more left in the kitchen? I'll buttle now."

"There are more because I have to warn everyone that dinner will be later than planned. My automatic oven failed me," Mirelle said with a light laugh.

"Mine does that, too," Ann said, chuckling, "but only when I am absolutely relying on it."

"Now, Mary Ellen, you mustn't tell a lie," Mother Martin said. "The truth is that she was so busy with her church Bazaar that she didn't get home in time to turn the oven on."

"All in a good cause," G.F. said, sliding neatly into the gaffe.

Mirelle, too, managed a tolerant chuckle as she and Sylvia made for the kitchen.

"Good God," Sylvia said sotto voce as they got out of earshot, "can't she say anything that isn't two-edged? At least my mother gives me a fair break at rebuttal."

"I'd give anything to know who fiddled with the setting," Mirelle said through gritted teeth.

"Why does she hate your guts?" Sylvia asked.

Mirelle sighed. "I appreciate your unbiased opinion. It's trite to say that she resents me marrying her precious son but that was the start of it. She also likes to dominate. That's her talent."

"She can have it. Your father-in-law seems nice. Also quiet."

"Sylvia, can you get the conversation around to Florida, please?"

"Sure, sure, Mirelle."

Roman came in for more ice.

"Grandmother unset the oven herself," he whispered to his mother. "I saw her."

"That's what I suspected," Mirelle said. "But why? I warned everyone that I'd preset it."

"Grandfather wanted some broiled bacon."

"Okay, okay. Leave it at that."

"But it isn't fair to you, Mother," Roman said in protest.

Mirelle kissed his cheek quickly to take the sting out of his resentment for her sake. "I'll live."

"Say, Mirelle," Sylvia said when Roman had left, "what's this with Ann Blackburn?"

"I just met her."

"Your precious mother-in-law's all wrong if she thinks that gal forgot any of her 'unpleasant childhood experiences.' "

"I know. I saw it too."

"Well, here goes Sylvia into the fray," and, hoisting the tray over her shoulder theatrically, Sylvia went out.

When Mirelle got back to the living room, conversation was well launched on the subject of Florida.

"My parents live in Kissimmee," Ann was saying.

"Miss me?" Mother Martin stumbled over the name.

"No, Kis-sim-mee," Ann explained. "It's an Indian name. Father bought out on Lake Bryant, three hundred feet on the lake front and the house has everything every one of our previous posts lacked."

"Three hundred lake front feet?" Dad Martin perked up with real interest.

"Dad Mergenthau is a great one for buying innocently just the right thing," Red said with a laugh. "We've spent a lot of our vacations there with the kids, camping by the lake. Are you interested in fishing, Mr. Martin?"

"Never had the time."

"You should try it. Go over Daytona way and do some night fishing on the Banana River," Red went on, leaning towards Arthur Martin to emphasize his recommendation.

"I could never fish," Marian Martin said with a shudder.

"Just what my mother said," Red replied with a chuckle. "My folks visited the Mergenthaus for the first time about four years ago and hell, if Mother didn't become so devoted a fisher by the end of the first summer that she made Dad promise to retire there. They bought a place outside Daytona but they only use it during the worst part of the winter. Dad is still quite active in business."

"I don't think I could ever fish," Marian Martin repeated.

"It's contagious," Ann said, "or do I mean infectious?"

"Your parents like it out at Lake Bryant?" Dad Martin asked, bringing the subject back to relevant matters.

Fortunately both Ann and Red had considerable knowledge about the area around Orlando and it was time for dinner to be served before the subject was exhausted. Dad Martin had taken notes, including the addresses of both sets of parents.

Mirelle hastily carved some lamb for the children, horrified that it was nearly 9:00 o'clock and they were still dinnerless. Roman brought the plates down to the gameroom, coming back for milk and to inform his mother that Tonia had fallen asleep in a puddle of Crispy Critters.

"The poor dear. Well, cover her up and for Pete's sake, sweep up the cereal."

Sylvia invaded the kitchen while Mirelle was serving up the vegetable and efficiently aided in carrying the dishes to the table. Mirelle called Steve in to carve.

"Thanks, Mother, just the same but you're guest of honor," Steve was saying over his shoulder as he came into the kitchen. Then he started to curse under his breath.

Sylvia looked at Mirelle as if to say 'she's riding him hard' and Mirelle shook her head imperceptibly. Sylvia shrugged and carried in the broccoli.

"Dinner's served at long last," Mirelle called out cheerfully. "Mother Martin, you're here at the head of the table. The rest of you space yourselves, only no husband can sit next to his wife."

Mother Martin then noticed that the serving spoons had been removed from her place but before she could comment on that, Steve came in with the roast. No sooner had her plate been passed than she found a new objection.

"Why, Mary Ellen, this meat isn't cooked. It's pink."

"Ah, then, the lamb is done just right, the European way," G.F. said appreciatively. "So few Americans understand that lamb must be treated tenderly, not cooked until there isn't any juice or sweetness left in the meat. Mrs. Martin, may I serve you some of this broccoli?"

Marian Martin was not immune to G.F.'s brand of flattering attention and Mirelle was deeply grateful for his suave intervention. Her mother-in-law was almost simpering with pleasure.

"What have you done to the broccoli?" asked Red. "It tastes good."

"He likes your broccoli?" Ann Blackburn looked up in exaggerated surprise. "I beg you, tell me what you've done. 1 haven't been able to serve it to him for ten years."

"Simple. Cooked with a little butter in a heavy iron saucepan, served with caraway seeds and plenty of butter."

"The Hungarian in Mirelle coming out in triumph," Sylvia said, with a bland smile.

Mother Martin cut herself short mid-sentence to G.F. and stared down the table.

"Is that where your marvelous bone structure comes from?" Ann asked. "You're so delightfully un-American-looking."

"Thank you," Mirelle said and hoped that would be the last from Sylvia along this line.

"My four kids, nice, healthy, are so exactly the American prototype that you couldn't pick them out of a crowd of kids the same age. But all three of yours," Ann went on while Mirelle tried to look pleased, "have an indefinable difference about them. They'll always be noticeable." She turned to Red. "Remember how crushed I was, Red, when Professor D'Alseigne called Jerry 'un vrai type americain '?"'

"You may have been crushed, but I was flattered. All that foreign living ruins a good American."

"I think Robert and Nicholas look exactly like their father," Mother Martin said in an unequivocal tone of voice.

"Yes, they do," Ann agreed warmly, "except for their eyes, and Roman's cheekbones which are wide and high, just like his mother's. Of course, Tonia is the spirit and image of you, Mrs. Martin, plus those magnificent eyes. Where did you get such an unusual shade of blue from, Mirelle?"

"My unlamented father," Mirelle said lightly.

"The Hungarian." Sylvia qualified her statement.

"Did you know, Mrs. Martin," G.F. said, smiling, "that my mother was painted by Mirelle's father? He was extremely successful at the time as well as extremely expensive." G.F. chuckled reminiscently. "If there were status symbols in those careless days, one was to have a portrait done by Lajos Neagu."

Mother Martin looked as if she were going to have a fit. Mirelle tried desperately to think of something to fill in the deathly still silence.

"Neagu… Neagu…" Ann murmured, trying to make an association. "Oh, yes, of course!" Her eyes widened with astonished delight. "Was he your father?"

Helplessly, Mirelle nodded. She didn't dare look at anyone else. But she wanted to murder Sylvia and G.F. Couldn't they realize that accepting her bastardy so casually would only exacerbate the Martins' displeasure?

"You're so right, G.F., about a Neagu portrait being a status symbol," Ann went on. "I remember the Ambassador's wife… and she was the most awful bitch, too… paid a small fortune to be done by Neagu. He gave the most outrageous parties. How wonderful, Mirelle. Just wait till I tell Mother that I've met Neagu's daughter. Won't she be thrilled? Do be sure to tell Mother when you meet, Mrs. Martin, that your daughter-in-law is Lajos Neagu's daughter. She'll do anything to smooth your way then."

Mother Martin sat stiffly still in her chair, staring at Ann Blackburn with disbelief.

"Did you inherit any of the fabulous Neagu talent, Mirelle?" Ann was too excited to notice the reception of her remarks.

"Watch out, Mirelle," Red laughed indulgently for he had noticed the strained look, "Ann collects people the way others collect stamps."

"Oh, you!" Ann gave him a dirty look. "People are so fascinating. After all, you have to live with them and most of them are so dull and prosaic." She sighed. "I sometimes miss the diplomatic phase of my life. It could be very exciting."

"After being around the world six, or was it seven times, Wilmington is rather dull potatoes for my wife," Red said.

"It is not," she contradicted him with spirit. "There are interesting people all over the world and in Wilmington. Why, here are Mr. and Mrs. Martin about to remove themselves all the way to Florida."

Silently Mirelle blessed her for that.

"And Mirelle with a famous father," she continued, compounding her original errors. "Now, do you paint, Mirelle?"

"No, she sculpts," Steve said very distinctly. Mirelle stole a glance at him and saw that his teeth were tightly locked but she couldn't tell whether he was just angry or worried about the impression this conversation might be giving Red Blackburn.

"You should have seen her at the church bazaar," Sylvia said in her drawl. "Her booth was very popular. She worked small busts in clay right there."

"May I see some of your work?" Ann asked.

"Watch out, Mirelle," Red said, "she's a manager."

"Oh, you be quiet, Red Blackburn. For the first time in years you introduce me to one salesman's wife who isn't a complete and utter idiot."

"Ann!" Red exclaimed, a little startled.

"Oh, Mirelle's no dope, Arthur Blackburn," Ann said with a gay laugh. "She's been with the Company long enough to know the routine. Sales managers always contrive to meet the wives," and Ann rolled her eyes, "and then the sales managers' wives have to listen to what child got sick with what ailment at what age."

Sylvia laughed out loud. " 'Judy O'Grady…"

" 'And the Colonel's lady… ' " Ann picked it up jubilantly.

"… 'Are sisters under the skin!' " Mirelle capped the verse.

"You are all behaving outrageously," Red said.

"What a relief!" his wife replied. "Particularly if you like her broccoli."

"How long have you two been in Wilmington?" Sylvia wanted to know.

"Three years, and then five years in the southwest, and well, I've been travelling all my born days."

"We're more or less settled now, sweetheart," Red reassured his wife.

"I remember my father telling my mother that." Ann's attitude was distinctly skeptical.

"Didn't you say that they'd retired to Florida?" asked Dad Martin.

"I don't want to be seventy when we're finally settled," Ann answered tartly.

"Salesmen's wives of the world, unite!" Sylvia chanted, raising one hand dramatically over her head. "We have nothing to lose but our husbands' jobs!"

"My wife will find a cause anywhere in the world," G.F. said with tolerant amusement.

"Ooops, sorry. I get carried away."

"Yes, don't you just?" Mirelle responded with some asperity.

"Always and only the very best causes," Sylvia said, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Lost any lately?" asked Steve in a quiet voice.

"Touche!" G.F. said, and Sylvia had the grace to flush.

Ann and Red were aware of an undercurrent, aware, too, that the Martins had turned their entire attention to their plates.

"Didn't I see your name on a Democratic poster?" Ann asked Sylvia.

"Hmm, yes. I'm a ward-heeler. That's how I met Mirelle."

"Are you and G.F. both lawyers then?"

"Heavens, no." Sylvia was startled. "One cynic in the family is enough."

G.F. placed a hand on his heart in exaggerated hurt. "I am touched to the quick to think that my wife believes that my profession has made me cynical. Although it is true that I have seen the seamy side of life, I have been able to retain my naivete and joie de vivre !"

"Also your pose as a boulevardier" Mirelle added and Ann laughed.

"Did you ever get to Paris, Steve?" Red asked.

"No, I was too busy liberating Vienna," he replied, "and from what I heard on the ship home, I think I pulled the better duty."

"Well, I've heard that Vienna has quite a reputation, but there was this place on the left bank," and Red launched into a well told and, from the slightly glazed expression on Ann's face, an oft-repeated humorous incident.

That set G.F. off with a story which had happened to him on his arrival in the States in the late 40's and the men dominated the conversation. Dinner finally ended and Mirelle served coffee and liqueurs in the living room.

When Sylvia volunteered to help Mirelle clear the table, Mirelle demanded an explanation of her leading remarks during dinner.

"I watched your mother-in-law, Mirelle, and it's perfectly obvious that anything socially important counts with her. She sure didn't like your popularity at the Bazaar, but when she saw how much more important she became as your mother-in-law, you'd've laughed yourself sick to hear how much credit she was willing to take for encouraging you!" Sylvia's low voice was fierce with anger. "So G.F. and I decided to mention your very socially acceptable father. Just luck that Ann Blackburn - she's a find; I'll collect her myself - had also heard of Lajos Neagu. Mother Martin may not like it but I'll bet you anything she's now willing to lump it. And make good use of the Neagu connection with Mrs. Mergenthau. You might also take note of the fact, my friend," and Sylvia became less fierce as she covered Mirelle's hand with hers, "that it was never mentioned that your father and your mother were not married to each other. And no one on this side of the Atlantic is going to know unless you tell them."

Some of Mirelle's anger with Sylvia dissipated when she was forced to admit that Sylvia's ploy was logical.

"Evil is in the mind of the beholder, hon," Sylvia went on. "Not that your mother-in-law would believe good of you under the best possible circumstances."

"Oh, Sylvia!"

"Don't 'Oh Sylvia' me. At least she makes no pretense of any affection. She's of the ignorance-is-bliss school and she sure tries to ignore your existence. Say, I hadn't realized just how much Tonia looks like her? And did you see her face flush when Ann commented on the resemblance?"

"Yes, because Tonia also inherited Mother Martin's sense of importance."

"And the importance of being Mother Martin requires no imitations?"

"I guess. When I got home tonight, Tonia was in tears, and I haven't had a chance to find out from Steve what happened."

Steve came in at the moment to refill the coffee pot.

"How did you find out about Mirelle's father, Sylvia?" he asked in a blunt hard voice.

"With some skillful cross-examination, a technique which I use rather well, even on my husband." Sylvia rubbed her hands together, a smug expression on her face. "I found out her father was Lajos Neagu. I remembered the family portrait so of course I mentioned it to G.F."

"Clear as mud."

"Steve," Mirelle began, stumbling over the words, "nothing was said… about my mother… or her husband."

Steve regarded her with narrowed eyes for a moment. "Coffee!" He pointed to the furiously whistling kettle.

Mirelle made a fresh pot and brought it into the living room, returning to the kitchen for more cream. She leaned wearily against the refrigerator door until she felt Sylvia's arm across her shoulders.

"I'd say you won this battle hands down, hon."

"Possibly, but I don't want to lose the war." Mirelle took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders, turning to catch the anxious look on Sylvia's face.

"You won't, Mirelle."

"Steve's relationship with his parents was a very close one."

"He's a big boy now and that devoted mother stuff has ruined many men." Sylvia put a slight emphasis on 'men'. "Well, the Blackburns like you, and Steve has to work for a living."

"Yes, she's an unexpected ally."

"Not all bosses' wives are impossible. Just ninety-nine one-hundredths."

"Onward to the fray," said Mirelle and, arm in arm, the two friends joined the rest of the party.

Mirelle placed herself on the far end of the couch, in the shadows of the room, hoping that the conversation would not devolve onto her again. The rest of the evening however passed very pleasantly. Fortunately the Martins retired at eleven-thirty, using their advancing years as an excuse. The Esterhazys and Blackburns reluctantly departed at one in the morning.

Mirelle started to pick up the party debris, determined to leave the downstairs in order against any criticism the next morning. Steve followed her out to the kitchen with the drinks tray.

"What was Sylvia trying to do this evening?" he asked her, his chin jutting out stubbornly.

"A case of misplaced loyalty, I guess. Look, Steve, I'm far too tired to argue and you are far too upset. Let's not give your mother another excuse to criticize me…"

"Criticize you?" Steve exploded. "If you need a taste of criticism, you should have heard her this afternoon!"

Mirelle blinked at him, not sure she understood.

"Do you mean, she was criticizing you?"

"Yes, for letting you participate in the church bazaar, putting yourself in a vulgar limelight, for the lack of supervision of the children, for their manners, for Tonia's appearance, for… " Steve raised his arms heavenward in frustration.

"Nancy Lou Randolph would never have put herself in such a position, would she? And her mealy-mouthed children would never dare contradict Mother Martin."

Steve glared fiercely at Mirelle. "Are you jealous of Nancy Lou?"

"Me? Oh, good God, no. But I get her thrown up to me as THE criterion of wifely virtues." Mirelle bit her lip, took a deep breath and said in a restrained voice. "We'll be shrieking at each other in a minute, which is just what your mother wants. To split us apart."

"No, no." Steve shook his head in vehement denial. "She just wants to… she's only trying to…"

"To what? I can't take that 'mother knows best' bit anymore, Steve. I hope it's worn thin with you, too. Let's go to bed," and she dropped her voice to soft suggestion. Kissing his cheek, she tugged him to follow her.