"Who could help hearing?" Nick demanded, again explosive.
"The bus." She snapped her fingers at them, shooing them all out the door, disregarding the fact that the younger two would have to wait at the stop.
She watched them go, conscious that she should have countered their arguments, excused Steve's behavior. But that would have been hypocritical, she thought. She ought to have said something.
She drank the coffee, more out of habit than desire. She seemed to have no emotion, not even regret, nor a trace of anxiety over what was surely a critical point in her marriage. She sat there, trying to sort out her thoughts, unable to concentrate on any line. She was conscious that Tasso came up to her chair, weaving himself around her legs, purring loudly. He was hungry, she thought, and lacked the energy to remedy the problem. Then he leaped to the table and she watched him without rebuke as he lapped milk directly from the pitcher.
She wished that she still had Lucy to talk to. She censored that idea.
She was mildly surprised to see a car drive up and stop. In a passive way, she recognized it as James HowelPs. As he strode past the dining room window, he saw her there, and frowned when she gave no response to his cheerful wave. She heard his knock at the door and could do nothing. After a long pause, he stood in the archway, concerned by her lack of recognition.
"What's wrong, Mirelle?" As he turned to close the front door, he caught a glimpse of the studio, the damaged door and the statue on the floor. He went half-way down the steps as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "What on earth happened to that lovely thing?" he asked as he came back to the dining room. "Mirelle, what happened?"
She looked blankly up at him, until finally the sense of his question registered in her mind.
"Steve… Steve… he…" she began and was choked by the sobs that were released at this attempt to voice an explanation.
Howell reached out to her, at first sympathetically, and then in alarm as Mirelle seemed to dissolve into hysterical weeping. When he tried to comfort her, she pushed him away and ran down into the studio. He followed and found her on her knees by the statue, sobbing Lucy's name over and over, patting the flattened head.
He watched her for a moment, then went into the laundry and filled a pail with water which he threw on her. He half expected her to attack him from the savage look on her face. Instead, she gulped and made a determined effort to get control of herself. He found a clean towel in the laundry room and handed it to her.
"Thanks," she said weakly as she mopped her face and shoulders, and pushed her soaking hair out of her eyes. She got up stiffly, still swallowing sobs. "Sudden Storm, Chapter Five," she said in a rasping voice, walking unsteadily to the couch. Her knees buckled and she sat heavily. "There's bourbon in the cupboard over the fridge. I need it."
He brought back the bottle and a glass, and poured a healthy shot. She was shaking so badly that he had to hold the glass while she drank but the straight alcohol did steady her. In a moment she could hold the glass by herself.
When he saw that she was shivering now, he went up stairs and grabbed a blanket from the first bedroom. He wrapped it firmly around her, disregarding her soaking dressing gown.
Mirelle could not, or would not, look at him. She kept sipping the bourbon, waiting for it to penetrate the numbness. The phone rang, a startling sound since she was right by the extension. Howell picked up the receiver and held it to her ear. It was Steve.
"I have to be away for the rest of the week, Mirelle. It's useless for me to say that I'm sorry about the Lucy, but I am. I didn't even see it. Mirelle, are you listening?"
"Yes." Her voice was flat.
"I don't know why I do things like that. Want to lash out and hit you, I mean. But I can't seem to reach you sometimes. And I have to…" he broke off and there was a long pause. "When I've finished this trip, can I come home, Mirelle?"
"Yes. Come home, Steve."
She motioned for Howell to replace the headset and took another sip of bourbon without looking at him.
"I've no desire to involve myself in your affairs, Mirelle, but I cannot leave you in this state."
"I'm not the suicidal type."
"I didn't imply that you are," he said smoothly, "but you are in no condition to be left alone."
She drank the last of the bourbon and he took the glass from her hand.
"Do you have a good friend…" She shook her head violently, averting her eyes from the mess on the floor. "Not even one who is slightly sympathetic?"
She did look at him this time and he was surprised by the bleakness in her face and eyes. "No."
"I'm going to make you coffee and something to eat. Go get dressed," he said, rising to his feet.
She nodded, like an obedient child, and got up, wondering why there suddenly seemed to be so many steps from the studio. Or was it that they were so hard to climb with wooden legs? But she dressed in whatever came to hand. And she drank the coffee and ate the breakfast he put before her. When she had finished, he collected the dishes and took them to the kitchen. She watched him moving about, thinking that she ought to protest but no words came.
The next thing, he was holding out her coat.
"You've got to cultivate some friends, my dear, for I'm simply not around very often to provide this type of service," he said drily as he guided her out to his car.
He drove steadily for a while without her marking which direction so she was a little puzzled when he pulled into a crowded city parking lot. He handed her out and, as she watched bemused, carefully locked the car. They were in the center of town, she realized, and found herself being led up the street to the open-air farmer's market.
"I found this the week before I started the tour," Jamie told her, "and I've had it in mind to come back when I got the chance. Let's see what's new and different to supermarket homogeneity."
In spite of her self-immolation, Mirelle was amazed. "A walk in the woods, perhaps, or a cozy head-shrinking by your fireplace. But a farmer's market?"
"I'm always open and above board, m'dear. Any objections?"
"No, Jamie. None. Only thanks. Thanks so much."
"Let's see if you know your apples, lady," he replied, taking her arm as he saw tears start in her eyes. He propelled her firmly towards the rows of apple-crammed baskets around the nearest truck.
He bought more apples then he could eat by himself, and country sausage and scrapple, a wild-looking homemade cheese, baking potatoes, dead-ripe tomatoes and leaf lettuce, fresh basil and dill until neither could carry anything else.
Then he drove her back to her house, pressing an apple into her hand as she got out of the car. He drove off with a friendly wave.
With a deep sigh she pulled open the front door, looking resolutely down the steps. At some point, Jamie had removed the Lucy from the center of the floor. She closed her eyes, profoundly grateful to be spared the sight of the ruined statue.
Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow I'll go down and see exactly how much damage was done. Tomorrow I'll be able to start all over again if I have to.
She was sagging with fatigue. She left a note for Tonia on the floor in the hall and went upstairs to bed.
The phone's shrill ring woke her around five. When she got the receiver to her ear, she heard Roman's voice, whispering on the downstairs extension so she hung up. She got out of bed and went to get supper. Then she sat and watched TV with the kids until it was time for them to be in bed.
The next morning she felt less exhausted but still detached from life. The children had already forgotten some of the tension of the previous day and she envied them their resilience. She did all the necessary chores but she wouldn't walk through the studio so she left the dirty clothes basket at the bottom of the steps. She was sitting down for another cup of coffee when Howell's car turned up the driveway. His reappearance did not, somehow, surprise her.