Mirelle saw that scene again: a memory, like so many others, that she had deliberately inhibited. Now, she had a sudden total recall of that Victorianly busy room, with objets d'art jostling each other on every inch of table space, photos, etchings, watercolors covering the walls. She could hear her mother cautioning her not to touch anything, to play quietly so as not to disturb the adults. It had been a hot summer day but the parlor, for all its clutter and dust, had been cool. And she had been with her mother. Those times were to be cherished.
"The chair was covered in horsehair and it itched," she said with a laugh.
Howell kept watching her and she wondered what he had expected her to say.
"How is Madam Frascatti?" she asked experimentally. "She must be ancient now. She was positively creaking then."
"Oh, she does creak but what a zest she still has for life and living."
Whatever it was he had hoped to hear, Mirelle had not said it for Howell leaned back.
"Did you mention you'd met me?" asked Mirelle, trying to keep anxiety out of her voice. Howell seemed to be withdrawing from her. And now she did not wish to lose contact with him.
"No. I didn't. Because I don't feel that I have met you. I've had two amusing encounters with a young housewife and mother who drives a Sprite, rides horses, sprains ankles and mucks about with clay."
"I don't 'muck about' with clay, as you put it," snapped Mirelle.
"Easy, girl. Now Mirelle LeBoyne is talking and she's the girl I'm taking to lunch. You see," and he leaned forward again, "I saw something enchanting in that cat which stayed with me the rest of the tour. Oh, it's not great sculpture… you're artist enough to appreciate my distinction without taking offense because none is intended… But there was a quality of serenity, of permanence, of…" He shrugged as the exact word eluded him, "… of homeliness and belonging, I guess, that struck an answering chord in this particular wanderer.
"Essentially, when I moved here from Philadelphia, it was not so much the need for new living quarters - God knows I'm not home enough to do more than 'reside' - as the need for some kind of roots for myself. Oh, it's fine when I'm at liberty and when Margaret, my daughter, is home from college. Yes, I was married," he interpolated with a sour grin, "and divorced Shirley years ago. Margaret prefers her father's company and I hers, at intervals and for not too long a period.
"It was a sense of permanence that I was groping for. And your cat symbolized it to me."
Mirelle dropped her eyes in embarrassment and delight.
"I wondered if anyone else would ever notice that in him," she said in a low voice.
"Then my interpretation was correct?"
"Oh, yes." Mirelle looked up with earnest assurance.
A drink was suddenly placed in front of Howell and he drew back. Mirelle could have wished the waitress stuffed into concrete. Howell appeared to take no notice of the interruption.
"I asked the curator if the Museum would consider selling the cat… "
"You what?" She was dumbfounded.
He grinned. "Oh, yes, I really did. That's how much of an impression the cat made on me."
Mirelle continued to stare at him, incredulous.
"I got the same reaction from him, too," he said with a chuckle. "But I'm sincere. I also presume that it is impossible to duplicate that bronze nor would I want to. What I want to know is, do you have anything else from your home-loving period that I could buy?"
Mirelle couldn't stop her gyrating thoughts long enough to get one out and the little soldier was the pivot. "I seem to have stumped you."
A pressure behind her eyes warned Mirelle that she was about to disgrace herself in tears. She snatched up his drink and took a stiff gulp.
"I can't imagine what possessed you to call me today of all days… No, don't interrupt, Jamie," and the nickname came out spontaneously, "but you wouldn't have said just that sort of thing if you didn't mean it. Nor would you have seen the Cat in just that way… I mean, superficially that's not the impression it conveys… I don't sell much and I can tell myself it's because I don't produce enough but that isn't the real reason and I don't fool myself that it is. But each sale means more. Each piece is a part of me… of my creativity. It's all the rearranging, the household things left undone that I'll have to race like mad to do later: it's screaming at the kids to leave my work alone. It's fear that somebody will knock a model over, destroy hours of work… or crack a cast… or… It just isn't easy to have a talent and be a wife and mother, too. It's fighting even to get into my studio. Well, not that so much anymore," she interrupted herself honestly, "but in any case, every little…"
"Pat on the head?" he supplied when she faltered.
"Yes, every pat on the head is precious. So you simply cannot know…" She spread her hands in a futile gesture at her inability to express herself. "Sometimes I feel like chucking the whole thing into the disposal and taking up tatting. At least that's considered a respectable feminine occupation."
"I am not remotely interested in buying your tatting. At least, not until I work my way through the supply my maternal grandmother left me…"
Mirelle found herself laughing until the tears rolled down her cheeks at her vivid mental image of James Howell patiently replacing torn tatting from a box reeking of lavender sachet.
"You're far too intense, Mirelle. Here. Finish my drink. I'll get another."
He signalled the waitress and ordered two more bourbons on the rocks.
"How old are these cast-cracking kids of yours?"
"Roman is fourteen, Nick ten and Antonia is seven."
"Prolific!"
"I wanted children."
"Having been an only child."
Mirelle looked quickly, nervously at his face but he only returned her gaze politely. She wondered exactly what he had heard from Madam Frascatti but decided that it was more likely that he was only baiting her.
"I shall either fall asleep or disgrace myself completely," she said as the waitress served the drinks.
"I never allow my companions to disgrace themselves OR," he said with massive dignity, "me!" He raised his glass in toast. "Besides, you'll shortly be packing away a huge steak, potatoes, salad and dessert before you leave and that will sop up the alcohol. Now, may I or may I not commission you to do a work of art for me?"
Mirelle hesitated, thinking of the bust and the soldier.
"Yes, I would be glad to do something for you. But I'm not sure what you want. The Cat was a twenty-two inch bronze but it isn't a specific size you're after anyhow, is it?"
He shook his head.
"Have you a special place in your home where you'd like a piece of statuary?"
He let his jaw drop mournfully. "Actually the place is quite bare of decoration, apart from a few small paintings I've picked up."
"I can't fill a gap unless I see the hole first."
"Perhaps you have something finished at home now?"
Mirelle laughed nervously. "I just did a little pig," she said to give herself time to think, "but he's not your type."
Howell laughed and thanked her for a backhanded compliment.
"Besides, he amused Tonia. I really made him for her, to remind her to stop standing in the middle of her messy room."
"Wouldn't a swat on the rear accomplish the same end?"
"No, because the pig makes her laugh and then she gets it all done in a good mood instead of turning the air green with her whines."
"Good point."
"Good pig. So you may come and see what I have and maybe you'll get some ideas."
He cocked an eyebrow and his eyes started to twinkle. "Sort of the reverse position?" he asked cryptically.