She nodded. "I'm quixotic company. I'm sorry."
"I understand," and he leaned forward conspiratorially, "that every well-built Wilmington development has its own windmill."
"Are you sure you're a concert pianist?"
"Quite sure," he replied with a sniff, settling back. "Matter of fact, I was practicing my trade the last few times I rescued you. One of the artists with whom I'm under contract lives out Lancaster way. We've been rehearsing before going out on tour."
"Do you tour often?"
"Sometimes too often, I think." He sighed and signaled the waitress for more coffee. "I presume that coffee is as essential to you as it is for me."
Mirelle nodded.
"I've had the house here now for a year," Howell went on, "and I still can't find my way around the inner city. I've not been in it often enough."
"When we get transferred, I throw the kids in the car, take a road map and drive around, getting lost until I find my way home from any quarter of the map."
"In that car you threw kids?"
"No, I only got the Sprite last year. We've been here in Wilmington almost two years."
"You sound apprehensive."
"Longest time in one place yet."
"D'you mind the moving?"
Mirelle shrugged. "It wouldn't do me any good to mind. But then, I've always been on the move."
"Yes, you would, if your mother was an opera singer."
Mirelle could feel the muscles along her jaw tighten.
"Did I put my foot in it again?" he asked plaintively.
"No, my own private road to hell is paved with such potholes…"
"… And other people's good intentions?" One eyebrow raised, giving his face a cynical cast.
"What's the fee, doc?" She grinned at him in wry apology.
"For analysis? Free with every act of knight errantry."
The sound of a racing engine split the air. Mirelle saw her Sprite being backed out of the garage bay.
"My word, they've done the trick." She rose.
"The hour's over?"
"Midnight hath struck and voila! my pumpkin!"
He paid the check at the cashier's desk and then, clipping his hand under her elbow, he guided her across the highway. As she gave the mechanic her credit plate, she caught James Howell's unguarded face. There was a quality of sadness and she wondered if she had underestimated his age. As he turned to regard her, a vivid smile dissolved the pose.
"I'll away now, milady, and purchase me dinner steak, begging always to remain your respectful servant." He opened the Sprite door with a superb flourish of hand and arm.
The mechanic came back with her receipt and card, and so she was obliged to end the interlude. With a farewell wave, Mirelle eased the Sprite out into traffic.
When she got home, she sat down immediately and sketched his face as she remembered it during that unguarded moment. She filed the study away carefully but the warm feeling of their second meeting stayed with her. That night, before she went to sleep, she rummaged in Steve's drawer until she found the red silk handkerchief. She put it at the bottom of her own.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE BRONZE PIG arrived late one afternoon so Mirelle had to wait until the kids were in bed before she had time to put the finishing touches on the metal. She then placed the pig on the wooden pedestal, standing off to appraise her efforts.
In a way, it was like seeing him for the first time. She'd finished the piece last February. The foundry in Long Island was good but she was scarcely a prestige customer so she had to wait until they had time to cast her small statuary.
He was good all right, she allowed to herself. The head was angled so that the hoof could scratch under the ear: the expression on the porcine face was one of ecstasy.
Well, there is nothing so satisfying as catching an itch on the exact spot! She was very pleased with him. Very pleased. She put him next to the bronze horse which was modeled on Boots, in much the same pose as the day he had shed her. The horse was staring down at the ground, presumably at the unshown rider, legs braced after a sudden halt, ears pricked, chin tucked back, the long horse face wearing an expression of comical dismay and great delight.
"It'd be great to be able to do a really big piece instead of paper weight sizes," she said out loud. "Only where would I put one?"
She stroked the flank of the little horse affectionately and then turned around in her workroom toward the covered bust. She had ignored it pointedly over the last few weeks. Now she walked over and resolutely transferred it to the wheel. She pulled back the cloth and gazed critically at the head. She revolved the wheel slowly, standing back at each turn to examine the work.
Not a bad likeness without the model. But the angle of his jaw, just below the left ear, was not correct. She had got the right side in sketch from that unguarded pose of his, but she had the feeling that the jaw was still wrong. It disturbed her that she had been so unobservant.
"Too bad I can't put that walk in clay. By God, I will!"
From the storage shelf she grabbed the small wire armature made for some other abandoned project and gleefully slapped on a coat of clay.
It was not unlike her to work through an entire night when a concept had crystallized for execution. She was carefully stencilling the last details in the ground around the booted feet when the children came down in the morning.
"Hey, gee, ma, that's keen," Nick said, walking around and around the sixteen inch infantryman. The soldier was trudging from one battle to another, desperately weary, but somehow still upright and moving. "Whyn't you ever make me a lead mold for that type soldier?"
"I will. I will." Mirelle promised, gathering up the magazines and books which she'd consulted during the night on infantry impedimenta.
She made pancakes for the children's breakfast and got coffee into herself.
"You ought to work more nights," Roman said through the cakes he was stuffing into his mouth before running for the bus.
"Wait'll Dad sees him," Nick said, as he poured half a bottle of maple syrup over his pancakes.
"You didn't leave enough for me," Tonia said in a wail as Mirelle snatched the bottle from Nick, tilting it back and proving to Tonia that there was plenty left.
Nick's comment echoed in her mind. Candidly, Mirelle didn't want Steve to see either the small figure or the almost finished head. She'd reviewed that second meeting with James Howell frequently in the past few weeks. One sees oneself so clearly in the mirror of the casual observer. In an hour and a half, that man had made her re-examine a lot of her attitudes.
"Is that enough reason to immortalize him in plaster?"
"Immert-all what, Mommie?" Tonia asked, startled.
"Did I say something?"
"You're at it again, Mommie," Tonia replied in a curiously adult long-suffering tone of voice. "You're talking to yourself."
"Well, at least I usually listen to what I'm saying which is more than you kids do. How many times have I told you, out loud, not to use more syrup than your pancakes will absorb? Just look at the waste."
"No time for the lecture," and Tonia grabbed up her jacket and raced out of the house for the school bus.
There was no chance to reprimand her for her insolence.
Just as well, thought Mirelle. She'd spot my lack of guts. Blearily she read the first page of the morning newspaper and then decided that she simply could not cope with the day without a few hours' sleep.
She covered the statue and the bust. Suddenly the studio couch was much nearer than her own bed upstairs. She was asleep, deeply, a few moments after she'd pulled the lap rug over her shoulders.