"Well, I'm relieved to hear that," Mirelle said caustically.
Jamie eyed her, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, m'dear. I have always been somewhat nauseated by too much good done and doing. I distrust it intensely."
"Like beef tea?" Sylvia asked.
"I'm speaking of wholesale lots, not isolated incidents. For instance, I assume this Bazaar has some ostensible purpose?"
"Yes, the annual payment on the mortgage," Mirelle replied.
"Well, then, considering the hundreds and thousands of people starving, wouldn't it have been more Christian to spend the money on roofs over the heads that have none, than an additional roof over already well-covered heads? And…" Jamie cocked a finger at Mirelle, "it would be far more reasonable for you to apply the effort which you have expended here today in forwarding your own career instead of knocking out busts that will, I'm positive, be broken into so much dust in the next week or two."
"Hey," Sylvia knocked Jamie's arm to get his attention, "that's hitting below the belt."
"Perhaps," Jamie replied, returning her glance coolly. "But I find this an appalling waste of Mirelle's talent and time. It gets her nowhere…"
"That's for me to say," Mirelle put in, wondering why Jamie's unexpected opinion irritated her so much. "I wanted to do it. I did it. Furthermore, it may well have fur thered my career. Ty Hopkins said that I may exhibit my sculpture in his bank."
"Yah!" Jamie was scornful.
"Oh, now wait a minute," Sylvia said, "banks are good show places."
"Mirelle's work exhibited with the mossy millstone school of murky watercolors?"
"The quality of hers will stand out all the more," Sylvia replied staunchly.
"Indeed? To what end? Who'll buy in a bank? Certainly not the advanced tradeschool characters who infest this town. They haven't the perception or wit to appreciate what she does. Which, dear ladies, is why I find this situation so revolting."
Sylvia leaned across the small table and put a light hand on Jamie's arm. "My dear Mr. Howell, whatever you may think of this Bazaar situation…" Her eyes crinkled as Jamie groaned over her pun, "… it has forced Mirelle to do some intensive work. I intend to see that she continues: that she starts showing in whatever bank, left, right, Wilmington or Delaware Trust, and sells. And works. I happen to know it's no easier to get into a good gallery than it is to play Carnegie Hall, but the point is she'll be working, showing and seen. Quite likely she'll also sell. Because it's odd but these tradeschool degree boys pull down damned high salaries. And they've suddenly discovered that they've been missing things while they studied isocyanates and polymers and they might just as well pay their money to Mirelle for her sculpture. Those little busts you so contemptuously dismiss are a starter. Small but a starter and they are commercial."
"I'm not sure," Jamie replied with a caustic edge on his voice, "if the bust-in-the-niche is any improvement over the panther-on-the-mantel."
"My dear sir, of course it is," Sylvia reassured him. "Each bust is of a different person but when you've seen one prowling panther, you've seen them all. Speaking of prowlers, how're things at the in-law infested mansion, Mirelle?"
"More or less," she answered and rose. "I've got to get commercial again. See you tonight, Sylvia. And Sylvia…"
"I know, I know," Sylvia said, nodding vehemently. "I'll behave myself."
Mirelle was considerably disturbed by Jamie's remarks. If he deplored how she was using her talent, why had he come to the church? Sylvia had the right of it: you started and used what facilities were available: there was nothing onerous about using a bank. Nothing. James Howell had no call to be so supercilious. Of course, she was using her time to do something other than the commission he'd asked of her. Maybe that was what was annoying him. She'd get right to work on it after the Bazaar was over. Sylvia was also correct when she said that the Bazaar had gotten Mirelle started.
Patsy was rolling her eyes in mock despair when Mirelle returned to the booth.
"There isn't a single thing left to sell. Not a plate, cup, mug, Dirty Dick or creche animal. I have this whole list of prepaid orders." She stressed the last two words triumphantly. "You'll be busting until midnight the way the numbers have been selling."
"I can't," said Mirelle with a groan. "I've a dinner party to give."
"What'll we do?" Patsy was wide-eyed with dismay.
"Just don't give out any more numbers. I'll try to arrange additional sittings for those I can't get done today. Next customer," she called out, sitting down at her table and reaching for yet another clay block.
It was 5:20 before she finished, having decided that the difficulties of arranging sittings far outweighed finishing up today, no matter how fatigued she was. She had a nagging ache between her shoulder blades.
As she left the church, Mirelle catalogued the things to be done once she got home and decided that a bath headed the list. A good hot one would soak the fatigue out of her bones. She could get Roman to set the table and Nick to vacuum the living room. Steve could set up drinks. When she got in the door, Tonia cannonaded into her legs, crying bitterly.
"What's wrong with you, miss?"
"I don't like Grandmother," Tonia sobbed.
Steve came up from the game room looking like a thundercloud.
"I thought you were going to be back at 4:00," he said.
"My popularity was overwhelming. Did you check the roast?"
"Roast? I've had these brats screaming all afternoon."
Mirelle's head began to ache. She went out into the kitchen and was met with no warmth, no aroma of roast lamb. She yanked open the oven door. Grimly fighting the desire to shriek, she saw that the important automatic timer had been shut off. She wrenched the dials about to get the oven started.
"I don't like Grandmother," Tonia continued to sob, having followed Mirelle into the kitchen.
"You won't like me either if you don't do exactly as I ask," Mirelle said roughly. "Get Roman in here on the double."
Tonia, still gulping her sobs, obeyed that tone without argument. Mirelle checked the dishwasher, vainly hoping that someone had thought to turn it on after breakfast.
No such luck. She mentally tossed a coin between the steaming bath for which she yearned and enough clean silver and dishes to serve her dinner. She filled the slot with powder and slammed in the control, listening masochistically to the damned thing filling up with all that hot water.
"Is there anything I can do to help you, Mary Ellen, now that you're home?" Mother Martin asked.
"I hate to ask you to do anything for a dinner party that is supposedly in your honor," Mirelle said, keeping her voice as colorless as possible.
"Whatchya want, ma?" Roman asked from the doorway.
"I want my table set and you know where all the good china and crystal are. Now, Mrs. Hollander told me that you were her most reliable helper yesterday, do the same for me."
"Why, let me do that, Mary Ellen."
"I can do it all myself," Roman said.
"Now you go on and watch TV," Mother Martin replied. "Table setting's no job for a boy, anyway."
"In this house it is," Mirelle said before she could stop herself. "Roman, is the living room clean?"
"I'll check," Roman mumbled, sourly.
"Steve will fix the cocktail tray," Mirelle said, looking into the liquor cabinet.
"Drinks?" Mother Martin asked, immediately alert.
It had been so long since Mirelle had entertained her in-laws in her own home that she had forgotten that they did not approve of anything stronger than sherry.
"Yes, drinks," Mirelle said, trying not to sound defiant. "The Esterhazys and the Blackburns drink, and so do the Martins."
"Why, Steve never touched anything stronger than sherry," his mother exclaimed indignantly, implying that it was Mirelle's influence which had caused this deplorable change.