"Steve is."
"You were infantry, Steve?" Red asked.
"Yes," and then he asked Red if he could freshen his drink.
"I've eaten all the cheese canapes," Sylvia announced, rising with the tray in her hand. "Mirelle, are there any more left in the kitchen? I'll buttle now."
"There are more because I have to warn everyone that dinner will be later than planned. My automatic oven failed me," Mirelle said with a light laugh.
"Mine does that, too," Ann said, chuckling, "but only when I am absolutely relying on it."
"Now, Mary Ellen, you mustn't tell a lie," Mother Martin said. "The truth is that she was so busy with her church Bazaar that she didn't get home in time to turn the oven on."
"All in a good cause," G.F. said, sliding neatly into the gaffe.
Mirelle, too, managed a tolerant chuckle as she and Sylvia made for the kitchen.
"Good God," Sylvia said sotto voce as they got out of earshot, "can't she say anything that isn't two-edged? At least my mother gives me a fair break at rebuttal."
"I'd give anything to know who fiddled with the setting," Mirelle said through gritted teeth.
"Why does she hate your guts?" Sylvia asked.
Mirelle sighed. "I appreciate your unbiased opinion. It's trite to say that she resents me marrying her precious son but that was the start of it. She also likes to dominate. That's her talent."
"She can have it. Your father-in-law seems nice. Also quiet."
"Sylvia, can you get the conversation around to Florida, please?"
"Sure, sure, Mirelle."
Roman came in for more ice.
"Grandmother unset the oven herself," he whispered to his mother. "I saw her."
"That's what I suspected," Mirelle said. "But why? I warned everyone that I'd preset it."
"Grandfather wanted some broiled bacon."
"Okay, okay. Leave it at that."
"But it isn't fair to you, Mother," Roman said in protest.
Mirelle kissed his cheek quickly to take the sting out of his resentment for her sake. "I'll live."
"Say, Mirelle," Sylvia said when Roman had left, "what's this with Ann Blackburn?"
"I just met her."
"Your precious mother-in-law's all wrong if she thinks that gal forgot any of her 'unpleasant childhood experiences.' "
"I know. I saw it too."
"Well, here goes Sylvia into the fray," and, hoisting the tray over her shoulder theatrically, Sylvia went out.
When Mirelle got back to the living room, conversation was well launched on the subject of Florida.
"My parents live in Kissimmee," Ann was saying.
"Miss me?" Mother Martin stumbled over the name.
"No, Kis-sim-mee," Ann explained. "It's an Indian name. Father bought out on Lake Bryant, three hundred feet on the lake front and the house has everything every one of our previous posts lacked."
"Three hundred lake front feet?" Dad Martin perked up with real interest.
"Dad Mergenthau is a great one for buying innocently just the right thing," Red said with a laugh. "We've spent a lot of our vacations there with the kids, camping by the lake. Are you interested in fishing, Mr. Martin?"
"Never had the time."
"You should try it. Go over Daytona way and do some night fishing on the Banana River," Red went on, leaning towards Arthur Martin to emphasize his recommendation.
"I could never fish," Marian Martin said with a shudder.
"Just what my mother said," Red replied with a chuckle. "My folks visited the Mergenthaus for the first time about four years ago and hell, if Mother didn't become so devoted a fisher by the end of the first summer that she made Dad promise to retire there. They bought a place outside Daytona but they only use it during the worst part of the winter. Dad is still quite active in business."
"I don't think I could ever fish," Marian Martin repeated.
"It's contagious," Ann said, "or do I mean infectious?"
"Your parents like it out at Lake Bryant?" Dad Martin asked, bringing the subject back to relevant matters.
Fortunately both Ann and Red had considerable knowledge about the area around Orlando and it was time for dinner to be served before the subject was exhausted. Dad Martin had taken notes, including the addresses of both sets of parents.
Mirelle hastily carved some lamb for the children, horrified that it was nearly 9:00 o'clock and they were still dinnerless. Roman brought the plates down to the gameroom, coming back for milk and to inform his mother that Tonia had fallen asleep in a puddle of Crispy Critters.
"The poor dear. Well, cover her up and for Pete's sake, sweep up the cereal."
Sylvia invaded the kitchen while Mirelle was serving up the vegetable and efficiently aided in carrying the dishes to the table. Mirelle called Steve in to carve.
"Thanks, Mother, just the same but you're guest of honor," Steve was saying over his shoulder as he came into the kitchen. Then he started to curse under his breath.
Sylvia looked at Mirelle as if to say 'she's riding him hard' and Mirelle shook her head imperceptibly. Sylvia shrugged and carried in the broccoli.
"Dinner's served at long last," Mirelle called out cheerfully. "Mother Martin, you're here at the head of the table. The rest of you space yourselves, only no husband can sit next to his wife."
Mother Martin then noticed that the serving spoons had been removed from her place but before she could comment on that, Steve came in with the roast. No sooner had her plate been passed than she found a new objection.
"Why, Mary Ellen, this meat isn't cooked. It's pink."
"Ah, then, the lamb is done just right, the European way," G.F. said appreciatively. "So few Americans understand that lamb must be treated tenderly, not cooked until there isn't any juice or sweetness left in the meat. Mrs. Martin, may I serve you some of this broccoli?"
Marian Martin was not immune to G.F.'s brand of flattering attention and Mirelle was deeply grateful for his suave intervention. Her mother-in-law was almost simpering with pleasure.
"What have you done to the broccoli?" asked Red. "It tastes good."
"He likes your broccoli?" Ann Blackburn looked up in exaggerated surprise. "I beg you, tell me what you've done. 1 haven't been able to serve it to him for ten years."
"Simple. Cooked with a little butter in a heavy iron saucepan, served with caraway seeds and plenty of butter."
"The Hungarian in Mirelle coming out in triumph," Sylvia said, with a bland smile.
Mother Martin cut herself short mid-sentence to G.F. and stared down the table.
"Is that where your marvelous bone structure comes from?" Ann asked. "You're so delightfully un-American-looking."
"Thank you," Mirelle said and hoped that would be the last from Sylvia along this line.
"My four kids, nice, healthy, are so exactly the American prototype that you couldn't pick them out of a crowd of kids the same age. But all three of yours," Ann went on while Mirelle tried to look pleased, "have an indefinable difference about them. They'll always be noticeable." She turned to Red. "Remember how crushed I was, Red, when Professor D'Alseigne called Jerry 'un vrai type americain '?"'
"You may have been crushed, but I was flattered. All that foreign living ruins a good American."
"I think Robert and Nicholas look exactly like their father," Mother Martin said in an unequivocal tone of voice.
"Yes, they do," Ann agreed warmly, "except for their eyes, and Roman's cheekbones which are wide and high, just like his mother's. Of course, Tonia is the spirit and image of you, Mrs. Martin, plus those magnificent eyes. Where did you get such an unusual shade of blue from, Mirelle?"
"My unlamented father," Mirelle said lightly.
"The Hungarian." Sylvia qualified her statement.
"Did you know, Mrs. Martin," G.F. said, smiling, "that my mother was painted by Mirelle's father? He was extremely successful at the time as well as extremely expensive." G.F. chuckled reminiscently. "If there were status symbols in those careless days, one was to have a portrait done by Lajos Neagu."