"Hi, hon. Wow!" and Steve whistled appreciatively as he saw the many little heads in various stages of drying on the shelves. "They sure have been working you."
"You know Patsy McHugh, don't you, Steve?" And Steve shook hands with Patsy and introduced his parents.
"There I was, just talking to Ann in the Apron section," Patsy began effusively, "and I turned around to see Mrs. Martin working on a bust of ME. In two shakes of a lamb's tail, there I was," and she pointed triumphantly to the small replica. "I'm so excited. This is much more original than a charcoal sketch. Why, it's much more me!"
Except, thought Mirelle, somewhat appalled at her reaction, that the statue doesn't have its mouth open. Then she looked at her mother-in-law and saw her counting the number of busts. Probably adding up all the earnings.
"Yes," Dad Martin said slowly, "it is a good likeness. Of a very pretty girl." He smiled at Patsy, who blushed with becoming modesty.
"Oh, Mr. Martin," she murmured without, Mirelle also noticed, a trace of coyness. Patsy was a nice child in spite of her garrulousness. "But it's really a crime for Mirelle to be doing a church bazaar." and her tone was scornful. "Why, she should be doing things for the Louvre."
Mirelle closed her eyes briefly. Patsy never knew when to stop, did she!
"I hardly believe that Mary Ellen considers herself that talented," Mother Martin said reprovingly.
"You can never tell, can you," Patsy babbled on. "All she really needs is someone to discover how talented she is."
"Mother," and Steve broke in diplomatically, taking his mother's arm, "come see the white elephant booth. I believe there's some china there with the exact pattern you've been collecting. Mirelle, are you joining us for dinner?"
"As soon as I finish Tommy here."
There was little time for family conversation at dinner. Many acquaintances came up to meet the senior Martins and, unfortunately, to speak to Mirelle about her sculpting. Before Mother Martin could feel her eminence eclipsed by that, Mirelle finished her dinner and excused herself.
Though she worked as fast as possible, there were still ten uncollected numbers at nine-thirty when the Bazaar was officially closing. Mirelle promised that, if the next-in-line arrived by ten the following morning when the Bazaar reopened, she would do him. Patsy was overjoyed with the success of their booth but Mirelle was so stiff and tired, that she wondered if she could make it home. Steve, the children and the grandparents had left after eight.
When Mirelle finally stepped out into the crisp air, she was amazed at the serene snowy scene. She stood in the doorway a moment, breathing deeply, enjoying the smell of snow and the quiet around her. The new fallen stuff was fluffy and still drifting down in fine dustings here and there. It was a wonderful sight and Mirelle dreaded going home.
Steve had left the station wagon in the driveway so that she could put the Sprite in the garage beside his father's Buick. She appreciated the thoughtfulness and went in through the laundry room to be confronted by the sight of her parents-in-law and her husband gathered around the Lucy in her studio.
"Hi, Mirelle. Say, why didn't you put her on show instead of the Child?" Steve asked.
Her father-in-law was handling the unfinished bust of James Howell. Raging inwardly, Mirelle stood in the door, not trusting herself to speak. Steve turned around again.
"What's wrong, honey?" he asked. "Why didn't you bring over the Lucy? It's very good, you know, Dad," he told his father earnestly. "You never met Lucy Farnoll but she was wonderful to us when we were in Ashland."
Managing a tight smile at Dad Martin, Mirelle took the bust from him. The malleable plasticene had been handled and several lines blurred. Trembling inside her skin, Mirelle put the head back on its shelf and covered it.
"I'm the only one capable of judging what work I show," she said. She knew her voice was cold and expressionless. "The Lucy is not finished and to show rough plasticene is amateurish."
"Mirelle!" Steve began to realize how very angry she was.
"I'm very tired and I'm going to take a bath. Please excuse me. Good night." She left the room quickly, her steps jolting through her body.
"Mirelle!" Now Steve was annoyed.
"Now, son," Dad Martin said soothingly, "she was working at quite a pace there, you know. A good hot bath is just what she needs."
"I just don't understand your wife, Steve, try as I will… "
Mirelle heard her mother-in-law's condescending tones as the last indignity and it was with great effort that she kept from slamming the door behind her.
Steve came up after she had bathed and got into bed.
"What the hell did you mean by that show of temper, Mirelle?" he said in a taut voice as soon as he'd closed the door.
"Steven Martin, if you'd heard your mother talking to me at lunch… And to come home and find her pawing over my…"
"She wasn't pawing. I was showing her because she was interested."
"Don't raise your voice to me, Steve Martin. The only interest your mother could possibly have in my work is how much money I could make with it. I saw the way she counted those busts this afternoon."
"Mirelle!" Steve was taken aback by the suppressed savagery in her voice.
"Don't 'Mirelle' me. She wasn't even going to come to the Bazaar because I had the audacity to dress up in a smock. Like an artist. 'Outlandish get-up' was her phrase, I believe."
"Keep your voice down."
"You keep your mother down. Off my back. I will not have her patronizing me any more!"
"Mirelle?" Steve's temper was beginning to heat up as well.
"No, Steve, don't defend her to me. Defend me! Just this once," Mirelle said, softly, pleadingly.
Steve sat down on the bed, shaking his head slowly in his hands.
"Mirelle, she's my mother…"
"And that's the only reason I even try to be polite. I've taken two sleeping tablets. I'm very tired and I've got a lot to do tomorrow, and no time or energy for wrangling."
Steve combed his fingers through his hair, exhaling through his teeth. "All right, all right," but the edge of anger had left his voice. "What time do you have to be there?"
"Ten o'clock. I'll set the oven for the roast lamb for dinner tomorrow before I go, so leave the oven settings alone. Thank God for automation. The Bazaar is officially over at four and no one's coming until seven so I'll have a chance to rest before dinner. There's a movie in the basement of the church at 1:30 so you can get the kids out of your hair." She turned over, groaning at the tautness of her shoulders. "My aching back. Good night, dear."
Steve knelt by the side of the bed and kissed her cheek. Then he began to knead her shoulder muscles. She wondered as she lay there, relaxing under his ministrations, if she'd dream of the hands again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE SMELLOF COFFEE woke Mirelle but she lay, encased in a motionless body that apparently had no intention of responding to the stimuli. The desire for the coffee intensified and she managed to open one eye. She was lying on her stomach, her head turned towards the bedside table. Her favorite coffee mug loomed invitingly, steam rising lazily.
"That does it." As she flopped over and hauled herself up against the headboard, she heard Steve's chuckle. He was sitting in his bed, drinking coffee. "You made it," she said, half accusingly as she reached for the cup.
"You're damned right, all that chicory notwithstanding. How do you feel?"
"The way I look." Mirelle blinked violently to clear sleep from sticky eyes. Her shoulders were still stiff. Steve wadded up his quilt and put it behind her, nuzzling her neck affectionately. "I'll spill coffee on you."