"You are a marvelous dancer."
He looked down into her eyes, grinning. "Except when a foot has been skewered by three inches of stainless steel."
"I am sorry, Jamie. Really."
"That's better," he said, smiling and pulling her closer. He rested his chin against her hair. "You're like fine wine and velvet - which reminds me. Have all the King's horses and all the King's men…"
"Put Lucy back together again?"
"Yes, her, too." His eyes lost the laughter as he stared down at her gravely.
"An ill wind blows no good," she said as lightly as she could for his stare was disconcerting. "I think it's a better statue now. It's more Lucy. The other was very sentimental."
"Sentimental? Hmmm." He pulled her close again to execute a complicated turn. "Maggie goes back tomorrow to college. She came down to rob me of my pelf for fine feathers. She'll leave poor Robin poorer by far, I fear."
"All in a good cause."
The music ended and he led her back to Steve, claiming his daughter with appropriate light banter.
"Nice guy," remarked Steve.
"He has a good-looking daughter, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he does," Steve said in an absent fashion, staring after the two in such a way that Mirelle knew that his suspicions about James Howell had been removed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IN retrospect the next morning, Mirelle realized that, while the evening had had its shallow pleasures, it had only served to emphasize the broadening and apparently unbridgeable gap between Steve and herself. Fifteen years of marriage provided patterns to follow and routine exchanges filled awkward silences.
Steve plunged into a backlog of projects, rewiring the hi-fi equipment which had never been properly installed in the Wilmington house, repairing furniture, refinishing the boys' dressers, painting Tonia's bookcases and starting garden beds for planting the following spring. He joined the men's group at church and had time to enjoy home and community.
Mirelle cooked, kept the house tidier during the week than she had when he was away so constantly, and spent every other moment in the studio. The children were well accustomed to such absorption and, because they knew that she was busy on creche figures and items for the Bazaar, they never noticed that she and Steve were rarely together.
Yet, despite her ability to concentrate on sculpting to the exclusion of all other thought, Mirelle was constantly having to turn her mind away from the estrangement. Fortunately Sylvia got in the habit of dropping in for morning coffee, a practice that Mirelle had never encouraged before in anyone. A visit from the often caustic, always interesting Sylvia was bracing.
"If you mind my dropping in like this, 1 wish to God you wouldn't mealy-mouth around, but just say so," Sylvia said on Friday. "I've been here every morning this week…"
"Except Monday…"
"… Which might be stretching my welcome a bit. I think you once mentioned that you didn't go for the coffee break routine." Sylvia cocked one eyebrow quizzically. There was a tautness in the cords of her neck and an undercurrent in her sardonic manner that alerted Mirelle.
"No, I don't mind you dropping in, Sylvia. For one thing, you always make the coffee yourself."
"G.F. says I'm a managing type, but I must have my daily gallons of coffee…"
"Which you supplied the last pound of yourself, you nut…"
"Why not?"
"You don't expect me to stop what I'm doing…"
"God forbid! It's therapeutic watching you - better you than me - muck with that filthy stuff and turn out something repulsively human…" Sylvia gave a delicate shudder at the grinning Dirty Dick on Mirelle's wheel. This particular model was of Nick on the memorable day when he and Roman had come home, their best clothes covered with mud, carrying a pailful of tadpoles. Small Boy Triumphant Over Odds.
"… And you don't natter on and on…"
"I don't?" Sylvia was outraged. "I talk your bloody ear off."
"Yes, but you've a style of talk that's fun."
"Good time gal, that's Sylvia Esterhazy. A laugh a minute."
Mirelle looked up anxiously.
"I talk your bloody ear off because you listen, and you hear, and you do me the extreme courtesy of NOT offeringpredigested woman's magazine drivel as advice!" Sylvia's fine eyes were troubled but she turned her face away from Mirelle. Mirelle dropped her eyes back to the Dirty Dick, stenciled over a line unnecessarily. "I've got problems," Sylvia said in a tough voice. "You've got problems. All God's children got problems. Even if I could explain mine… But there are some days when I've simply got to talk AT someone." Sylvia gave a shuddering sigh. "Because I can't vocalize what is really… is bothering me. Talking AT someone like you is a helluva lot of help!" Sylvia made a sound that was half-gasp, half-laugh. "God, sometimes if you can just get the words out, you realize how silly it all is. Of course," she added in a brisker, Sylvia-ish tone, "this sort of talking at is reciprocal."
Mirelle shot a quick glance at Sylvia, wondering if she'd guessed how shaky the Martin marriage was. There was only a mute appeal in the woman's posture.
Mirelle recalled all the times when she had unburdened herself to Lucy, Farnoll, monologues that often proved to herself in the hearing how trivial her problem was, receiving the compliment of sympathy and practical advice. If by providing Sylvia, who'd known Lucy, with the specious solace of being her sounding board, she could repay her debt to their mutual friend, Mirelle was more than eager to oblige.
She smiled at Sylvia, prodding the plasticene in the bucket.
"I'm not the vocal type, Sylvia, but my ears are available."
Sylvia chuckled, her whole body relaxing suddenly. "No, you're not the vocal type, but it's another mark in your favor, m'dear. 1 simply cannot abide women who incessantly talk about themselves." She caught Mirelle's startled look and grimaced in self-deprecation. "Oh, yes. I obviously can't stand myself by the same token." She gulped the last of her coffee, gathered up her jacket and bag. "Monday? Same time? Same coffee station?"
"You'll always be welcome, Sylvia," Mirelle said as warmly as she could.
"Thanks, kiddo." And Sylvia was up the stairs and out the door.
As Mirelle finished the Dirty Dick, she couldn't help wondering what could be troubling a woman like Sylvia, who outwardly had all the essentials and many of the luxuries of life, was active socially and seemingly satisfied professionally since Sylvia insisted that she was a professional politician. Their relationship had not reached an intimacy at which anything deeply personal could be discussed, but Mirelle was oddly flattered by Sylvia's request.
Sylvia was not Mirelle's only visitor. June Treadway had come not once but three times, each time phoning to make sure of her welcome. Mirelle felt more formal with June but no less at ease. In her late forties, with all her children at various levels of college education, June enjoyed her involvement as volunteer secretary for the Church, organizing the social activities, assisting the very busy minister and his curate in all secular particulars.
"I'm the model of a modern matron," she told Mirelle, "and I shall thoroughly enjoy being a modern grandmother. Someone once told me that there are compensations for every age. It's a consoling notion if you examine it in any depth, and a damned good excuse, too. If I'd been born in the era when it was done, I should probably have embroidered a sampler with that motto. Matter of fact, perhaps I should anyway. Only being modern, I'll use one of those felt-tipped marking pens and have it done in five minutes instead of five weeks."
"Plan ahead," laughed Mirelle, printing the infamous sign in the air.