"You're unromantic this morning."
"I'm unawake."
He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her.
"You get prettier all the time."
"I age well… like cheese."
Steve burst out laughing.
If I can keep him in this frame of mind, Mirelle thought sleepily, Marian Martin hasn't a chance.
She put down her cup and beckoned coquettishly at Steve. His eyes widened and his grin broadened. He swiftly locked the door.
"The kids are glued to the TV," he said as he slipped under the sheets.
A knock on the door shattered the very nice mood they'd been creating. Someone turned the door knob. The vengeful side of Mirelle hoped that it was an in-law and not a child.
"Mary Ellen?" asked her mother-in-law, and Mirelle managed not to grin.
"Yes, Mother," Steve answered, his voice colorless but his face flushed. With anger or embarrassment, Mirelle wondered.
"Steven, isn't Mary Ellen awake yet?"
"Just," Steve replied with a baleful look on his face. "Come ON, hon, you've got to get up now."
She glared wickedly at him for such dissembling.
"There's a phone call for her," Mother Martin went on, "a Mrs. Ester- something." She sounded disapproving of such complicated names.
"I took the extension out last night," Steve said in a quick whisper.
"I'll be right there," Mirelle said. She gave Steve another lingering kiss and then grabbed his bathrobe.
"Mirelle, is there anything I can do for you for tonight's feast?"
"No thanks, Syl, but it's good of you to offer."
"You sound awful."
"I just got up."
"Now why didn't that woman just say you weren't up?"
"It's okay. My, God, it's 9:00 and I've got to be at the Bazaar at 10:00. Good thing you did call."
"How's it going?" Sylvia asked with dry sympathy.
"The Bazaar's going fine. Excellent attendance."
"You know I didn't mean the flipping Bazaar," Sylvia's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"I'm keeping the fine edge of the wedge in place," and then Mirelle giggled earthily.
"Well, your spirits are good. I gather there are large unfriendly ears in the vicinity?"
"That's right. Are you going to give us the benefit of your presence at the Bazaar?"
"Wouldn't miss that height of the social season for the world!"
"Goodbye!"
"Did you sleep well?" asked her mother-in-law as she came back through the dining room. "Isn't that the robe I gave Steven?"
"Yes. I'm always snitching it: it's so nice and warm," and Mirelle sped up the stairs to avoid further comment.
As she pulled on her smock, she noticed the clay-stained front. She'd planned to throw it in the washer last night and have it drying while she breakfasted. Oh, well, stage-dressing, she thought and went back downstairs.
"We're heading down to Florida not a moment too soon," Dad Martin was saying as Mirelle sat down at the table.
She looked out the window at the grey day and the snow-covered lawns. Black lines of tire marks marred the roads and tangential curves indicated the treacherous road surface. Mirelle wondered just what traction she'd get for the Sprite on the hill.
"Looks like more snow," Steve added, glancing at the sky.
"I just can't get pleased with snow," Mother Martin said in a plaintive voice. "It makes driving and parking so difficult. Now, if the road department would only get going the minute it starts, and make an effort to keep the roads clear…"
"In this state," Steve told her, "they always hope that it'll stop before they need to call out the plows."
"That's exactly what I mean. Why, with all the unemployment up here, those people could stay off relief rolls if they'd get put to work clearing snow. And our taxes would stay down."
"You forget," Steve said patiently, "that relief is only partially federal, Mother. But the road department is all State so the more people you put to work on snow disposal, the higher your State taxes."
"Why, that's ridiculous, Steve," his mother said, almost offended by his rebuttal. "Elliot Randolph says…"
"That old reactionary…"
Mother Martin stiffened in righteous indignation. "Why, Steven Martin, you know perfectly well that Elliot Randolph keeps abreast of every important political issue."
"Yeah, he keeps abreast of it," Steve said, grinning, "but he can't see his breast, his double chins get in the way."
"Arthur Martin, are you going to let your son talk about Elliot Randolph that way?"
"Why not?" Mirelle rather thought that Dad Martin was amused by Steve's remarks. "He's free, white and twenty-one."
Mirelle hastily swallowed the last of her toast and excused herself. She took the leg of lamb out of the refrigerator, inserted the garlic slices, seasoned it, plopped it in the large roasting pan, set the dials on the oven timer, and closed the door on the roast.
"Mother Martin, I've got the roast all ready and the oven set to start so we don't have a thing to do but the vegetables and the salad for dinner."
"But dinner's not till late."
"I know but, with the automatic electric oven, it won't matter if we're late from the Bazaar."
"How about lunch?" demanded Mother Martin.
"Chicken pot pies at church," Steve chimed in.
"Old Kentucky recipe?" asked Dad Martin slyly.
"No, new Girl Scout," Mirelle replied. "Goodbye all."
Her relief at being out in the crisp cold air was tremendous. She opened the garage door and carefully backed the Sprite out. She hoped that Steve would get out with Roman and Nick, and clear the drive against the chance of freezing weather tonight. She eased the Sprite onto the road and took the hill in second with little trouble.
There were quite a few cars already in the church parking lot and some of the sand from her gravelly spot had been distributed to cut down on skidding. She was gratified to find the first four of last night's leftover number holders waiting for her. Patsy, by her greeting, had renewed her exuberance overnight.
"You know, it's funny," Patsy said as Mirelle settled her first subject down. "You're only doing children. Don't adults want to be done?"
"Adults are more apt to be self-conscious, posing in a busy place. But I suspect it's a case of parents being willing to spend on their children what they'd never dream of doing themselves."
"Guess that makes me not as grownup as I thought I was," Patsy said with giggling candor. "I sure didn't mind posing."
Mirelle was not sure that the fad of the bust would continue as it had started but she worked as quickly as possible. Children were easier to do than adults, their faces still more symmetrical than angular, fewer lines and odd features. The trick was getting the shape of the head right, and the hair pattern. Girls' ears were usually completely hidden by their hair, and a good percentage of the boys had simple long styles. Perhaps it was just as well that the majority of her subjects were young people. She was a trifle startled therefore when Reverend O'Dell slipped onto the stool.
"I assure you that this is not all vanity, Mirelle," said Ken O'Dell. "It's also the only way to get your attention. Your powers of concentration are formidable. I've spoken to you four times with no response. Oh no, I'm far from offended. On the contrary, you've provided an unusual excitement in what, I fear, is usually a rather tame event."
"Excitement?" Mirelle blinked in astonishment.
Ken O'Dell smiled at her. "Yes, my dear Mirelle. As I said, your powers of concentration are phenomenal." He leaned forward and spoke softly. "Glance casually around."
She did and saw a row of small faces, just able to clear the top of the booth, then a second row of curious observers and a rather surprising number of adults watching from the rear lines. She smiled nervously and turned hastily back to O'Dell.