Steve showed his father the house and the garden while Mirelle tidied the kitchen, and made the final preparations for the Bazaar the next afternoon. The men ended up in the studio watching her pack the cut blocks of clay into plastic bags.
"1 do kinda wish that Mirelle wasn't going to be so busy," Dad Martin began gently. "We get so little chance for a nice talk. Christmas and Thanksgiving are so hectic."
Mirelle looked at Steve quickly and then back to her work.
"I explained that in my letter, Dad. Mirelle had promised the church a long time ago that she would do the booth and there's been a lot of excitement about it," Steve said, though there was a note of entreaty in his voice. "A very nice mention in the paper, too, with the announcement of the Bazaar."
Mirelle winced inwardly and Dad Martin immediately picked up on the reference to publicity.
"In the papers? Is that wise?"
"Mirelle was referred to as Mrs. Steven Martin, Dad, not Mary Ellen LeBoyne."
Dad Martin looked at his son silently for a few moments, then shrugged his shoulders diffidently.
"If it's for the church, people oughtn't to need their names in the paper," he said mildly.
"Don't worry, Dad Martin. There are four other Steve Martins in Wilmington," Mirelle said.
"No need to be that way," Dad Martin said with a sniff and left the studio.
Mirelle looked pointedly at Steve, who gave his head a weary shake before following his father in to the gameroom where they watched TV together.
Friday was overcast and cold. Mirelle, tense and tired, woke groggily from a repeat of her hand nightmare. She could smell the aroma of coffee and thought how considerate of Steve. Then she heard him noisily showering. Mother Martin was also an early riser. Groaning, Mirelle barged into the bathroom to wash sleep from her face. She dressed hurriedly since she knew that the sight of one of her filmy negligees would irritate her mother-in-law. She got downstairs to find the dining room table all set for a formal breakfast.
Grimly she tried to dispel her sleepiness and jump into alert status without her usual gradual routine.
"How very kind of you, Mother Martin," she said, briskly entering the kitchen, "and you must have been tired last night."
"I just can't seem to sleep late after so many years of getting up to be sure that the boys and Arthur started the day off with a proper meal," her mother-in-law said, primly separating the edges of the eggs she was frying.
Mirelle suppressed the desire to scream and, noticing that the one thing the set table lacked was milk, she went to the refrigerator.
"Oh, I'd wait, Mary Ellen, to put the milk on. My boys always complained if the milk was warm."
Mirelle shut the refrigerator carefully, determined to keep her temper. But she wanted to remind the woman that she, Mirelle, had established routines with her children which were in no way dependent on Steve's memories of his childhood. Instead she sat down at the table and poured herself coffee, gritting her teeth when she saw how weak it was.
"Such good coffee, and such a treat to have it all made," she said, trying to sound sincere.
"I see you use the Food Fair and I think they put just too much chicory in their house blend. Doesn't Steve want the A amp; P he used to insist I buy?"
"He doesn't complain," Mirelle replied.
"Well, do take a little tip then, and get him what he wants," said Mother Martin, sitting down in Steve's accustomed place directly across from Mirelle. She passed the platter of eggs and bacon to Mirelle. "Help yourself."
"Thank you. I usually eat after the kids are gone," Mirelle said, shifting the focus of her eyes from the staring yolks. It had taken her years to be able to make eggs in the morning for Steve. Her early Continental training had imbued in her a desire to break her fast gently with coffee and bread.
"Roman, Nick, Tonia, breakfast's ready," she called as a diversionary tactic.
"Father's still asleep," her mother-in-law said, suitably lowering her voice.
"Nick's room is off to one side."
"Father's such a light sleeper though."
Mirelle got up and went to the stairwell, called again, intensifying her tone without raising the volume.
Roman and Nick came thundering down the stairs, despite her hissed warning.
"Have you forgotten that we have guests in this house who might still be sleeping?"
"Aw, Grandmother's up," Nick said. "I heard her slamming the kitchen cabinets."
Mirelle covered his mouth warningly and Roman dug his brother in the ribs. Nick grimaced contritely and then walked into the dining room with exaggerated stealth.
"No cereal?" he complained in his normal bellow when he saw the platter of eggs.
"That's not brainfood, Nicholas," his grandmother said sweetly.
"No one has any fun commercials about eggs," Nick grumbled.
"Eggs are just fine," Roman said distinctly and heaped two on his plate with several rashers of bacon. He'd have reached for more bacon but Mirelle managed to catch his eye. He retracted his hand hastily.
"Mom, can't I have cereal?" Nick asked. "I always have cereal."
"Grandmother's eggs are special, Nick. Do try them!"
Roman must have kicked his brother because Nick suddenly extended his hand for the platter. He ate without any show of delight.
Steve had hurried Tonia up and they came down together, Tonia subdued. Fried eggs were her favorite breakfast food and she turned cheerful as she helped herself to three.
"No, dear, that's too many for a little girl like you," her grandmother said, and Tonia looked in questioning surprise at her mother.
"I always eat three," she said. "At least!"
"Really she does," Mirelle said, laughing lightly. "Steve is of the opinion that her breakfast lasts her the entire day."
"It doesn't seem sensible to overdo it." Mother Martin pursed her mouth in disapproval.
"I like eggs," repeated Tonia, eating quickly and, to Mirelle's relief, neatly. "You cook eggs better than Mom," she added brightly, "but you don't use enough salt. Please pass the salt, Nick."
"Is so much salt wise?"
"She grows on it, Mother," Steve said, reaching for the coffee. "Hey, is this tea?" he asked Mirelle, frowning at the weak color.
"They're saying that chicory might be a cause of cancer. The Food Fair brand Mirelle uses has just too much chicory," Mother Martin said firmly.
"Oh, Mom, come off it. You just like weak coffee," Steve said with a chuckle.
I am not going to survive the day, Mirelle thought as she poured more weak coffee.
"If it's so weak, can I have some, Mom?" Nick asked hopefully.
"Coffee's not for growing boys. It'd stunt your growth," Mother Martin said before Mirelle could speak.
"Not if it's as weak as you say it is," Nick pointed out reasonably.
Mother Martin pursed her lips again.
"Nick!" Steve intervened.
"But Mom lets me have coffee and she said she used to have it when she was even younger'n Tonia." Nick didn't give up easily.
Mirelle tried to catch his eye. Dear Nick, she thought, putting my feet in my mouth!
"Your mother's background was very different from your father's, dear." The deft barb sweetly rammed home.
"The schoolbus," Mirelle announced in relief, noticing the time.
The boys dove for their books and coats, racing out the door with their snow jackets flapping.
"Come back here, boys. Let me fasten your coats. You'll catch terrible cold," Mother Martin called shrilly after them from the front door.
"No, they won't," Steve said with a laugh. "But you will, Ma, standing in that draught."
She closed the door and came back to the table, shaking her head, making no attempt to hide the fact that she thought her grandsons were entirely without manners or supervision.
"I just don't understand it. I always buttoned you boys up properly before I'd let you step an inch outside."