"Something your best friend doesn't tell you," she muttered, cursing whatever had prompted her to take that particular road at that particular time.
"Hi, Mrs. Martin, come join us for lunch," Margaret said in greeting.
"Oh, good heavens. I'd forgotten all about lunch. I'll come back later."
"Please don't do anything of the kind," Margaret said, quickly drawing her in. "I'm just setting the table."
"I'll help."
"You could tell Dad that his five minutes are up now. He's under the sun lamp. He wants to get rid of that pasty pig expression."
Mirelle stopped abruptly on the threshold of Jamie's bedroom. Howell was stripped to the waist, lying on his back under the glare of the sunlamp, pads protecting his eyes. His face, bleached further by the bright light, was in complete repose and the line of his mouth was sad. His hands, one across his waist, the other palm up on the pillow behind his head, looked strangely strengthless and lax. In contrast, the well developed pectoral muscles, the rounding of the bicep and forearm, the arch of his chest were those of an athlete, not a musician. His body looked considerably younger than his face. Mirelle experienced a curious disorientation looking at him. Quickly and quietly, she retreated a few steps from the door.
"Margaret says you've baked long enough on that side," she called as if making a first approach. "You'll be tasty for lunch." I'm as bad as an old lady, she told herself and was further dismayed to see that he only turned out the lamp at her warning. As she entered his room, he was removing the eye pads.
"I'm trying to approximate the coy shade of pink my sickpig wears," he said, reaching for his pajama top. Fascinated, Mirelle watched the play of muscles across the top of his arm as he slipped into a shirt.
"Anything is better than that underdone pasty effect you've been sporting," she said blithely. For heavens' sake, Steve has a better physique. Why should she get palpitations over Jamie's?
Jamie eyed her. "Actually I do feel better today. Your lemon-honey is a lot more effective than that $15.00 glue Martin prescribed. I slept all night." He shrugged into a dressing robe. "As a reward, Margaret is allowing me downstairs for lunch. Also to keep peace and support the legend that I am recovering." He slipped his hand under Mirelle's elbow and guided her downstairs. "You seem subdued this morning, not your usual caustic self."
Mirelle wrinkled her nose. "My mother-in-law is visiting us."
"Why didn't you marry an orphan? You did as much for him. But I can see how it would dampen even the most normally merry temperament."
"Implying I am dour by nature?"
"Soured by nature, at any rate."
"Takes one to know one."
"Margaret," said Jamie very sweetly as he seated Mirelle at the table, "do serve Mirelle some of those mushrooms that killed the dog."
"You mean the ones you like so much?" asked his daughter in the same saccharine tone, as she placed a steaming pot roast on the table.
"You are all against me," Jamie said and then sniffed deeply. "So this is what has been tantalizing me all morning. The size of it I'll be eating pot roast for days."
"Exactly my plan," Margaret replied sunnily. "I've got to get back to college Sunday, Mrs. Martin, with midterms coming up. I've arranged for the cleaning lady to come in twice this week."
"You mean I've got to eat pot roast for a week?" Jamie was outraged.
"I'll supply you with calf s foot jelly."
"Thank you so much!"
Mirelle caught the unspoken request in Margaret's eyes and nodded reassuringly.
"Such devotion ought to please your egocentric soul, James Howell. Instead of which, you complain," she said, and took a bite. "Whereas you have no legitimate ones. This is very good and will be hot, cold or nine days old." Mirelle bowed elaborately to the cook.
Jamie had tentatively placed a morsel in his mouth and his expression altered to one of pleasure. "I haven't been favored with anything like this the whole time I've been ill."
"An invalid requires a suitable diet. How could you have tasted anything through that bronchitis," Mirelle said.
"I used a Family Circle recipe, Mrs. Martin, to be sure it would come out all right. I'm not a very good cook."
"Nonsense," Mirelle said in a tone to discourage further disclaimers. "I think the cook needs a raise."
Jamie choked on his mouthful and Margaret giggled, hiding her face in her napkin.
"I suspect collusion," Jamie said. "Nursing an ailing parent comes under the dutiful daughter clause in our relationship, Margaret, and this is the first time I've had occasion to exercise it."
However, he found it impossible to maintain his pretense of indignation with the two women smiling at him, so he changed the subject completely by asking Mirelle if he could still register to vote in next year's senatorial election.
"They've started early," Margaret told Mirelle. "We've already heard two sides of the story…"
"Both sounding remarkably similar to my apolitical ears," Jamie said cynically.
"Sylvia's involved in politics on the local level," Mirelle said and mentioned the referendum coming up in the Brandywine Hundred.
Time passed so quickly that it was half-past two before Mirelle realized it and hurriedly excused herself. Jamie saw her to the door as Margaret started to clear the table.
"Something else is bothering you, Mirelle, and I don't think it's the mother-in-law."
"Am I so transparent?"
Jamie eyed her keenly for a long moment. "I shouldn't have said 'bother'. 'Changed' is accurate. For the better."
"Just the other side of the worm." She ducked away before he could delay her. She waved as she backed out of the driveway but the sight of his Thunderbird reminded her of the white Cadillac and G.F. Esterhazy.
Mr. Howell is far too acute, Mirelle said to herself. I must remember to keep him away from my mother-in-law.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Between cleaning her house and finishing the figurines for the bazaar, Mirelle kept herself too busy to worry about G.F. Esterhazy. Sylvia phoned several times for a quick chat because she had 'allowed' herself to be drafted into the major Referendum opposition group.
"If I spent half as much time opposing the damned thing as I do smarming people up, it'd be defeated hands down. There is no 'popular' mandate for this stupidity," and when she realized that Mirelle's remarks were mere courtesy, "but then political action is not your long suit so I'm boring you. Goodbye."
Before Mirelle could remonstrate, Sylvia had rung off and for a long moment, Mirelle worried whether or not to phone Sylvia back and apologize. She did dial the number but the line was busy. The next day Sylvia rang at her usual time with a crudely funny joke which she'd acquired and had to share with Mirelle. Combining a shopping expedition with a visit to Jamie, she found him snappish with convalescence but slowly regaining his strength.
Determined to leave nothing to chance, Mirelle organized every detail of the in-laws' visit. She decided to precutthe small blocks of clay which she would need for modeling at the Bazaar. Most of her figures were glazed and ready, the remainder awaiting their turn in the kiln, so her mother-in-law would not see her 'wasting' so much time with her 'muck' in the studio.
The Bazaar was to run two days, Friday and Saturday, with a supper at the church on Friday night which all three generations of Martins could attend. Mother Martin fortunately was a firm believer in church work. Saturday night Steve had invited his current boss, Red Blackburn, and his wife Anne to dinner. He'd suggested that Mirelle invite G.F. and Sylvia. Mirelle had been torn between a desire for Sylvia's moral support and fear of what Sylvia might do to 'help' her. But there was a certain snobbism about inviting the Esterhazys: G.F. was a prominent lawyer, active in politics; Sylvia was Wilmington society; their presence was one way of proving to the in-laws that, despite Mirelle's background, the younger Martins were not social outcasts.