"Steve has been drinking a lot more than sherry in the way of business for some years now," Mirelle said. "My good linen is in the second drawer of the dining room chest. I'd planned to use the pink cloth and napkins. The water goblets are on the third shelf. There are pink candles in the top drawer and the pewter candlesticks are in the closet. I think there's just enough hot water for me to have a quick wash."
She met Roman on her way to the stairs.
"It needs vacuuming, Ma. Tonia's been cutting paper dolls again."
"Roman, just vacuum. Don't boss Tonia! She's in a state and I have no time to pacify her. My guests are coming in barely an hour and I'm bushed."
"Okay, Ma," and Roman flashed his helpful smile at her appeal.
Mirelle started the water in the tub, and laid out her dress. She was about to throw off the clayey smock when Mother Martin called up the stairwell.
"Mary Ellen, I can't seem to find the cloth you want."
Mirelle went down and found the cloth and the napkins exactly where she had said they were.
"I thought you'd said white. I'm sorry."
Mirelle got back upstairs to find that the small supply of hot water left from the dishwasher had cooled to tepid.
Savagely now she threw off her clothes and got into the tub. There was not much point in soaking because the water had neither the quantity nor quality for any therapy.
"Mary Ellen," called her mother-in-law in a shrill voice, "which goblets shall I use? You have so many."
Mirelle groaned. She called that she was coming, hastily toweled herself dry and, throwing on Steve's robe, tore downstairs.
This time she laid out everything that would be needed to set the table, wishing that she had insisted that Roman did it, and went back upstairs to lie down. But she was tense, waiting for the next complaining summons. Steve came in the room, still scowling.
"Who turned off the automatic timer?" she asked before he could voice the complaints she knew he was harboring.
"Hell, how should I know? What I want…"
"Your mother is going to object to your drinking," Mirelle cut in, disregarding him.
"The way I feel she can just object. I need a drink after today. God, how I wish you hadn't been involved in that Bazaar."
He was rubbing the back of his neck which, to Mirelle, was the surest sign that his mother had been needling him.
"I'm not sorry I was then, if that's the way the day went. What's wrong? Your mother's nose out of joint because the church took the onus from my art?"
Steve looked about to explode and then, utterly deflating, he sagged onto the bed beside her.
"That's just about the size of it, Mirelle," he said, pursing his lips angrily, nodding his head up and down. "No one was all that interested in their state visit to Florida. Great event, their joining the Randolphs in Orlando, a real social coup. No, everyone wanted to know about your work, wanted to talk about you."
"What happened to Tonia?" Mirelle asked, deliberately cutting off his recital.
"Tonia and her grandmother are not likely ever to agree, particularly over matters of hair styling and dress," Steve said, a trace of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Seems all well brought up young girls should have pigtails and pinafores."
"No pigtails with Tonia's face structure."
Roman barged in. "All neat as a whistle," he said and then carefully closed the door. "But Grandmother's setting the table all wrong," he added, his young face distorted with worry.
Mirelle sighed deeply and struggled out of the bed.
"Roman, fix the icebucket and the liquor on the tray, the silver one, while I dress," Steve said, peeling off his shirt.
"Righto," he said, delighted for assistant bartending was currently his favorite household task.
Mirelle was struggling into her dress when Roman came back, stamping down each foot.
"What's wrong with you? And please help me with my dress," she said, turning so he could pull up the zipper.
"Grandmother says I'm not to touch the bottles. What does she think I'll do? Take a snort when her back is turned?"
Mirelle took a very deep breath, as much to get the zipper moving as to control the unreasoning anger inside her.
"Roman, your grandmother has different ideas about bringing up children…"
"I'll say so," and her son sounded so much like Steve that the comparison startled Mirelle.
"Robert Marion," Mirelle said sternly, for it was unlike Roman to be rebellious.
"Aw, gee, a guy can't do anything around here suddenly without being treated like a baby!" He shifted his feet, digging his hands into his pockets and emphasizing his discontent with violent twitchings of his shoulders.
"I'm dressed, son. We'll fix it together," Steve said, coming in from the bathroom. He draped his tie around his neck and, arm about Roman's shoulders, the two walked out of the bedroom.
"In-laws." Mirelle ground out the words between gritted teeth. "God, does she always have to twist everything out of focus? Well, maybe this weekend, with her carping at our children all the time, will show Steve how to separate himself from the rest of the stupidities of his childhood."
She took a good look at herself in the mirror, to make sure her make-up hadn't smudged getting into the dress. Anger had brought color to her cheeks and fatigue blurred interesting shadows around her eyes so that Mirelle could objectively consider herself pretty tonight.
"The fringe benefits of in-laws," she muttered to her reflection, trying to grab a positive thought for comfort and morale.
Steve's voice had a decided edge to it as he and Roman finished their preparations in the kitchen.
"Make us a big bowl of popcorn, too, will you, Roman?" his father directed, picking up the tray. "What's wrong, Mirelle?"
"Roman said that Mother Martin has set the table wrong, but I can't tell how?" Mirelle said in weary exasperation.
Steve glanced at the table. "She's set all the serving pieces in front of her place, all the plates around and there are three extra settings, unless you intend cramming the children in with the adults after all."
Mirelle slapped her forehead with her hand and advanced on the table to correct it just as Mother Martin came bustling downstairs.
"Steven Martin, I want a word with you about Robert," she said at her most forbidding. "Imagine! Allowing a child to set up a cocktail tray!"
"He never forgets a thing, Mother," Steve said.
"But what if he should get the notion to drink something?" his mother demanded, shocked.
"He wouldn't because he's already done his sampling and he doesn't like the taste of liquor."
"He's tasted alcohol?"
"Yes, he has already tasted alcohol."
"Arthur Martin," she said, rounding fiercely on her husband as he entered. "Did you hear what your son said? He's allowed that child to have an alcoholic beverage."
"I also heard him say that Roman didn't like it," Dad Martin reminded her. "Which, I think, makes much more sense than forcing the boy to sneak some in the garage."
"What do you mean, sneak some in the garage?"
"What Dad means, Mom," Steve replied with a glint in his eyes, "is that he caught Ralph and me with his Scotch in the garage one day when we were about Roman's age."
His mother clutched at a dining room chair for support at this new shock.
"When did that happen?" she demanded, regaining her composure.
"When I was eleven and Ralph was fourteen."
"And you never so much as breathed a word to me, Arthur Martin!"
"No," replied Dad Martin reasonably, "because I figured it was my business when my sons drank. We had a long talk and it turned out that the only reason they'd tried some was because they'd heard you talking so much against it. Steve and Ralph both have good heads for liquor. Get it from me, I guess. And you've never objected to my drinking."