CHAPTER THREE

After a week spent finishing my pots for the Pittsburg firing and assisting Kara’s furious efforts to make our home spotless inside, as well as beautiful and welcoming in every imaginable way, I was feeling good. The pots looked great, the house looked great, and even Kara was willing to admit that we were in as good shape for company as we could ever be.

They pulled in late, having called to say that they would get dinner on the way. That gave me time to clean up after a full day’s work. I decided to go for a more male look. Just blue jeans, sneakers and a light blue work shirt, my hair in a low ponytail. I figured Brea’s boyfriend would have enough weirdness to deal with – and enough women! – without my girling up.

We came outside as we heard the tires of their SUV crunch the gravel of the driveway. Brea bounded out of the passenger’s side almost before the car had stopped moving. “Karaaaaaa!!!” She charged over and enveloped my bride in a bone-crushing hug.

I walked over to the driver’s side just as the door opened. Brea’s boyfriend did not disappoint. Tall; brown hair and eyes, clean-shaven to display a firm jaw; athletic build. As I said, Brea’s romantic attachments, of either gender, are all exceptionally fine physical specimens.

I smiled and extended a hand in greeting. “I’m Kez. Welcome!”

Surprisingly, he enveloped my hand in both of his. “Kez – thank you so much for having us. I hope we didn’t put you to too much trouble! I’m Jacob.”

He had a nice, warm baritone and a smile that matched it, putting me at ease almost at once.
“It’s no trouble at all, Jacob. Let me help you with your bags.”

We went to the back and grabbed two bags a piece. “One for me and three for Brea!” he joked.

I laughed. “The way it should be.”

Jacob dropped the bags and let out a whistle. “Damn! Brea said it was an old farmhouse; I wasn’t expecting anything like this!”

I was absurdly pleased. “We’ve done a lot of work on it – I mean, a lot. This used to be two bedrooms. I’m guessing the farmer had lots of kids, ‘cuz the place had lots of rooms that would barely be big enough for a monastery or a prison.”

“There’s a difference?” His eyes twinkled in the soft light; I’d put dimmer switches everywhere and liked to keep the lights low.

“Yeah, good point! But anyway . . . we’ve pretty much gutted and rebuilt it over the years, room by room.”

He looked impressed. “You did it yourselves?”

“Mostly. We had help with the demo work, neither of us does plumbing, and we had to have an electrician check my work. He had to make some fixes, I can tell you.”

“Can I get the grand tour?” He sounded genuinely eager, though it was possible he was just being polite.

“Of course! But, I don’t think Brea’s seen the place since we fixed it up. Let’s see if she wants to tour it too.”

“Good idea,” he grinned. “Though you might have a tough time asking her, since she’d have to stop talking first!” Brea’s voice – high, happy, excited – had been audible from the moment she’d jumped out of the car. Currently, it sounded like they were out on the patio.

“Leave that to me,” I said with a mischievous grin. I crooked a finger and had him follow me into the kitchen. I had him grab the glasses, while I snagged a bottle of Bordeaux and a plate that was piled high with home-made cookies.

Jacob eyed the plate and laughed. “Devious, Kez! I like it!”

I opened the slider to the patio, where Breanna was saying something with great animation and emphatic hand and arm movements. But when she saw the plate she stopped. “Macaroons!!!! Oh, my nondenominational Lord and Savior!!!!” She practically pounced.

As soon as the first, wonderful bite was fully in her mouth, I said, “Jacob was interested in seeing the house. Want to come along?”

She closed her eyes, her face conveying absolute bliss. Then she swallowed and said, “You boys go on. Kara and I have some catching up to do . . . . But don’t you dare take that plate with you!!!”

I laughed and put it on the low table, poured the wine and handed out glasses. Then I led Jacob back into the house. “She’s a whirlwind, that girl of yours!”

“She is, that,” he agreed. “So . . . start here. This whole kitchen looks like a remodel.”

I nodded. “Almost completely. At least we didn’t have to enlarge it; farm kitchens were plenty big back in the day. And we kept the fireplace, obviously.” A quarter of one wall was old brick, with a deep fireplace and a built-in bread oven that we never used for baking. Cooking with wood is hard; but baking? I don’t honestly understand how anyone ever managed.

Jacob walked over to the fireplace, but his attention was drawn to the vase on the mantle. “Oh, that’s magnificent!” He looked at it carefully, then looked back at me. “May I?”

“Sure,” I said.

He picked it up carefully, feeling the weight of it, turning it around in his hands. Running his fingers across the surface to get a sense of the finish. “That’s all just wood ash on the raw clay. Extraordinary! Did you get it near here?”

I looked at him carefully, trying to judge whether I was being played. He seemed genuine, but his reaction was a bit over the top. “I did. Why?”

Without taking his eyes off the piece, he said, “My mother was a ceramic artist. When I was growing up, anyway. This brings back a lot of good memories. I thought . . . well, I’m going to have some time in the area on my own. Maybe I could go see the studio and pick something up.”

He’d peaked my curiosity. “Your Mom gave it up?”

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah . . . life got pretty weird when Mom and Dad got divorced. That . . . . That was one of the things that went by the wayside.”

Finally, I said, “You do know what I do, don’t you?”

That made him look up, startled. “I, ah . . . no.” He sounded a bit sheepish. “Brea told me all about Kara. I mean, all about Kara. But I didn’t hear much about you.” Then the light dawned. “You? This is your work?”

“Oh, yes. Keziah Brown, Potter.” I smiled, then turned more serious. “And the artist would very much like you to have that piece.”

His jaw dropped. “I couldn’t possibly! Really! I was just . . . .”

“ . . . admiring it, and enjoying the flood of good memories it triggered. What could make a potter happier? It’s what I live for. Well . . . that and Kara, of course!”

“I don’t know what to say. You’ve only just met me.”

“Just say ‘yes;’ your reaction just now was all the thanks I need. Put it back for now; I’ll make sure it’s properly packed for travel before you leave. Let me finish showing you the house.”

I showed him all the special things we had done – how we had eliminated most of the attic to expose the hardwood beams in the kitchen and living room; the way we’d rebuilt the main fireplace in the living room; the rooms that had been combined to create space that was less cramped; more welcoming. The efforts we had taken to make the basement useable space. Throughout, he asked intelligent questions and seemed to have an appreciation for the craftsmanship that had gone into every detail.

“You must have saved a bundle, doing all this yourself,” he commented as we made our way back to the kitchen.

I shrugged. “Yes and no. We’d probably be a bit better off if we’d paid other people to do it. It put me back some in my pottery, and obviously the time Kara spent on it, she wasn’t selling houses. And she’s damned good at selling houses. But we learned a lot. And . . . there’s just something about living in a space that you’ve worked on yourself. It makes it your own, somehow.”

“Spoken like an artist,” he smiled.

“No; not that. I’m only an artist when it comes to clay, and even then only sometimes. Mostly, I’m just a craftsman.”

“Kez,” he said seriously, “there’s nothing ‘just’ about this – any of it. It’s amazing.”

“Thank you,” I said, pulling open the slider and stepping outside. “But believe me, I’m not putting down craftsmanship. It’s not ‘less’ than art, it’s different, so I shouldn’t have used the word ‘just.’”

Kara broke in to say, “You two look like you’re having quite the discussion.”

I gave her a kiss. “Parsing the difference between craftsmanship and art.”

“Fine,” Brea said, tapping a long fingernail on the – very empty – plate that had held the macaroons. “So long as these are counted in the ‘art’ column!” She rose from her chair and gave a long, feline stretch. “Alright, lover boy! It’s been a long day. Shall we?”

“Sounds good,” he answered. “I’m definitely starting to feel it.” He bent to grab their glasses and the plate.

“Just leave those by the sink, Jacob,” I said. “We’ll get them in the morning.” I grabbed the empty bottle and followed everyone in.

Brea gave Kara a long hug, then followed Jacob to the guest bedroom.

I put an arm around Kara. “I think I’ll turn in as well. Tomorrow will be busy.”

She turned and gave me a light kiss. “I need to decompress for a bit. I’ll be along later.”

I touched her arm and left her. Once inside the bedroom, I washed and moisturized my face, brushed my teeth, freed my hair and found some slinky sleepwear. A little sweetness for my gal.

I curled into bed and was asleep in minutes.

* * * * *
I woke early, my body responding to an erotic dream that eluded my memory. Kara was snuggled into my back, an elegantly tapered arm around my chest. There was no way to move without disturbing her sleep, so I lay still, watching the sunrise out the big, east-facing window we had cut through the bedroom’s main exterior wall. In early June north of Burlington, sunrise is just after 5:00 am, so I knew the time without looking.

Yesterday had been full of surprises. Based on what Kara had heard from Brea, I had been expecting that Jacob would want to monitor the interactions between the two of them. Certainly, Kara had worried that Jacob would be judging her – a prospect she hadn’t been any happier about than I suppose anyone would be.

But Jacob and I had largely left the women to themselves, and I certainly hadn’t felt uncomfortable or under scrutiny. Kara seemed more . . . disquieted, maybe? . . . than I was feeling myself.

The early sun was lighting the undersides of the high, swirling cirrus, spun tendrils of pink cotton candy on a field of cerulean blue. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Kara’s voice was low, thoughtful.

I gave the sky a last look before rolling over to look at my Day Star. “Doesn’t suck,” I said with a smile. “Though the view’s even better this way. I didn’t know you were awake.”

“I’m not,” she replied. “You’re dreaming.”

I reached out and caressed her shoulder. “Then it’s a good dream. . . . You okay?”

She snuggled close, pushed me on my back and rested her head on my shoulder, her hand playing idly with my lacy decolletage. “A bit unsettled. Not sure why.”

I ran my fingers through her hair; I was always amazed at how silky it felt. “The two of you seemed to be having a good discussion.”

“A ‘discussion’ with Brea usually involves a lot more listening than talking. But . . . yeah, I’d say it was good. She’s . . . distracted, I guess. In a good way, though.”

“Jacob seems like a really nice guy,” I offered, tentatively.

She didn’t respond, so I let the silence stretch, letting my hand wander across her back. Letting her know, without words, I’m here for you. I love you.

Eventually she sighed, gave me a peck on the chest, and said, “I guess I’m not used to having competition. Whenever Brea and I have been together for our week, I’ve always had her complete focus.”

“And she’s had yours?” I made it a question, but I had no doubt of the answer. I was Kara’s “always and forever,” but when she was with Brea, she was with Brea. Kara lives fiercely in the present moment.

“Yes.” Her hand cupped where my breast would be, if I had one. “Do you think she’s feeling it, too?”

“Jealous? Yeah, you didn’t catch the look I got when I came over and gave you a kiss. A few other moments, too.”

“Oh!” She chewed on her lip. “I guess that explains why she didn’t want the house tour. That surprised me.”

“I expect I’m not her favorite person right now,” I acknowledged.

“Didn’t stop her from inhaling your cookies!”

The hint of indignation in her voice warmed my heart. “Priorities, Kara dearest. Priorities! Romance is important, but those were macaroons dipped in chocolate!” I gave her rump an affectionate pat and said, gently, “we’ll be out of your lovely hair by noon tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be better then.”

She was quiet for a long while, stroking my body idly as she looked out at the sunrise. Finally, she said, “How do you do it, Kez? Don’t you get jealous? It hurts, when I see Brea looking at Jacob. . . . Is this what you’ve felt, all these years?”

“It’s complicated.” I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, letting my hand continue to wander, speaking the universal language of love and reassurance. “But the bottom line is that I want you to be happy. Giving you that one week, each year, has always made you even more happy. Happy before you go, happy when you come back.”

“I want Brea to be happy, too,” she said, slowly. “And I’ve always wanted her to have a forever in her life, even when I knew it couldn’t be me. But . . . but it’s hard! To see it. Watch it, right in front of me. Suddenly, I feel like I’m second best. Which is just sick, right?”

I smiled. “You need to change your paradigm, girlfriend. A lot of married couples, seven years in, they lose it. You know, the dreaded ‘seven year itch?’ But I’ve never taken you for granted. Not once. And I think your week away is part of that. A little competition can keep you sharp, you know.”

She ran a practiced hand over my nightie. “Yeah, you get delightfully girly for me, this time of year!”

“Gotta bring my ‘A’ game, with Brea sniffing around. That’s some woman!”

“She is, but . . . you do know you’re safe, don’t you?” She craned her head to look at me earnestly. “You are my whole world!”

“I know.” I lied, smiling. Oh, I was pretty confident. But certain? No, not that. And maybe that lack of certainty had been good for me. Regardless, Kara didn’t need my insecurities on her conscience.

We lay in silence for a few minutes, communicating by touch only, listening to the growing chorus of birdsong, the squawking of the chickens and the rooster’s occasional trumpeting. The sky’s vivid display faded.

“Okay, woman! Get your shower, and get your game on! I’ll get some coffee going. We’re clearly not going to get more sleep.”

She propped herself up, leaned over, and kissed me properly, leaving my limbs feeling liquid. She pulled back and said, “God, I love you!” Then she rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom.

I looked at the clock and confirmed it was just past six. So I threw on my dressing gown and went barefoot into the kitchen.

Knowing we’d have company, I’d made sure to grind the coffee in advance. I turned on the electric kettle, put the right amount of coffee in the big french press, and waited. I poured the water when it was just below boiling, then put mugs, cream and sugar onto a tray. Checking the time, and double-checking with my nose, I decided the coffee was ready and hit the plunger.

“I don’t suppose I could get some of that?” A voice asked hopefully. Jacob.

I managed not to jump. Well, not how I’d intended this to happen, but . . . oh well. “Of course,” I said warmly, turning to face him “You take cream or sugar?”

He was wearing pajama shorts and a t-shirt, showcasing arms and legs that were lean, muscular and covered with a decent, though not overwhelming, amount of hair. “A splash of milk if you’ve got it,” he said. “I get a bit of reflux if I take it straight, and cream goes right to my ass.” He took in my unconventional appearance without so much as a raised eyebrow.

I relaxed. “She told you?”

He shook his head. “No; like I said, she didn’t tell me much about you at all.”

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Should I be? Seems to me, you should wear whatever you're comfortable in. It’s your house.”

I thought, There’s more to it than that! But there was no need for an extended discussion of my peculiarities. “I pretty much do. Though, I’m usually more circumspect if we have company. After your drive yesterday, I didn’t think we’d see either of you for hours.”

“I’m an early riser, though Brea isn’t.” He took the coffee I’d poured for him, inhaled deeply, then took a sip, smiling appreciatively. “Perfect; thank you.” He took another, set the mug down, and said, “I hope I didn’t embarrass you. Please – wear whatever you like when we’re here. You aren’t going to shock anyone.” He cocked his head and flashed a quick smile. “Besides – it suits you.”

That made me giggle. “You’re an unusual man. Let me get my bride her morning infusion. She’s got some fluffing to do, but I’ll be out in a bit. The patio’s a nice place to sit, in the morning. Though you might want a sweatshirt until the sun’s a bit higher.”

“Wilco,” he replied. “See you in a bit.”

I wandered back to the bedroom, a bemused look on my face, to find my bride toweling down in the bathroom.

“Bless you,” she said, grabbing the undoctored mug. “Did I hear you and Jacob talking?”

“Ayup. He got an eyeful.”

“And?”

“It didn’t seem to phase him. Which was a nice surprise, for sure.”

“Well,” she said, drawing the word out, “you look pretty cute like that.”

“Why, thank you very much,” I said tartly. “You leave me any hot water?”

“Maybe a drop or two,” she allowed. She blew me a kiss, then sauntered into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

I hung dressing gown and negligee on the door hooks and stepped into the shower. As I slowly soaped up, my morning encounter replayed in my mind.

I wasn’t in the closet. My parents and my brother, Kara’s parents, her brother and sister all knew that slapping a ‘male’ label on me didn’t really work. I don’t hide who I am among friends, and people in my craft know I’m “some somethin’,” as one old guy had put it. But I don’t dress or act in an overtly feminine manner when I’m out running errands, or working craft fairs or markets. I didn’t want or need the hassles.

All things considered, though, when I’m not affirmatively presenting as male, I tend to make men more uncomfortable than women. Even guys who know me and are friendly tend to keep me at a bit of a distance, like I might be contagious. So Jacob’s nonchalance had been refreshing. He’d even thrown out a compliment, which was downright unnerving.

But I resolved I was going to follow his suggestion and just be myself. If he wasn’t going to freak out, there was no reason to affirmatively modulate my presentation.

I washed my hair, shut off the water, and stepped out. As I toweled myself dry, I chuckled. Okay, Kez, so you’re gonna be yourself? Cool. What does yourself look like today?
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CHAPTER FOUR

I came back into the kitchen and saw that Jacob was out on the deck, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs that faced Lake Champlain. I made another pot of coffee and heated some ham and cheddar biscuits that Kara had picked up at Barrio’s, then brought it all outside on a tray.

Jacob smiled up at me. “What a view! Do you sit out here every morning?”

I set the tray down and refilled his cup. “Parts of the lake freeze, most winters, and the wind coming off it can be negative ten degrees. But . . . it never gets old, that’s for sure.” I sat in the other Adirondack and snagged a biscuit.

Jacob seemed content to sit in silence, allowing the stillness of the morning to be broken only by the sounds of nature. I appreciated his forbearance; perfection like this was worth savoring on its own terms.

The old farm sloped down from the house until it hit pastureland that was owned by a local dairy. Spring comes late to northern Vermont and gives way to summer with the greatest reluctance, so the hillside was still covered with vernal wildflowers – yellow trout lilies, bloodroot and white trillium, small blue flowers I couldn’t identify. The sun was beginning to paint them, though the house still cast a long shadow toward the lake in front of us. Grand Isle was catching the full fire of dawn, but 6:30 on a Sunday morning, there were no signs of life.

It was close to 7:00 before Jacob made a sound to break the magic of the morning. He reached over, touched my wrist lightly, and said, “Thank you for sharing this. What a treasure!”

I smiled in response. “You have the gift of silence. I’m guessing that comes in handy, with Brea.”

He chuckled. “Oh, it does! But watching Brea’s like watching this hillside. So beautiful . . . so full of life. I almost hate to break the spell by talking.”

Down in the pasture, one of my bovine neighbors took the opportunity to add to the moment with a loud, indignant “mooooo!” I laughed.

Kara opened the slider and stepped out, drawing a deep, refreshing breath of the perfect morning air. Her inhalation did interesting things to the flowing, sleeveless top of her periwinkle blue dress. Competition!

“Good morning, gorgeous!” I rose and gave her a peck on the lips. “Ready for a second cup?”

She shook her head. “I’ll wait for breakfast.” She looked at Jacob, who had risen to greet her as well. “I’m guessing our girl won’t be up for a bit, but I might have one of those biscuits to tide me over.”

He smiled. “I’ll go see if I can chivvy her along. Some hot tea might speed the process – or at least make it more . . . ah . . . harmonious!”

Kara laughed – free, easy, delighted and delightful – showing all her perfect teeth. “She still like Lapsang Souchong?”

“Can’t break her of it,” he agreed.

“I got some fresh, just for her. Give me a minute.”

With a last look at the lake, sparkling in the sunlight, he followed her into the house. I paused to draw a deep breath myself. It really doesn’t get old. Ever.

I went inside.

After Jacob disappeared down the hall bearing the steaming votive offering he hoped would propitiate his goddess, Kara and I sat at the kitchen table.

“You look lovely,” I said, a twinkle in my eye and the barest touch of mischief in my voice.

She blushed, which was delightful. I’m almost never able to make Kara blush.

I giggled, leaned in, and gave her a kiss to reassure her. Light, though – her lip gloss was delicious and moist, and I didn’t want to do anything that would diminish its perfection. “Still planning to bring them down to the Church Street Marketplace today?” Church Street is a large pedestrian district that runs through the middle of downtown – effectively, an open-air mall.

Kara nodded. “Brea sounded enthusiastic. Burlington might not be much, but it’s frickin’ New York City compared to Towanda! So, we’ll get out of here just as soon as we’ve had breakfast, and you can get your packing done.”

“Outstanding. What do you think? Shall we go with the pancakes this morning?”

That got a grin. “Are you kidding? When the strawberries came early this year? Yeah, we’re doing pancakes!”

“I’ll make up the batter now, then. I like to get a double rise before I pour.”

“I’ll cut up the berries,” she offered.

I looked at her perfect outfit and raised an eyebrow. “Not unless you wear an apron – you’ll hate me if you wreck that dress!” Kara was not fond of aprons, as I knew.

But she had worked hard on her look for the day, so she limited her objection to sticking out her tongue and saying, “Sure, fine, whatevs, gramma!” She donned a frilly apron, grabbed a colander, cutting board and knife, and got to work.

I did likewise. When I had the batter ready, I covered it with a damp paper towel and put it in the fridge. “Let me see to the chickens.”

She nodded, still slicing strawberries.

When I came back inside with half a dozen fresh eggs, I could hear the shower going down the hall. Kara was out on the patio, absorbing a bit of the peace of the morning. I got the citrus press and sliced up oranges, feeding them in by halves for some fresh-squeezed OJ. If you’re gonna do a farm breakfast, you have to do it right!

I caught sight of Brea in a bathrobe, her hair already dry, emerging from the bathroom and heading back to the guest bedroom to get dressed. Time to get this show on the road! So I got the griddle going and set the table while it was heating up.

Twenty minutes later, we were all sitting down to fluffy pancakes smothered in fresh strawberries and light, perfect, grade AAA Vermont Maple syrup, as well as this morning’s eggs, crispy bacon, fresh orange juice, coffee, and tea.

“Holy shit, girl!” Brea said, looking at Kara in wonder. “How are you not four hundred pounds?”

“Clean living? Virtue?” Kara laughed. “Seriously, though . . . this is as much a treat for us as it is for you. Breakfast is normally light to non-existent in this household, and even then I have to hit the gym three times a week.”

Brea made a face. “I know . . . me too! Remember how we used to laugh at the gym rats?”

“Yeah,” Kara sighed, her blue eyes filled with memories. “Back when I could eat anything and it never seemed to affect me. Somehow, I thought it’d always be that way.”

Jacob looked at me across the table. “How about you, Kez? Have you had to resort to the gym as well?”

I shook my head. “No; I get a surprising amount of exercise in my work. I do yoga, but that’s about flexibility and avoiding injuries. Pottery’s hard on the body.”

Brea looked incredulous. “Seriously? You’re, like, sitting on a stool!”

Kara bridled a bit, but I answered quickly so that she'd keep her powder dry. “I know, right? But that’s just it . . . when you’re throwing, you have to keep your body still, and the posture isn’t natural. Trimming isn’t much better. Then there’s all the rest of it that you don’t really think about – hauling the materials, mixing clays and glazes. A lot of older potters have issues with arthritis, compressed disks . . . stuff like that.”

“Huh!” she said. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

And I doubt you’re going to start now, I thought to myself with an internal smile. I decided to deflect. “You look like someone who does weights,” I said to Jacob.

“I do, but what I really enjoy is running. Well . . . for exercise, anyway. Given my druthers, I’d just walk. You see more.”

“Ranger!” Brea said affectionately.

“Always,” he replied, smiling.

School your features, love! I hoped my mental message reached my bride. I didn’t think Brea or Jacob had seen it . . . but I was always hypersensitive to Kara’s internal weather.

Time to change the subject. “It’s such a shame Appalachian Spring closed their store on Market Street – it was a great place to visit if you like crafts.”

“COVID?” Brea asked.

I shook my head. “No, the founders retired a couple years ago, and they closed all their stores except one in Maryland. Too bad; it was a good platform for local artisans.”

Jacob cleared his throat. “Actually, Kez, I was wondering whether I could watch you throw . . . shopping and cities aren’t my thing so much.”

Hmmm. I guess I’m not the only one seeing storm warnings. “I’d love to, but I can’t throw today. I’ve got to pack and load all my wares for the firing.”

“I understand,” he said. “But if I helped with that, would it give you some time?”

“Don’t push now, lovebug,” Brea said, giving him a playful swat.

Down, Kara! “Not at all; I’m flattered.” I said. I could see that he really didn’t want to be part of a threesome with Brea and Kara, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him. “Sure. That’ll work. You’ve got to be super careful with the bisqueware, though.”

He chuckled, “I remember.” Raising his voice to a falsetto, he said, “‘Jacob Vincent, I will skin you alive if even one of those pieces breaks!’ Mom was a tyrant about her pottery.”

“Your momma’s a tyrant, period!” Brea said. It was clearly a joke . . . mostly.

“You just say that ’cuz she doesn’t agree with you all the time.” Jacob’s voice betrayed no chastisement; only affection.

“Yeah . . . Maybe,” Brea allowed. “Well, if we can’t talk you into coming with, the two of us will just have to find some trouble to get into on our own!”

“I’m certain you’ll find it, if you apply yourselves,” I said dryly. “Now, scoot! We’ll take care of clean-up.”

Kara got up, stretched, then bent to give me a kiss. “We’ll be back by five or six. I’ll keep you posted.”

Brea leaned over, gave Jacob something to think about and Kara something to deal with – hopefully gracefully – then went to get her purse. “Ta ta, you two!” And off they went.

Jacob stood, went into the kitchen and poured himself a bit more coffee. Coming back to the table, he gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks, Kez. I owe you one.” He sat back down.

“Those two need to talk,” I observed.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Yeah – or find a motel that charges by the hour.” He started to massage his temples then stopped, lowered his hand and reopened his eyes. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

I smiled. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t say anything I wasn’t thinking.” I drank down the last of my coffee and started gathering dishes. “Listen – I was happy to back your play, but don’t feel obligated to do the pottery thing today. There’s some great hiking near here. Might be just what you need.”

“If you’d rather work alone, I certainly understand,” he responded, “but it wasn’t an excuse – leastwise, it wasn’t just an excuse. I really would like to see you throw. And – well, I could do with something that gets me out of my head.”

I felt for him. He was a nice guy, and he’d fallen for a great girl, and all of a sudden his life was full of complications he’d never bargained for. If kicking around a pottery studio would help him clear his mind, I was happy to help. So I said, “Then you are more than welcome. Come on, let’s take care of this mess before we go make another one.”

He washed; I dried and put away. Fifteen minutes later, we were headed across the yard. It had grown substantially warmer, and I knew the studio would be warmer still. I had my fleece off before I even pulled the door open. Anticipating a warm day of packing and stacking, I’d opted for a low-cut, ribbed tank top, shorts and sneakers with ankle socks.

Jacob’s hoodie joined my fleece on the hook by the door. “Wow – What great space!” he enthused. “Show me around?”

So I showed off all of it. The wheel was located right in front of the big doors, and I had installed strategically placed windows and a skylight to maximize natural light. The kilns, and the materials storage, and the pug-mill where I recycle my scrap clay, are all in the rear. The hand-building area under the windows on the side of the building, along with my wedging tables. We finished with the area where I was storing wares – both my finished wares and the bisque ware that I was going to take to Pittsburg.

“I know a million people must have told you this, but your work is amazing . . . just amazing. I love your glaze work, but . . . the wood-fired pieces are beyond good.”

It’s the rare artist or craftsman that doesn’t like praise for their efforts – especially when it comes from someone who seems to have some idea of what they’re talking about. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’m getting there – but it’s a journey.” Leading him back over to the center of the studio, I asked, “so, what would you like me to do?”

“I’d love to see you do a pitcher – one of your tall, slender ones. Mom was more into short forms.”

“Done, then!” I grabbed an apron – my work aprons are thin, utilitarian, and easy to wash, and went over to get some clay. “Porcelain? Stoneware?”

“Do you have a preference?”

I shrugged. “There are pluses and minuses to each. But I tend to prefer porcelain for the train kiln – I get incredible color from the clay body when it reacts to all of the wood ash.”

“Like the piece on your mantle?” he asked.

“Right – that was done in Continental Porcelain.”

“How about that, then?”

“You got it,” I said. I cut some clay, softened and shaped it briefly, attached a throwing bat to the wheelhead and threw the clay in the center. Wet the sponge . . . wet the clay . . . cone up . . . compress . . . again . . . open . . . pull . . . . Before long, I was lost in my work, the clay singing through my fingers, the cylinder rising through quick, steady pulls, higher and higher . . . returning to the base, where the clay was, pulling it up into the walls . . . extending my senses, acutely aware of the world between my fingers . . . I detected the clay coming off center and paused, working with rigid rib and sponge to slowly bring it back.

Almost without thought, I ribbed out the shoulder, collared in the top, and made certain that the rim was level and sturdy before stopping the wheel and forming the spout by hand. I started the wheel again at a slow speed, bent down, and viewed the piece from another angle. It looked right.

I brought the wheel to a stop, and the world came flooding back. I looked up to see that Jacob was sitting on a stool in a patch of sunlight a couple feet away, his handsome features fixed in an expression of deep longing.

“I apologize,” I said. “I kind of zoned there.”

“I know . . . I did ask a question, a while back, but you were pretty much dead to the world.”

I blushed. “I’m so sorry. What was the question?”

“I don’t remember. Wasn’t important. I wish . . . . I wish I could be wherever you were, just now. You looked . . . .” He stopped, embarrassed.

My blush deepened. I couldn’t think of anything to say. A million quips, but none seemed appropriate, somehow. The morning sun caught every dust particle in the air, filling the light that surrounded him with golden glitter.

To be continued . . . .