"Oh, good Lord, how long has this been going on?" She felt exceedingly uncomfortable. Her back had been angled to the main part of the hall so that she'd only been conscious of the few children seated on the edge of the stage.
"I wouldn't know," O'Dell said with some delight. "I bought a ticket from Patsy at 10:30 and they'd begun to gather then."
"You're better than TV," Patsy added with a giggle.
Mirelle hunched her shoulders over her work and, in a few moments, was mercifully oblivious to the crowd. Kenneth O'Dell's face was far more interesting to her than all the youthful ones she'd done. To capture an adult in clay was to learn his individuality. As she began to draw the minister's features from the clay, she felt she was getting to know the man far better than she could have in years of casual encounters. Engrossed, she spent a far longer time on him.
"I always envied the unconnected heads of Cicero and Plato, and all those others who held court in the niches of my classrooms," Ken said when Mirelle allowed him to look at the bust. "I must be very vain to get such an inordinate pleasure out of seeing myself in similar noble immobility. And, from the number of relaxed countenances in my congregations on Sundays, I am, alas, no Cicero."
Mirelle put the model high up, regarding it with mixed satisfaction.
"I haven't done you justice, Ken. I'd like to do a life-size bust one day."
"You've done me far more justice than I deserve, Mirelle. Oh, I see your husband and his parents. I must go speak to them."
Mirelle reached out to touch his hand, about to ask him not to refer to her work. He regarded her expectantly, half smiling and then she shook her head, meaning that she had nothing of importance to say. His smile deepened and he patted her hand in a way that told her he had understood her unspoken message.
Countenanced and encouraged by their minister's example, two members of Sessions sat, each more or less amused and embarrassed by the gallery of observers. Mirelle found it necessary to talk to them as they posed and so their sittings took longer.
"Met your in-laws, Mirelle," said Ty Hopkins, who was church treasurer and the manager of the bank which she patronized. "Suggested that they look up my cousin, Will Tackman. He's a vice president of the First National in Orlando. Think they'll like it down there. Town's organized for retired people. Although, come to think about it, St. Cloud might be less expensive. It's smaller, of course. Your father-in-law was asking about investment property. I hope he's not the type to jump first, look later. There're some rather iffey retirement homes among the legitimate ones."
"Dad Martin's always been a good business man, in a small way, of course, but sound," Mirelle said but her mind had leaped on the notion that, if her in-laws did settle in Florida, it would be quite a blessing. "It was kind of you to give him advice."
"Kind?" Ty Hopkins grinned at her. "Not at all. Pure business. And speaking of pure business, have you ever thought of sculpting professionally?"
Mirelle stopped tooling the jawline and stared at Ty Hopkins.
"I've known you two years now, Mirelle, casually, 1 agree, but I've never heard you mention your work. I'd very much like to see you do something ambitious. You know the Bank's always showing paintings. No reason it can't show sculpture as well."
Mirelle murmured appropriate thanks, adding that she didn't think people in a bank were in the mood to buy art.
"Oh, don't think that," said Ty, raising his bushy eyebrows. He waggled a finger at her. "People DO notice what's displayed in the Bank. You'd be rather surprised at how many of the paintings we hang get sold right there. Humph," he added as she indicated the bust was finished, "my superiors will think I've got delusions of grandeur."
"Make a good paperweight," Mirelle said, keeping her face perfectly straight.
Ty's thick brows almost met over his nose as he feigned displeasure.
"Yes, now that would put me in the proper perspective. More than you know." There was such a bite to his words that Mirelle looked at him apprehensively. "No, no, Mirelle. No offense taken. Keep at it, girl, and when you have something to show, bring it in."
She watched him leave, still a little disturbed by his remarks, when she saw Sylvia and Jamie Howell advancing towards her corner.
"Whoever is next will have to wait twenty minutes while I eat. I'm starved," Mirelle said arbitrarily, ignoring a chorus of protests as she intercepted her friends.
"Next showing, 1:30," Patsy said and slipped out of the booth behind Mirelle.
"Quitter," Sylvia said, frowning with mock reproof.
"I never expected to see either of you here," Mirelle replied, shaking hands with Jamie. His sun lamp treatments were producing results.
"Wouldn't miss the da Vinci act for the world," Jamie said. "Actually we watched you immortalize the V-P. For a gal who works slowly, you've got quite a display." He gestured at the shelves full of drying busts. Then he shook his head deprecatingly. "I distinctly remember you informing me that you weren't the panther-on-the-mantel type: I was glad, happy for you. But now," and he clicked his tongue in disillusion. "I perceive that you are, in fact, of the bust-in-the-family-niche school. Deplorable!"
Sylvia was also shaking her head.
"If you're going to pick fault with an honest, charitable effort, you can both disappear," Mirelle said.
"Not when something smells as good as something does," Jamie replied, sniffing deeply and turning to locate the source.
"They're serving chicken pot pies in the kitchen."
"Chicken pot pies?" Jamie made his eyes wide with simulated excitement.
"Chicken pot pies NOT nine days old," Mirelle said with a laugh.
Jamie took each woman by the arm and propelled them vigorously towards the kitchen. As they entered the busy crowded room, Mirelle noticed with relief that neither Steve nor her in-laws were present. Jamie steered them to the nearest free table.
"I thought they'd outlawed child slavery in this state," he murmured as one of the Girl Scout waitresses bore down on their table.
"Oh, Mrs. Martin," the girl began breathlessly, "will you have time to do any of us? I mean, we're stuck here serving all day."
"Just catch Mrs. McHugh and tell her to give you a number."
"Oh wow! That's marvie. Pies all around?"
"Three for me," Jamie said in such a sepulchral voice that the little Scout eyed him nervously.
"He's been sick," Sylvia said with gentle solicitousness, laying a hand on Jamie's arm.
"I hope you're much better now," the girl said dutifully.
"I heroically revived, stimulated by the incredible aroma of those three chicken pot pies."
"Jamie!" Mirelle saw that the girl was unable to cope with such bantering.
"Coffee, tea, milk or Coke?" The Scout wrote down the orders and hurried off.
"They can certainly mobilize the resources of this church," Sylvia remarked, a trifle enviously. "Now at Greenvale…" she shook her head sadly.
"They conned Nick and Roman into being busboys," Mirelle said, pointing to Nick struggling pantrywards with a loaded tray.
"Odds he drops it," Jamie said.
"That wouldn't matter. The crockery here is designed to bounce," Mirelle told him.
Jamie began to shake his head, pityingly. "I never have figured out how organized religion can prevail on otherwise reasonable people to do service in the name of religion that they would begrudge doing for any other."
"What?" Mirelle wasn't certain that she'd heard aright and Sylvia was reduced to staring at him.
Fortunately the Girl Scout came with their lunches. Just as if he hadn't dropped an unsavory thought, Jamie forked open his pie and speared a generous portion of white meat chicken.
"Well, Christian charity for once is substantial." He took the first bite, still skeptical but his face was beatific as he began to chew. "And exactly as advertised. Delicious!"