The sun woke her, slanting through the window into her eyes. Although the clock read just before noon, she felt refreshed by the four hours' rest. Tasso, who had a most unfeline yen for cantaloupe, had evidently chewed a corner from each piece of melon rind still on the table. He was now curled up in the wing chair in the living room. She cleared the breakfast dishes and then returned to the studio. Uncovering the statue, she was relieved to see that it was as good as she'd felt it was, with one or two minor corrections. She draped the towel back tenderly.
The mail had come but, apart from one for Steve, was all direct mail advertising which she threw out. She made more coffee and was attacking the newspaper again, getting past the first page with comprehension, when the phone rang.
"Mirelle?"
"Yes?" She couldn't place the man's voice.
"Have you ever counted how many Martins there are in the phone book of this Smith-forsaken town?"
"Many more than James Howells," she replied, placing the voice.
"That's A for effort. Have you any idea how many Martins I've had to call?"
"No," and she couldn't help giggling, "why?"
"Because, young lady, I want to apologize to you."
"To me? Why?"
"Despite my high sounding reassurances the other day, I didn't really think you were any good. I must profusely apologize. I saw an exquisite little bronze figurine in the Stamford University Museum of, no less, Fine Arts."
"Oh, my cat."
"Yes, your cat."
"I hated to sell it. Tasso's a member of the family, even in bronze. But you always sell to museums when they ask."
"At first I didn't realize whose it was. But the name LeBoyne finally rang its appointed bell. I gather you do use your mother's maiden name professionally."
Mirelle closed her eyes against the stab of pain. You don't ever escape who you really are.
"Mirelle? Are you still there?"
I won't close up on him, she told herself. I won't. I'll throw those damned sensitivities back into the closet where they belong and slam the door hard!
"Mirelle?"
"Sorry, I had a mouthful of coffee."
"Are you sure I didn't have a mouthful of foot?"
"Any foot of yours is welcome."
"Seriously, Mirelle, that was a lovely affectionate piece. I'm just back, you know."
"No, I didn't."
"Well, I am."
"Was it successful? The tour?"
"Very, but I am exceedingly glad to be back standing in line with dripping steak in my hands. Hotels! Yechkt!"
She couldn't help laughing at the contrast of that sound and his normally correct tones.
"How's the Sprite? Behaving herself?"
"Better than I am. I've been up all night," she blurted it out, "finishing a statuette."
"You have? I thought that sort of round-the-clock activity was limited to the Left Bank."
"Look closely at the address, pal, left side of town."
"Depends on where you're situated. Mirelle, are you free for lunch today?"
"I haven't even had breakfast."
"Tsk. Tsk. Our starving artists, oblivious to earthy requirements. I'll meet you in half an hour… for lunch, I might add… at the so originally christened Road House."
"That's not much time for a gal who hasn't had breakfast."
"That's quite enough time for a gal who's going to get lunch."
"Don't let the steak drip."
Without stopping to check her horoscope, Mirelle dashed up the stairs, showered and dressed in fifteen minutes. She made up at the hall mirror, catching a glimpse of the draped statuette as she did so, ruefully envying the playwright or poet whose works of art were rather easier to transport. Five pounds of plasticene perched on a hip was a trifle ostentatious.
She spun the Sprite out of the development in the best of good spirits, unaccountably pleased with the world, the day and its bright prospects. Not even Steve's expected return that night could mar her pleasure.
"That did it. Oh, well, I'll forget about him for the afternoon."
Easy, gal, she cautioned herself. Forgetting the husband to lunch with another man? She snorted at the whimsy, impatient as the cross-highway light held her up. As if Howell were that type. He was only interested in her work and that part of herself was completely divorced from her family or her marriage, for all the overlapping. It was the as yet unhampered, unpossessed soul of her that she had refused to relinquish to Steve's possessiveness. She had told him, early in their marriage, that she had given him her body, her worldly possessions, obedience and loyalty: she had given him all her love and devotion but that inner part of her that was unalterably Mary Ellen LeBoyne was not his. By the same token, she did not expect to possess his innermost secrets and soul. She doubted if Steve had any conception of such basic privacy. Very often he acted as if that final reserve were an offense against him, instead of her defense against the world. He was always striving for complete capitulation.
She got so engrossed in this subject of identity that she nearly missed the turn into the Road House.
"At least he knows where the good steaks are," she told herself as she deftly parked beside his blue Thunderbird. It was rather a shock to glance over and see him watching her, a broad grin on his face, from inside the T-bird.
"It was two to one you would park beside me if the space stayed open long enough."
"Where did you call from?"
"Inside, of course," he said, getting out and locking his car.
"What do you keep in there? Crown jewels?"
"Irreplaceable accompaniment scores," he replied, opening her door and handing her out. "Have you grown?" He looked down at her in surprise. "I'd remembered you much shorter."
"Heels." What a good dancing height he is.
"You have been rather informally dressed before." His eyes twinkled. "Seeing to the horses."
As the hostess led them to a wall table towards the rear of the dark wood-panelled room, Mirelle was conscious of his hand at her waist, guiding her. Casual physical contact was not agreeable to her: she often could not bear to be touched, even by her children. There had been times, early in their marriage, when the feel of Steve's hand had been immensely thrilling. Comparisons! Comparisons!
"1 beg your pardon?" and James Howell bent his head closer to hers.
"I have an extremely bad habit of talking out loud to myself and, if you make the usual comment, I'll eat by myself."
"I would never be guilty of banality," he replied disdainfully. "Besides, I've been known to carry on lengthy conversations with the bust of Mozart which leers at me above the piano. Yes, miss, we'd like a drink before lunch. What's your pleasure, Mirelle?"
She declined and he ordered a bourbon on the rocks while Mirelle scanned the faces in the restaurant, to see if there were any interesting ones.
"Any gossipy neighbors?"
Mirelle flushed at the sly taunt. "No. I don't know many people in town anyhow. But I always keep on the lookout for grist to my potter's wheel."
"Anything of interest here?"
"Nothing inspirational."
"Ever done a self-portrait? Yours is an unusual face. Those cheekbones and… am I intruding again?" he asked. "I can just see the little clam shell closing up."
"My stock answer is 'artistic temperament'," she said, leaning forward across the small table in her urgency to make him understand. "But you don't deserve the stock answer. I could give you a wheeze about a grim childhood…"
Howell, too, leaned over, taking her hand in both his.
"I'll come clean, Mirelle. One of my artists remembers your mother, and you. Don't pull away, my dear. Madam Frascatti gave me an enchanting picture of a thin child with long tawny braids, playing with a collection of tiny toys which she had brought with her in a wooden box. The child endeared herself to Madam because she sat in the chair she was told to take, talked very softly to herself as she played with her dolls for nearly two hours."