The year of the Lucy

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BY Friday evening, Mirelle wished devoutly to return to being a non-feeling, non-thinking zombie again. At first, when the senior Martins arrived late Thursday evening, just in time for dinner, Mirelle had hopefully entertained the notion that perhaps this visit wouldn't be too bad after all.

Although Allentown was a scant two-hour drive from Wilmington and the Martins had planned to arrive by lunchtime, a series of ridiculous incidents had combined to delay them. Since a recital of turning back to the house before reaching the highway to make sure that the cellar windows were locked, et cetera, kept the dinner table breathless and the children squirming, it also prevented Marian Martin from latching immediately onto the shortcomings of either Mirelle or Steve. So exhausted by these untoward events was Mother Martin that she retired early, allowing Dad Martin to have a comfortable chat with Steve and Mirelle.

Steve showed his father the house and the garden while Mirelle tidied the kitchen, and made the final preparations for the Bazaar the next afternoon. The men ended up in the studio watching her pack the cut blocks of clay into plastic bags.

"1 do kinda wish that Mirelle wasn't going to be so busy," Dad Martin began gently. "We get so little chance for a nice talk. Christmas and Thanksgiving are so hectic."

Mirelle looked at Steve quickly and then back to her work.

"I explained that in my letter, Dad. Mirelle had promised the church a long time ago that she would do the booth and there's been a lot of excitement about it," Steve said, though there was a note of entreaty in his voice. "A very nice mention in the paper, too, with the announcement of the Bazaar."

Mirelle winced inwardly and Dad Martin immediately picked up on the reference to publicity.

"In the papers? Is that wise?"

"Mirelle was referred to as Mrs. Steven Martin, Dad, not Mary Ellen LeBoyne."

Dad Martin looked at his son silently for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders diffidently.

"If it's for the church, people oughtn't to need their names in the paper," he said mildly.

"Don't worry, Dad Martin. There are four other Steve Martins in Wilmington," Mirelle said.

"No need to be that way," Dad Martin said with a sniff and left the studio.

Mirelle looked pointedly at Steve, who gave his head a weary shake before following his father in to the gameroom where they watched TV together.

Friday was overcast and cold. Mirelle, tense and tired, woke groggily from a repeat of her hand nightmare. She could smell the aroma of coffee and thought how considerate of Steve. Then she heard him noisily showering. Mother Martin was also an early riser. Groaning, Mirelle barged into the bathroom to wash sleep from her face. She dressed hurriedly since she knew that the sight of one of her filmy negligees would irritate her mother-in-law. She got downstairs to find the dining room table all set for a formal breakfast.

Grimly she tried to dispel her sleepiness and jump into alert status without her usual gradual routine.

"How very kind of you, Mother Martin," she said, briskly entering the kitchen, "and you must have been tired last night."

"I just can't seem to sleep late after so many years of getting up to be sure that the boys and Arthur started the day off with a proper meal," her mother-in-law said, primly separating the edges of the eggs she was frying.

Mirelle suppressed the desire to scream and, noticing that the one thing the set table lacked was milk, she went to the refrigerator.

"Oh, I'd wait, Mary Ellen, to put the milk on. My boys always complained if the milk was warm."

Mirelle shut the refrigerator carefully, determined to keep her temper. But she wanted to remind the woman that she, Mirelle, had established routines with her children which were in no way dependent on Steve's memories of his childhood. Instead she sat down at the table and poured herself coffee, gritting her teeth when she saw how weak it was.

"Such good coffee, and such a treat to have it all made," she said, trying to sound sincere.

"I see you use the Food Fair and I think they put just too much chicory in their house blend. Doesn't Steve want the A amp; P he used to insist I buy?"

"He doesn't complain," Mirelle replied.

"Well, do take a little tip then, and get him what he wants," said Mother Martin, sitting down in Steve's accustomed place directly across from Mirelle. She passed the platter of eggs and bacon to Mirelle. "Help yourself."

"Thank you. I usually eat after the kids are gone," Mirelle said, shifting the focus of her eyes from the staring yolks. It had taken her years to be able to make eggs in the morning for Steve. Her early Continental training had imbued in her a desire to break her fast gently with coffee and bread.

"Roman, Nick, Tonia, breakfast's ready," she called as a diversionary tactic.

"Father's still asleep," her mother-in-law said, suitably lowering her voice.

"Nick's room is off to one side."

"Father's such a light sleeper though."

Mirelle got up and went to the stairwell, called again, intensifying her tone without raising the volume.

Roman and Nick came thundering down the stairs, despite her hissed warning.

"Have you forgotten that we have guests in this house who might still be sleeping?"

"Aw, Grandmother's up," Nick said. "I heard her slamming the kitchen cabinets."

Mirelle covered his mouth warningly and Roman dug his brother in the ribs. Nick grimaced contritely and then walked into the dining room with exaggerated stealth.

"No cereal?" he complained in his normal bellow when he saw the platter of eggs.

"That's not brainfood, Nicholas," his grandmother said sweetly.

"No one has any fun commercials about eggs," Nick grumbled.

"Eggs are just fine," Roman said distinctly and heaped two on his plate with several rashers of bacon. He'd have reached for more bacon but Mirelle managed to catch his eye. He retracted his hand hastily.

"Mom, can't I have cereal?" Nick asked. "I always have cereal."

"Grandmother's eggs are special, Nick. Do try them!"

Roman must have kicked his brother because Nick suddenly extended his hand for the platter. He ate without any show of delight.

Steve had hurried Tonia up and they came down together, Tonia subdued. Fried eggs were her favorite breakfast food and she turned cheerful as she helped herself to three.

"No, dear, that's too many for a little girl like you," her grandmother said, and Tonia looked in questioning surprise at her mother.

"I always eat three," she said. "At least!"

"Really she does," Mirelle said, laughing lightly. "Steve is of the opinion that her breakfast lasts her the entire day."

"It doesn't seem sensible to overdo it." Mother Martin pursed her mouth in disapproval.

"I like eggs," repeated Tonia, eating quickly and, to Mirelle's relief, neatly. "You cook eggs better than Mom," she added brightly, "but you don't use enough salt. Please pass the salt, Nick."

"Is so much salt wise?"

"She grows on it, Mother," Steve said, reaching for the coffee. "Hey, is this tea?" he asked Mirelle, frowning at the weak color.

"They're saying that chicory might be a cause of cancer. The Food Fair brand Mirelle uses has just too much chicory," Mother Martin said firmly.

"Oh, Mom, come off it. You just like weak coffee," Steve said with a chuckle.

I am not going to survive the day, Mirelle thought as she poured more weak coffee.

"If it's so weak, can I have some, Mom?" Nick asked hopefully.

"Coffee's not for growing boys. It'd stunt your growth," Mother Martin said before Mirelle could speak.

"Not if it's as weak as you say it is," Nick pointed out reasonably.

Mother Martin pursed her lips again.

"Nick!" Steve intervened.

"But Mom lets me have coffee and she said she used to have it when she was even younger'n Tonia." Nick didn't give up easily.

Mirelle tried to catch his eye. Dear Nick, she thought, putting my feet in my mouth!

"Your mother's background was very different from your father's, dear." The deft barb sweetly rammed home.

"The schoolbus," Mirelle announced in relief, noticing the time.

The boys dove for their books and coats, racing out the door with their snow jackets flapping.

"Come back here, boys. Let me fasten your coats. You'll catch terrible cold," Mother Martin called shrilly after them from the front door.

"No, they won't," Steve said with a laugh. "But you will, Ma, standing in that draught."

She closed the door and came back to the table, shaking her head, making no attempt to hide the fact that she thought her grandsons were entirely without manners or supervision.

"I just don't understand it. I always buttoned you boys up properly before I'd let you step an inch outside."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Steven Martin!"

"Sorry, Ma, gotta go to work. Want to button my coat for me? For old times' sake?"

"I'll do no such thing. You're old enough to take care of yourself now."

He gave her a hug and a kiss.

Tonia had finished her eggs and, as she often did, took her plate out to the kitchen. She got into her snowpants and jacket and would have done her own zippering if her grandmother hadn't spotted her.

"Here, love. Let me do that."

"I know how," Tonia answered her grandmother, a little surprised at being thought incapable. She glanced over at her mother. Mirelle nodded imperceptibly and Tonia obediently submitted to her grandmother.

"How do you like kindergarten, dear?"

"Kindergarten? I'm in second grade. I'm no baby."

"You're so small though, lovey," her grandmother said, laughing to cover her mistake. "I've got five grandchildren to keep straight. Grandmother just forgot."

Tonia wasn't pleased that details about her could be forgotten.

"Thank you, Grandmother, for helping me," she said politely enough and then pointed wildly out the window. "It's snowing. It's snowing."

"Good heavens!" Mother Martin whirled to peer out the window. "This early?"

"It's not so early," Mirelle said. "December's half over. There's your bus, Tonia. Now remember, you walk over to Nick's room and then you both come to the church together. Now scoot."

" 'Bye, Mommie. 'Bye, Grandmother."

Tonia danced off, trying to catch the snow flakes in her gloves, spinning around underneath the soft fall, her face upturned.

"Do you mean to tell me that you're going to let those children walk to the church by themselves?"

"Certainly." Mirelle turned to her mother-in-law in surprise. "They've done it before. It's not all that far from their school and there's sidewalk all the way."

"Why, Tonia's only… what? seven? And Nick is just eleven?"

"Well, they're both capable youngsters and it's completely suburban…"

"Why, I never let either Steve or Ralph go anywhere unaccompanied until they were…"

"Boy Scouts and the other boys…" Mirelle broke off, thankful that Dad Martin's timely arrival interrupted her before she had blurted out what Steve had once told her: that the other Scouts had teased him and his brother unmercifully because either his father or mother walked them the five blocks to the meetings.

"Mary Ellen tells me that she allows those two little children to walk all the way from school to church," said Mother Martin, incensed and looking for support.

"Why not?" replied her husband, a little surprised. "Always did think you coddled those boys of ours too much."

"Arthur Martin!"

Mirelle regarded her father-in-law with new respect.

"Coffee, Dad?" she asked, breaking the stunned surprise.

Dad Martin looked skeptically at the weak solution in his cup.

"Mirelle, perhaps you'd make a new pot for me?"

"Arthur Martin, what's got into you?"

"Marian, you know I like coffee with some guts to it. Awfully glad when instant coffee came out, Mary Ellen," he said as Mirelle took his cup and the pot back to the kitchen. "Then I could make mine strong if Ma wanted hers weak."

Between getting her husband's breakfast in irritated silence and bustling about to iron the packing creases from her dress for the afternoon bazaar, Mother Martin kept pretty much out of Mirelle's way that morning. Mirelle loaded the Sprite with the last of her supplies, got the house picked up and a load of wash started.

"I don't know why you won't let me cook us a nice family supper here at home," Mother Martin began when she cornered Mirelle in the kitchen fixing a light lunch.

"What? Ask you to cook on your first day of holiday? No, the children have looked forward to the church dinner. Roman is acting as busboy and Nick is being allowed to put around bread and butters and set the tables between servings." Mirelle kept her voice light.

"I should think they'd be glad to sit down with their grandparents, they see us so seldom." Mother Martin gave an aggrieved sniff.

"Steve thought it would be a chance for you to meet more of our friends than we could have in the house at one time," Mirelle said, trying not to sound defensive.

"Hmmm, what's in this casserole?" asked Dad Martin, smacking his lips.

"One of my by-guess and by-gosh concoctions."

"Your cooking's as good as ever, Mirelle."

Mother Martin looked displeased, but Mirelle could think of nothing placatory.

"Children get hot lunches at school?" her father-in-law asked.

"Very good ones, too. For some of the students, it's the best meal of the day," Mirelle said, elaborating to keep conversation on a safe topic.

"Hummph. I hope you haven't had to have your schools desegregated," Mother Martin said austerely.

"No," and Mirelle could answer truthfully for the Wilmington school which the children attended had always had a black enrollment. She knew perfectly well that there had been blacks in Steve's Allentown high school class so she felt slightly nauseated to hear borrowed phrases and secondhand opinions frothing out of the mouth of her mother-in-law. She listened patiently through a badly organized and trite solution to Allentown's problems of overpopulation, lack of business, school system and town managerial shortcomings, fully aware that the founts of such wisdom were the omniscient Randolphs.

If there were any real affection between us, Mirelle thought as her mother-in-law chanted the magic phrases, this sort of thing would be tolerable, like her well-meant actions this morning at breakfast. I could have teased her about the eggs, and the weak coffee, and we could have laughed about Dad Martin longing for a pot of strong coffee and… oh hell. She hates me. It wouldn't have mattered who Steve married! Even the paragon Nancy Lou Randolph. Her one talent in life was dominating and she lost two-thirds of that when her boys grew old enough to leave home and marry. Good thing she had no daughters. They'd never have escaped. And yet, no thoroughly bad person could have raised someone like Steve. Why can't I find the good in her?

When Mother Martin finally concluded her monologue, Mirelle stacked the dishes in the dishwasher and went to change her clothes for the Bazaar. June had had bright colorful smocks run up by the Women's Guild, and supplied floppy artist's bows. Mirelle had unearthed a beret from her English school days to complete the outfit.

"You aren't going to wear that outlandish get-up?" Mother Martin was shocked.

"Everyone manning booths at the Bazaar is wearing the same thing," Mirelle replied calmly.

"I think it's cute," said her father-in-law.

"I think it shows very bad taste under the circumstances," Mother Martin said.

"The circumstances are, Mother Martin, that this is the costume which the Bazaar chairwoman chose for us. She has absolutely no way of knowing that I'm the bastard of an artist."

"Mary Ellen!"

Mirelle wished the sharp retort unsaid the moment she saw her father-in-law's reaction and cursed herself for losing control. Dad Martin was not the staunchest ally but she had prejudiced him once more.

"I was only reminding you that that fact is not common knowledge here in Wilmington." She didn't think an oblique apology would be acceptable but for Steve's sake, she would try. "My costume is a sheer coincidence, not something which I planned as a personal affront to you. If you still want to attend the Bazaar, just turn right onto the main road in front of the development. Take the first lefthand turn, and you'll run right into the church parking lot. Steve will be joining us there when he leaves the office."

Still seething, Mirelle drove the Sprite as fast as she dared on the now slippery roads. She was astonished to see that the light snow was beginning to cover the ground with ominous rapidity. She hoped that it wouldn't limit attendance at the Bazaar. As the church drew most of its members from the nearby developments, the snow might just add to the occasion. Mirelle pulled the Sprite up on a gravelly bank which had been left over from driveway repairs. It meant a longer haul with her clay but it would also give her tires traction when it came time to go home later.

A good crowd of women was already wandering around the booths in the halls. Mirelle chuckled at the sight of the colorful smocks, bows and berets. Under the circumstances indeed! As she got to her booth, set in the far corner by the stage, Mirelle noticed that quite a few of the figures were already gone. The pretty young girl who was also working in her booth was busy wrapping a purchase. Would the Martins also consider her shameless?

"Hi, there Mirelle, your Dirty Dicks are a hit," Patsy greeted her. She leaned across the booth to the purchaser and said in a mock confidential tone, "This is the sculptress… or are you a sculptor, Mirelle?"

"Either," Mirelle replied, conjuring a smile for the customer.

"I'd've sworn you'd used my nephew as a model if I didn't know he was in California," the woman said, cradling the Dirty Dick carefully in her arm. "This is just him to the life."

"Which one did you choose?"

"The Sunday school clothes one. I'm sending it to my sister. That is," she added hastily, worried, "if it's safe to ship?"

"The figure's been hard-fired so it should be all right if you pack it in styrofoam. And label it 'fragile'. "

"Are these more?" the woman asked curiously, noticing Mirelle stacking the blocks of clay.

"That's what the sign is all about," Patsy answered. She'd obviously just been waiting for an opening. "Mrs. Martin is going to do small busts of anyone who wants to sit for her."

"Really?" The woman was definitely interested. "I'd love to have one of my daughter. She's nine."

"At that age they can usually sit still… with some judicious bribery," Mirelle said, smiling.

"Do I make an appointment?"

"No, just bring the child in when you can."

"I might just do that very thing. After school. Oh, I'm so excited by the thought," and she walked off, murmuring to herself.

Such gushing could become wearing, Mirelle thought. Ah, well, all in the line of duty. She assembled her tools, put a block of clay on the board and sat down, looking about her, and realizing for the first time today that she was already tired by the emotional strain of dealing with the Martins.

Mirelle glanced up at the shadow-box shelves where her smaller finished pieces were displayed. She had acceded to the demands of Jamie and Sylvia. The yellow velvet did show off the horse, the latest pose of Tasso, the bronze pig borrowed from Tonia ("only to be shown, Mother, not sold or anything"), and on the top shelf, the face hidden by the shadow of the helmet, the Soldier. On a pedestal was the Running Child, backed by a vivid red velvet swag. Should she have risked the unfinished Lucy? No, but this assembly of her output for the last ten years didn't make much of a showing, no matter what the circumstances. Considered dispassionately, the head of James Howell and the Lucy were her most impressive work to date.

Patsy had ceased rearranging the displays of the Dirty Dicks, the Christmas creche animals and the mugs which Mirelle had thrown for the Bazaar. Now she stood, listening to the conversation on the Apron Line that was strung across the stage, perpendicular to their booth. For lack of something more constructive, Mirelle started to carve Patsy's features from the clay rectangle. She glanced at her watch to have a time check on sculpting a credible likeness.

"Do hold still, Patsy," she called as the girl started to turn.

"Ooo," Patsy squealed, "I'm being done."

"Patsy, just look back at Aprons. For a moment more. Fine. Now, if you'll just turn and let me have the full face…"

Mirelle was only peripherally aware that a small crowd had gathered. She could feel their presence and hear their muted whisperings.

"Oh, I'd no idea you were doing me, Mirelle. Oh, this is thrilling. I was just talking to Ann Mulholland in Aprons and when I started to move, Mirelle told me to stop."

Mirelle permitted a very small gentle sigh for Patsy's exuberant chatter but the work reabsorbed her and she forgot about the ceaseless babble that drifted harmlessly over her head, pausing only when Mirelle asked the girl to turn.

"Would a piano stool help?" June Treadway quietly asked at Mirelle's elbow.

"Indeed it would," and Mirelle gave her a quick smile of gratitude.

A moment later June installed a giggling Patsy on the claw-footed, swivel-topped stool. Mirelle could now reach over and turn the model whichever way was required. Finishing the little bust, Mirelle held it up for inspection.

"No, please don't handle it," Mirelle said, as Patsy reached eagerly for it. "The clay is still malleable. It'll need a chance to harden." She put it on one of the shadow box shelves and pulled a corner of the velvet behind it.

"Oh, that's so… so me," Patsy crowed, her pretty face glowing with pleasure. To Mirelle's astonishment, the girl hugged her in an excess of gratitude. "I'm just so thrilled. Wait til my Pete sees me." Then she turned to the watchers. "Now that you've seen what Madame Michelangelo can do, who'll be next?"

Mirelle smothered a laugh at the girl's instinctive salesmanship.

"I think I'd like my children done," said a woman, stepping forward from the crowd. "How long does it take?"

Mirelle made a face for forgetting to check the time. "About twenty minutes," she said in a quick approximation. "I don't like to work so quickly. I have to warn you, too, that there's a danger of losing the detail if the soft clay gets knocked about."

"For two dollars, it's all in a good cause."

"Could you do my baby?" A younger woman pushed through the crowd with an eighteen month old boy.

"If you can keep him still long enough," Mirelle replied, a little dubious. The child was already squirming in his mother's arms.

"I will!" the mother replied grimly and sat down on the stool.

Three people crowded the booth too much so the stool was placed between the stage and the booth and Mirelle proceeded with the sitting.

The baby wiggled, squirmed, bawled and fussed but Mirelle kept on doggedly, and though the result did not please her, the mother professed to be delighted. She readily agreed to leave the clay in the booth until it had hardened.

From then on, Mirelle was kept so busy that coffee brought to her turned lukewarm before she could take more than a sip. Though she could see gross flaws in the execution, everyone seemed so pleased, she abandoned self-deprecation.

Tonia arrived with Nick in tow and they both begged money for the food display and the Trade-a-Toy table. Roman rambled in later, quite willing to stand and watch her working. Nor was he in any way embarrassed for he announced to any cronies who wandered by that the lady sculpting was HIS mother.

Mirelle found that she was cutting her time down to 15 minutes with children. Then Patsy had an inspiration and gave out hastily printed numbers so that people could wander around to other booths until their number was called. If they didn't answer, one presumed they had gone home and she went on to the next number.

"We need more sculptures," Patsy said once to Mirelle in a fierce whisper. "I've sold nine of the Dirty Dicks and there's all of tomorrow to go as well as tonight. What'll we do if we run completely out?"

"Take orders."

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Then she sniffed hugely. "Doesn't that roast beef smell heavenly?"

"Now that you mention it, it does," and Mirelle paused to rub shoulders, stiff from her concentrated efforts. "I hadn't realized how hungry I was getting." As she rotated her shoulder blades to ease the muscles, she turned half towards the door and saw Steve entering with his parents. She bent to her table. She'd managed to forget all about that problem and resented its intrusion now.

"Hi, hon. Wow!" and Steve whistled appreciatively as he saw the many little heads in various stages of drying on the shelves. "They sure have been working you."

"You know Patsy McHugh, don't you, Steve?" And Steve shook hands with Patsy and introduced his parents.

"There I was, just talking to Ann in the Apron section," Patsy began effusively, "and I turned around to see Mrs. Martin working on a bust of ME. In two shakes of a lamb's tail, there I was," and she pointed triumphantly to the small replica. "I'm so excited. This is much more original than a charcoal sketch. Why, it's much more me!"

Except, thought Mirelle, somewhat appalled at her reaction, that the statue doesn't have its mouth open. Then she looked at her mother-in-law and saw her counting the number of busts. Probably adding up all the earnings.

"Yes," Dad Martin said slowly, "it is a good likeness. Of a very pretty girl." He smiled at Patsy, who blushed with becoming modesty.

"Oh, Mr. Martin," she murmured without, Mirelle also noticed, a trace of coyness. Patsy was a nice child in spite of her garrulousness. "But it's really a crime for Mirelle to be doing a church bazaar." and her tone was scornful. "Why, she should be doing things for the Louvre."

Mirelle closed her eyes briefly. Patsy never knew when to stop, did she!

"I hardly believe that Mary Ellen considers herself that talented," Mother Martin said reprovingly.

"You can never tell, can you," Patsy babbled on. "All she really needs is someone to discover how talented she is."

"Mother," and Steve broke in diplomatically, taking his mother's arm, "come see the white elephant booth. I believe there's some china there with the exact pattern you've been collecting. Mirelle, are you joining us for dinner?"

"As soon as I finish Tommy here."

There was little time for family conversation at dinner. Many acquaintances came up to meet the senior Martins and, unfortunately, to speak to Mirelle about her sculpting. Before Mother Martin could feel her eminence eclipsed by that, Mirelle finished her dinner and excused herself.

Though she worked as fast as possible, there were still ten uncollected numbers at nine-thirty when the Bazaar was officially closing. Mirelle promised that, if the next-in-line arrived by ten the following morning when the Bazaar reopened, she would do him. Patsy was overjoyed with the success of their booth but Mirelle was so stiff and tired, that she wondered if she could make it home. Steve, the children and the grandparents had left after eight.

When Mirelle finally stepped out into the crisp air, she was amazed at the serene snowy scene. She stood in the doorway a moment, breathing deeply, enjoying the smell of snow and the quiet around her. The new fallen stuff was fluffy and still drifting down in fine dustings here and there. It was a wonderful sight and Mirelle dreaded going home.

Steve had left the station wagon in the driveway so that she could put the Sprite in the garage beside his father's Buick. She appreciated the thoughtfulness and went in through the laundry room to be confronted by the sight of her parents-in-law and her husband gathered around the Lucy in her studio.

"Hi, Mirelle. Say, why didn't you put her on show instead of the Child?" Steve asked.

Her father-in-law was handling the unfinished bust of James Howell. Raging inwardly, Mirelle stood in the door, not trusting herself to speak. Steve turned around again.

"What's wrong, honey?" he asked. "Why didn't you bring over the Lucy? It's very good, you know, Dad," he told his father earnestly. "You never met Lucy Farnoll but she was wonderful to us when we were in Ashland."

Managing a tight smile at Dad Martin, Mirelle took the bust from him. The malleable plasticene had been handled and several lines blurred. Trembling inside her skin, Mirelle put the head back on its shelf and covered it.

"I'm the only one capable of judging what work I show," she said. She knew her voice was cold and expressionless. "The Lucy is not finished and to show rough plasticene is amateurish."

"Mirelle!" Steve began to realize how very angry she was.

"I'm very tired and I'm going to take a bath. Please excuse me. Good night." She left the room quickly, her steps jolting through her body.

"Mirelle!" Now Steve was annoyed.

"Now, son," Dad Martin said soothingly, "she was working at quite a pace there, you know. A good hot bath is just what she needs."

"I just don't understand your wife, Steve, try as I will… "

Mirelle heard her mother-in-law's condescending tones as the last indignity and it was with great effort that she kept from slamming the door behind her.

Steve came up after she had bathed and got into bed.

"What the hell did you mean by that show of temper, Mirelle?" he said in a taut voice as soon as he'd closed the door.

"Steven Martin, if you'd heard your mother talking to me at lunch… And to come home and find her pawing over my…"

"She wasn't pawing. I was showing her because she was interested."

"Don't raise your voice to me, Steve Martin. The only interest your mother could possibly have in my work is how much money I could make with it. I saw the way she counted those busts this afternoon."

"Mirelle!" Steve was taken aback by the suppressed savagery in her voice.

"Don't 'Mirelle' me. She wasn't even going to come to the Bazaar because I had the audacity to dress up in a smock. Like an artist. 'Outlandish get-up' was her phrase, I believe."

"Keep your voice down."

"You keep your mother down. Off my back. I will not have her patronizing me any more!"

"Mirelle?" Steve's temper was beginning to heat up as well.

"No, Steve, don't defend her to me. Defend me! Just this once," Mirelle said, softly, pleadingly.

Steve sat down on the bed, shaking his head slowly in his hands.

"Mirelle, she's my mother…"

"And that's the only reason I even try to be polite. I've taken two sleeping tablets. I'm very tired and I've got a lot to do tomorrow, and no time or energy for wrangling."

Steve combed his fingers through his hair, exhaling through his teeth. "All right, all right," but the edge of anger had left his voice. "What time do you have to be there?"

"Ten o'clock. I'll set the oven for the roast lamb for dinner tomorrow before I go, so leave the oven settings alone. Thank God for automation. The Bazaar is officially over at four and no one's coming until seven so I'll have a chance to rest before dinner. There's a movie in the basement of the church at 1:30 so you can get the kids out of your hair." She turned over, groaning at the tautness of her shoulders. "My aching back. Good night, dear."

Steve knelt by the side of the bed and kissed her cheek. Then he began to knead her shoulder muscles. She wondered as she lay there, relaxing under his ministrations, if she'd dream of the hands again.