"That cough's the worst aspect of this bronchial pneumonia," he admitted. "I feel as if the lining is coming out of my throat."
"He had a coughing fit just as you got here, Mrs. Martin. Brutal," said Dave sympathetically.
"Leaving me weak and wretched." Howell assumed a dramatically limp posture.
"Ha. Years of riotous living have caught up with you," Mirelle said with cool disdain. "Bucketing around the States from one concert hall after another."
"All of them drafty," and Howell jerked his thumb at Andorri. "He picks them especially for the drafts."
"What about long underwear? Or leg warmers?" Mirelle suggested with mock concern and Margaret giggled at the thought of her fashionable father wearing either.
"I can get my hands on a reliable portable heater," Dave made his contribution solicitously.
"You're cruel to a sick and ailing man," Howell said, hand to his forehead.
"Not at all," Mirelle and Dave said in unison. "Just trying to be helpful."
Howell snorted. Then Dave leaned over to examine the pig more closely, chuckling as he inspected it.
"That's delightful, Mrs. Martin. Would never have expected porkers in Jim's genealogy." Howell made an attempt to snatch it back.
"You might have used a more elegant animal," Howell told Mirelle when Dave returned it. "But it will remind me to maintain dignity at all times."
"Has Will Martin been in to see you recently?"
"Today," and Howell rubbed his hip.
"He came first thing," and Margaret giggled, "and warned Dad not to get up."
Dave was on his feet instantly. "If I'd known that, I wouldn't have allowed you downstairs, Jim."
"Don't be an ass, Dave."
"You're the ass," replied the agent with some heat. "I'm glad you spoke, Mags. I'm serious, Jim. You can't take any risks. Bronchial pneumonia is no joke."
"Is your fever down?" Mirelle asked for Jamie was beginning to frown at the harassment.
"Only yesterday," Margaret said when he didn't answer.
Dave took Howell's cup from his hand, gave it to Margaret and, firmly taking the sick man by the elbow, propelled him out of the music room and up the stairs.
"If I'm your manager, James Howell, I'm your manager. And I am managing you back into your bed, you pig-faced espece de canard! "
Dave might be shorter than James Howell by several inches but he had considerably more bulk which he used to coerce his victim. Margaret sighed with relief as she saw the brute force was working where tact had not.
"Honest, Mrs. Martin, I don't think Dad realizes just how sick he's been. Of course, my opinion is a child's. Just at the wrong time he thinks I'm still nine. Well, I'm nineteen and old enough to take care of him now."
"Mirelle!" James Howell roared from his room and the effort started him coughing.
"Got any honey?" Mirelle asked Margaret as she pulled the girl to the kitchen. "Be right there, Jamie."
"He's got a cough mixture," the girl said.
"Well, it's not effective and this always works with my kids. It coats the throat tissue." She had put several teaspoons of honey in a glass, added lemon juice, and stirred. "Add some whiskey later on. That'll improve the taste."
Margaret was dubious but she followed Mirelle up the stairs. Andorri had got Howell back into bed, under the blankets and propped up against the pillows, but the invalid was still sulking.
"Here, try this. Always works," she said, sitting on the bed and giving him a spoonful.
"You are, my dear, a continual surprise package. Nostrums and sculpture?"
"Why not? Feeding sick cranky children requires the knack," she said, and when Jamie opened his mouth to protest, she tilted the spoon in so deftly, he had to swallow or choke, "very similar to plastering."
Dave Andorri guffawed loudly. "You've met your match, Jim."
"Ungrateful wench. Never again will I extend a helping hand to a female in distress," Howell said and then realized that his voice was less rasping. "Even more reprehensible is your distressing tendency to be right!" He reached behind him for a pillow to throw at Mirelle but she ran nimbly to the door, waving goodbye.
As she drove home, Mirelle was unexpectedly satisfied with the day, a state of mind which she'd not experienced in months. She'd been vaguely disoriented for so long that she couldn't quite pin down why her mood was improved. To be sure, she thoroughly enjoyed matching wits with Howell. He had such an atrocious sense of humor. She was pleased with the reception of the sickpig which should give Margaret a useful talisman. Everything contributed to her sense of euphoria.
She resolved to maintain the mood, even if the children got to wrangling. Not even the sight of a letter from her in-laws put a damper on her exhilaration. As usual, the letter was addressed only to Steve. Not since the terrible fight in Allentown had she ever written directly to her mother-in-law. She propped the letter up on the hall table with a disdainful sniff. It couldn't prick her mood as she set about getting supper, an especially good supper.
When Steve's car turned in the drive, she paused long enough to check her hair and for any stray smudges on her face. She surprised herself by turning her cheek for Steve's home-coming kiss, a habit which lately he'd dropped.
"Say, what got into you?" he asked, hugging her.
"Oh, just a good day."
"Any reason it's a good day? More commissions or something?"
"No."
"God, you're coy," he said and swatted her proprietarily on the hip, his eyes still wary.
She laughed and rolled her eyes, and he echoed her laughter.
"It's good to see you like this, hon. You sure you aren't hiding something? Like an expensive new dress?"
She laughed again at that, for she was unlikely to buy expensive dresses at any time. Expensive art equipment, yes. "No," she told him, tolerant of his density, "just for a change, I feel right with the world."
"For a real change," Steve agreed. "Oh ho, mail from ma." He picked up the letter with an apprehensive glance at her.
"Not even that can erase the smile from my sunny face."
"Well, well." He slit the envelope and, as he read the contents, his hand slowly rose to rub the back of his neck.
That signified bad news, Mirelle knew, as she went to put dinner on the table.
The kids came clattering up from the TV room at her call and noisily forwarded the conversational ball at the dinner table. Steve joined in easily enough, so Mirelle decided that she must have been mistaken about the import of the letter. In fact, she forgot all about it until after the children were in bed.
"What was on your mother's mind?" she asked as Steve fussed with his amplifier.
"Has one of the kids been fiddling with this?" he demanded irritably. "It's all off."
"I don't think so."
"What about the maid? "
"It was all right last night."
"You know how she dusts."
"She comes on Tuesday and this is Friday so it couldn't be Maria."
"Damn it!"
"So what was on your mother's mind?" Mirelle repeated, certain of the source of his aggravation.
Steve rocked back on his heels, still fiddling with the hi-fi settings. "We're getting a state visit."
"Oh no. When?"
"The 10th. They've decided to celebrate Dad's retirement by spending the winter in Orlando, Florida. You know, where the Randolphs went for so many years."
"Naturally it would be Orlando then," Mirelle replied blandly. The Randolphs were a stuffy, pompous family, important in Allentown. Mrs. Martin Senior quoted the Randolph authorized opinion on everything from Heinz ketchup to the state of the spring weather.
"Oh, come off it, Mirelle," Steve said in a sour tone of voice.
Mirelle shrugged. "How long will they be here? You know the Church Bazaar is the 12th and 13th. I have to be there."