CHAPTER ONE

My lovely wife breezed into the bedroom and planted a mug of coffee on my bedside and a steamy kiss on my lips. Seven years in September, and it’s still this good!

She came up for air and straightened, looking down at me fondly. “You don’t make it easy for me to get an early start, looking like that!” Her perfectly manicured finger traced the curve of my jaw.

“Hmmmm?” I responded, sleepy but appreciative. I returned her smile with interest, captured her hand and playfully sucked on her index finger. “Sorry not sorry!” I said, letting it go.

She ruffled my morning cloud of hair and turned to go, her summery dress swirling deliciously in shades of peaches and cream. “Don’t you be forgetting to have lunch today, Kez!”

“Yes, Mom!” I laughed. “Nothing going on tonight, right?”

She leaned against the door frame, her light brown, Princess Di style hair catching the morning sunlight. “You’re hopeless! I’ll be back six-ish, but I’m doing a Zoom with Breanna tonight to plan our week away.”

I was often embarrassed by my forgetfulness, and I made sure my expression conveyed proper chagrin. “Right, right.” I waved her off. “Have fun today – and make that sale!”

She grinned. “In the bag, Dreamboat. In the bag!” She waved a last time and headed for the stairs, leaving behind a tantalizing, lingering scent that was hers, and hers alone. I fluffed up my pillows and scooted back so I could sit up and enjoy the coffee she had brought. My nightie had ridden up a bit, so I wriggled to get it back in place.

Kara had always been attracted to other women, but she had bent the point where I was concerned. I’m either non-binary or full-on trans, depending on the day and how I feel at a particular moment. On a scale of zero to ten, with zero being Barbie and ten being Ken, I can comfortably inhabit any point between a two (sort of “girl next door”) and a six (passably, but not overly, male), and my body and face are capable of mirroring my internal range, with a bit of thought and effort.

Kara had said, simply, “I’m not attracted to ‘guys,’ but I am attracted to you. We’ll figure it out.”

We’d had a very conventional wedding, and I’d carried off the tux just fine. It did make things simpler when dealing with our extended families.

But she’d had one private stipulation that I’d agreed to without hesitation. We had been sitting at a secluded table in an outdoor restaurant, a wonderful meal and half a bottle of wine inside us. Thus fortified, confident of the answer, yet nervous as any human who has ever asked, I had proposed.

She had looked overwhelmed, excited, and achingly beautiful. “Yes! Yes! Yes! . . . But, Keziah my love, there’s one thing I have to ask. That I promised I would ask, when the time came.”

I thought I knew what was coming. “Do you want me to transition?” Although I’m more comfortable with my female side than my male, I didn’t have any burning desire to do it. But if Kara had asked I would have, in a heartbeat. “I would give you my life.”

She shook her head emphatically. “I love you just the way you are! And, I’d never ask that of anyone, much less you!” She took a deep breath, then said. “It’s about Brea.”

I’d already known about Brea at that point; I’d even met her. A handful and a half of wild, crazy, passionate woman who had been Kara’s lover for two years . . . until they had moved in together.

Kara had looked down a moment, visibly gathering her courage, much as I had done moments before. Then she met my eyes again. “We could never be together, Brea and I. We barely lasted a month. But we’ve never stopped loving each other, and we’ve gotten together for one week a year to share what we can. After the first time, we promised each other that we would ask, if either of us found someone else” – her smile had flared like a nova, and she had added, “someone for forever! – if we could still have that one week each year.”

If anyone understands that human hearts are prone to the most unpredictable weather, it’s people whose experience of their own gender deviates from societal norms. So I said yes, as I reminded myself every time the green-eyed monster of my envy bared its teeth. And really, Kara’s love and affection are, if anything, even stronger when she comes back from her annual forays, probably because she appreciates how important her happiness is to me.

But, yeah . . . every year, I also find myself going the extra mile for her, whenever Brea is on her mind. I shave every bit of hair from my body – not that I have that much to begin with – and make sure that my skin looks good. That my work-chapped hands are properly moisturized and soft. My shoulder-length hair gets trimmed and I keep it glossy, clean, and full. I remember to wear something pretty to bed, even if I know nothing will be going on. Just to make sure she knows, that she gets the message loud and clear. I am yours. All yours. I want you to be happy.

But also: And, never forget, you are mine!

All of these thoughts made their stately promenade through my brain as I sipped Kara’s morning gift of coffee, made just the way I liked it, strong, but with both cream and sugar. I smiled. It’s not exactly a hardship, making myself look nice for her!

Feeling better, I roused myself from bed and dressed casually in a pair of shorts and a thin t-shirt. Grabbing a yogurt, I spent a quiet moment mapping out my day. There were a bunch of smalls – mugs, creamers, sugar bowls, tea pots – glazed and ready to load in my gas kiln. If I got that all done in the morning, I ought to be able to spend the afternoon working on larger pieces for the last train kiln firing before the weather got too hot. I had reserved 18,000 cubic inches of space and I was pretty much on top of it. So long as I didn’t slack off.

I finished breakfast, made myself another cup of coffee, then walked over to the out building where I had my studio. Kara and I are blessed to live at what had once been a farm. It might have been beyond our means, but Kara had gotten it cheap. Knowing the market inside and out has some side benefits for a real estate agent, and Kara is the best.

Time to get to work.

* * * * *
I called it quits a bit early, at 4:00, so I had time to get some bass from our friend Duke for dinner. I also wanted to shower and make myself presentable. After a day in the studio, I’m no one’s idea of attractive.

But I’ve gotten efficient about such things over the years. By the time Kara walked in the door at about quarter after six, I was clean, smooth, and sweet-smelling. I had on a bit of make-up to improve my eyes, lips and cheek-bones, though I didn’t go so far as to do my nails. I can do them when absolutely necessary, but it’s a lot of work for something I’ll ruin within 24 hours.

“Damn, gurl!” she said appreciatively when she walked in the door. Before saying anything else, she pulled me into a deep and lascivious lip-lock that left no doubt as to her feelings.

I melted into her kiss, closing my eyes to allow my other senses primacy. Loving the taste of her, her scent . . . I let my hands slide across her back and down to rest on her shapely rear end.

She laughed deep in her throat as she broke the kiss and framed my face between her hands. “Miss me?”

I smiled and completed our ritual. “Always.”

She gave my nose a playful peck. “I’d eat you up this second, but I smell something delish coming from the kitchen – you catch up with Duke?”

“He said he’d pulled this one out of the lake five minutes earlier, just for you.”

“Which he says every time,” she laughed. “Can’t always be true.”

The evening had turned just a bit too cool to eat out on the patio, and whoever had built the house back in the day – some fun-hating Puritan, I had no doubt – had not seen fit to give the dining room a view of the lake. But we were hungry, the food was hot, and the fish tasted so fresh I thought Duke might, just this once, have been saying something involving fishing that wasn’t complete BS.

Kara had brought home a nice Marlborough Sauv Blanc to go with dinner. When I saw it, I said, “So I’m guessing you sold the house?”

She wiggled her fingers. “Not quite, but almost. The buyer made a cash offer, no Hubbard, inside the range I’m sure George and Daisy’ll take, once they have a chance to talk it over. And with everything they’ve done on it this past year, I’m not worried about the inspection.”

“Excellent!” I was enthusiastic, less because of the money – not that it wouldn’t be nice – but because Kara loved her job, and was always completely juiced when she closed a sale.

When we were finished, we cleared our plates, but I waved Kara off from the clean-up. “Go do your call, Sweetie. I’ve got this.” I snagged an apron, since I was wearing a pretty top and didn’t want to get grease splatters on it.

Kara came up behind me at the sink and wrapped her arms around me, resting her head on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do all this, you know,” she said softly, almost in my ear. “Not that I don’t appreciate it – you know I do. But you have to know that I love you, even when your head is full of art, your hands are caked with clay, and your hair is covered with your silly turban. I love you when you’re tired and grumpy from working a bad craft fair, or when you can’t get the truck to start, or forget we’re supposed to have dinner with the ’rents. You are my always and my forever, Keziah Brown.”

I leaned into her embrace, my eyes getting misty. She could do that to me easy as breathing. I touched her hands lightly in gratitude, and said, “Always and forever, Kara Englehart. Now, off with you!”

She nuzzled my neck, gave me a final squeeze, and went off to her study.

I washed, dried and put away the dishes, tidied the kitchen, then fired up my laptop at the desk we have tucked in a nook in the kitchen. I spent the better part of two hours on administrative matters – buying more clay, dealing with some online orders, paying bills, and emailing back and forth with the friend who was hosting the train kiln firing. Kara still hadn’t emerged from the study at that point, but it had been a long day so I got myself ready for sleep.

I woke briefly when she came to bed. But she just spooned into my back, molded herself to my body, and murmured, “sleep, my angel.”

I slept, dreamless.
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CHAPTER TWO

Kara woke me early in the most wonderful way possible, teasing, fondling and caressing every nerve of my body into vibrant life. Her sweetness became fierce as I rolled to face her and brought my own fingers into play. Soon she was panting and I broke the kiss to bring my lips lower. Kara’s breasts – especially her nipples – are incredibly sensitive when she is aroused. Each of her perfect pillows got its share of loving attention before I bent lower still.

She writhed, bucked and spasmed in pleasure, giving in to uninhibited cries of delight. Then she sat up, grabbed me and put me on my back. My baby doll nightie didn’t slow her down; it was the work of an instant to free me and mount. Then she scissored her legs together, forcing my own to spread wide around her.

I always feel my most feminine in the bedroom. I love our “reverse missionary” position and its rhythms come naturally to me. With her legs together, Kara can’t pump, but I bend my splayed legs, plant my heels, and provide the locomotion, while she exercises her passion with her hands, her lips and her tongue.

When she finished me off she dismounted and slipped into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm washcloth. As I lay spent and boneless, she tenderly cleaned me up, then sat against the pillows and pulled my head into her lap. Looking up at her from that position is one of my favorite views.

We shared a moment of quiet communion, lost in each other's loving regard. I lay passive as she played with my hair and caressed me. No longer urgent; simply sweet, attentive and appreciative.

Eventually I captured one of her roving hands and laced our fingers together. “How was your call? You were at it a long time.”

She gave my fingers a squeeze. “It was good . . . Brea thinks she found her forever – again!”

“Male or female this time?” Brea’s bi – very bi. She’s dated men and women equally. Near as I could figure, the only common element was that all of her romantic partners were ridiculously good looking. Beautiful women (maybe not quite as beautiful as Kara, of course!), and rugged, handsome men.

Kara laughed. “Male, this time. Get this – he’s a ranger with a Ph.D in forestry!”

“If you’d asked me to describe the perfect match for Brea, that combo would almost certainly have made my top three,” I said with a chuckle. “Smart and handsome, no doubt.”

“I know, right? But I expect that’s how she found him, anyhow. Those dating apps are scary.”

“How long have they been going out?”

“Long enough,” she replied. “They’re even starting to talk about getting married.”

“Whoa, that was quick! It hasn’t been that long since you guys talked, has it?”

“Close on six months, I guess. Longer than I thought. There was all the craziness at Christmas, then Mom’s health scare, then we were up in Quebec for Winter Carnival, and spring got really busy at work . . . life just goes so fast, sometimes.”

I smiled up at her. “That it does. . . . Well, what do you think? Is she going to make it stick this time?”

“Oh, you know Brea. Often in error, never in doubt. But . . . I think so? Maybe? She, ah . . . she talked to him about our week, so for sure she’s serious.” Her expression was guarded.

Seeing potential landmines, I thought carefully before asking, “Did he agree, or is it a deal-breaker?”

Her smile seemed to recognize that the topic of conversation was difficult for me. “He’s on the fence. But Brea said . . . .” She paused, thinking, then sighed. “Well, this might be our last week, if he says ‘no.’”

I couldn’t come up with a response that covered my tangle of emotions, so I just gave her hand a gentle, wordless squeeze.

“It shouldn’t matter,” Kara said softly. “I love you, and I love our life together. I have everything I need, and more. But, damn . . . there’s part of me that just hates the thought of losing her. Letting her go.”

I reached up and freed a tear that was captured in the corner of her eye. “Like my granny always said, don’t go buying trouble, young lady.”

“I know. It was just a shock, having to think about it.” She stroked my cheek with the back of her fingers. “But there’s something else, too. Brea was laid off two weeks ago. She’s pretty sure she’ll be brought back in a couple months, but she needs to be careful on expenses until that happens, so she was wondering if she couldn’t just visit here. You’ll be gone most of that week for the Pittsburg firing.”

I thought about it. The answer should have been easy, but somehow wasn’t.

“Kez – ‘no’ is a perfectly acceptable answer,” she said softly, a loving smile on her face. “If it bothers you – at all, and for any reason – we’ll come up with another solution.”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure it’s ‘no.’ But . . . .” I tried to sort my jumbled thoughts and feelings into coherence. Fortunately, Kara knows me well enough to give me time and space when words fail me. Finally, I said, “It’s this space. Here. This room. This bed. It’s . . . .” I waved, as if my hands could do my talking for me. Potter! “It's like holy ground for me. I wouldn’t want to think of you here with . . . with anyone else.” I’m afraid my voice cracked a bit, but I got it out.

She nodded, understanding both instantly and completely. “You are so right, Kez! But listen, how about this. She stays in the guest bedroom. When you’re home, I’m here, with you. When you’re in New Hampshire . . . anything that happens, happens in the guest bedroom. Would that work? Again, it’s okay to say ‘no.’ You don’t need to explain.”

I smiled up at her. “Yes, love. I can deal with that.”

Another tear escaped from her shining hazel eye. “Always and forever, Keziah.”

“Always and forever.”

Kara went to grab a shower; I put on my butterfly dressing gown and made us some breakfast. When she emerged from the bathroom, dressed, fluffed and perfectly made up for another day of saleswomanship, her eyes sparkled and she said, “all that, and bacon, too? Will you marry me?”

I laughed. “I seem to remember doing something like that. You wore . . . ah . . . help me out here! It was white, wasn’t it?” I put her coffee mug by her plate – strong, black, and bitter, like she prefers – and joined her at the table.

“Throwing day?” she asked, eyeing the tight bun in which my hair was incarcerated.

I nodded. “Mostly. I’ll need to be out in the studio this evening monitoring reduction and oxidation for the gas kiln, but otherwise I’ll be throwing the good stuff today. I’ll need to have everything for the train firing bone dry by the end of next week, so I’ve got to wrap it up.”

She reached over and covered my hand. “I’ll take care of dinner tonight, then.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

We finished our breakfast, exchanging chit-chat about nothing in particular, then she was off. By standing agreement, Kara did not do morning dishes, lest she ruin her morning look. Appearance matters in her business. Mercifully, in mine it doesn’t!

KP took less than fifteen minutes. Knowing how messy I would get today, I wore coveralls, with only briefs and a sleeveless cotton chemise underneath. I crossed the yard, checked on the chickens, then opened the big barn door to the studio, letting the morning light fill the space.

I can work in any kind of light, and living in northern Vermont, I spend a lot of time throwing in artificial light – and heat. But I love working in the sunlight – feeling its warm, golden glow; seeing its reflected gleam in the wet clay as it spins beneath my hands.

The gas kiln was doing its thing, and the temperature was within ten degrees of where I wanted it at this point in the firing. Satisfied, I grabbed a bag of the Continental Porcelain and cut about eight pounds, then spent a few minutes at the wedging table softening it and rough shaping it. Bringing it to the wheel, I slammed it down, more or less in the center of the bat on the wheelhead. I wet the clay and began the first, most basic task.

My schedule required that I throw today, and I was happy about that. First, because it’s the part of my craft I enjoy the most. But second, because my discussion with Kara had left me unsettled. Throwing pots is, for me, an almost mystical experience. The wheel moves the clay; my hands and fingers form the molds through which it moves. I center the clay and the clay centers me.

I bent to my task, compressing the clay into a vertical cone, then pressing it down into a centered disk, holding the base of my left hand rigid to form the mold. I repeated the process to ensure that the disk was perfectly centered, then opened the form and began pulling it into a tall cylinder with thick walls.

Moments into my work, I was in the zone and at peace. The clay flowed easily through my fingers, the sponge in my right hand keeping it moist and near frictionless. The cylinder rose taller, the walls strong and even. It was muscle memory, requiring a concentration of the senses rather than of thought. A hyper awareness of the clay, of its flow, to detect and correct any wobble or unevenness. I could do it with my eyes closed and sometimes did.

In that state, my mind wandered without in any way disturbing the calm and peace that flowed in and through me. I was able to process my complicated feelings about Kara and Brea without the distress that might otherwise burden me.

There was a part of me, of course, that felt like Kara’s continued attachment to her prior lover meant that I was somehow not quite good enough. She was attracted to women, and I wasn’t enough of one. That part of me wanted to rejoice at the possibility that Brea would put a stop to their weeks together.

It’s not about you, Kez, I admonished myself, for the sixty-four thousandth time. And it wasn’t. It was about Kara and Brea – what they shared, what they couldn’t share, and how they got on living their lives, knowing that they loved each other deeply but drove each other crazy.

Still, the idea of Brea and Kara, alone in our house, left me with a feeling of disquiet. I wasn’t sure why, other than the feeling that it was our place, mine and Kara’s. But the compromise that Kara had suggested wasn’t unreasonable. And it would make her happy.

The cylinder was the right height. I grabbed a rib and began to widen the pot at the shoulder, then brought my hand down to the interior base to expand the shape in a smooth, even, slightly curved line. I felt the clay stretch, the shape becoming larger even as the walls grew thinner, lighter. Just as it should. Like a heart swelling in the first pangs of love.

I can do this for her. And I will.

The pot took shape as the clay flowed through the mold of my fingers and the rib, tall and graceful, the proportions just right. I spent some time collaring in the upper 20 percent, then perfecting the rim.

It was finished. On to the next one.

* * * * *

Things got more complicated two weeks later, just a week before Brea was supposed to arrive. Unusually, I had spent the day down in Burlington; Kara had an open house over on Grand Isle at noon, but otherwise had the day to herself.

It was about 7:00 when I pulled in, the trailer not much less full than it had been 12 hours earlier. Kara crossed the yard slowly, the late afternoon sun throwing a long shadow before her.

I slid from the cab and into her arms. “Hey, Dreamboat,” she said softly. “How was the farmers’ market?”

I sighed. “Long. Net/net, factoring in the cost of the materials, the cost of firing the bisque kiln and the gas kiln, the time I spent throwing, trimming, glazing and cleaning, plus commute time and time at the market . . . I’d hit minimum wage if I sold about twice as much.”

She opened her mouth to respond, then shut it, smiled, and shook her head. “You know what I’m about to say, and I know your response . . . and my rebuttal, and your sur-rebuttal. You look beat, so let’s just take it all as having been said.”

I chuckled, slid an arm around her toned waist, and began to guide her toward the house. “A font of wisdom you are, this evening. I desperately need to soak in a tub.”

“Funny that – you still smell sweet after a day in your studio, getting so filthy you have to strip before I let you in the house. But spend a single day in the city – just one! And not even a metropolis! We’re talking Burlington, Vermont, population forty-somethin’ thousand – and you smell like . . . .”

I cut her off. “I know – People! Ewwww!!!

“I don’t smell that way when I come home from work,” she said primly.

“Well . . . I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that . . . .”

Swift as a cobra, she moved her hand from my waist to my armpit and did an exploratory tickle. “Sure you wanna finish that sentence, lover? I do know where you sleep.”

“Uncle!” I laughed.

We went inside. “I have a bath ready, you ungrateful lout,” she teased. “And dinner’s just cold chicken and salad, so it'll be ready whenever you want it. Take your time and have a good soak.”

“Join me?” I invited. When we redid the bathroom, we’d added a monster soaking tub. The farmer who built the house way back when probably spun in his grave, knowing how much fun we had in his home.

“Love to,” Kara said. “Let me grab some wine!”

“Water for me, love,” I said. “I’m already a bit dehydrated, and I can’t afford a headache tomorrow.”

“Party-pooper!” She mock-pouted, then said, “Go on, I’ll be in in five.”

I stripped in our bedroom and padded naked to the attached bathroom. Bubble bath and lavender! I gratefully stepped in, then lowered myself down until only my head was above the froth.

Kara came in a few minutes later carrying two glasses and wearing nothing but a smile.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m eager to have you join me. . . . But, could you just stand there for a minute or two? I really like the view.”

She struck a pose, then shook her head. “The sacrifices I make!”

“So true, so true,” I said sorrowfully. Then I scooted myself up to make room, and she stepped in gracefully.

She settled in with a sigh, then saluted me with her glass and took a sip. “Any word from Red Lodge?”

“No, too soon for that. I doubt they’ve even got all of their entries in yet.” The Red Lodge Juried National Exhibition was one of the many places where I entered pieces for curated shows. My name was definitely getting out there. My gas kiln pieces were my bread-and-butter – even though they gave me plenty of days like today! – but my prestige work was all wood-fired. In galleries, people paid hundreds of dollars for some of my art; within five years, God willin’ and the creek don’t rise, I would be selling pieces for thousands of dollars.

Not that I would stop making functional ware. It wasn’t art, most of it, but I loved the fact that regular people used my pottery every day. A hand-made coffee mug that made their morning ritual something special. A vase in pale celadon, to highlight the beauty of the flowers from their own garden. A pitcher for the ice tea they served close friends on their deck on long summer days, as they watched their kids play together in the pool . . . .

Kara was watching me, a smile playing on her full and perfect lips. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“That’ll definitely improve my profit margin for the day,” I joked. “Just finishing the conversation we didn’t have, but in my head. Enough of that, though. How was your day?”

“The open house was pretty busy. Given how things have been this spring, no surprises. I think at least three of the people who came by are going to make offers.” She paused to take a sip of her wine, then took another, longer one. “Brea called. Bit of a change in plans. She and the boytoy are coming up. Apparently he wants to meet me before giving her an answer. But he’s planning to do some traveling on his own later in the week – when you're in Pittsburg, or maybe earlier. Then he’ll be back at the end of the week to pick her up.”

I fished one of her feet out of the bubbles and massaged it, eliciting a groan of pleasure. “Sounds awkward . . . for both of you.”

She shrugged, looking rueful. “Let’s face it – how Brea and I have arranged our lives is . . . unconventional.”

“Eccentric,” I offered helpfully.

She stuck out her tongue, but agreed. “Yeah, that, too. There’ve been some awkward moments over the years, and would’ve been a whole lot more if you hadn’t been so wonderful. Comes with the territory, I guess.”

I switched to her other foot. “Will you be alright?”

She nodded. “I can deal with some awkward. But how about you?

It was my turn to shrug. “If he can share a house with Breanna Quinn, I’m confident in his diplomatic skills. But I won’t have much time to play host, and I’m sorry about that. I know you’ll want to make a good impression.”

She wriggled her free foot between my legs and applied some pressure. “I understand, Kez. I know what you’re like in the run-up to a big firing.”

I tried to be reassuring. “I’ll be in good shape this time. My last bisque load is firing, and my glazing is minimal for the train kiln.”

She laughed. “You’re like Duke – you always say that. Someday it’s bound to happen – but I’m not gonna hold my breath!”

I wanted to laugh as well, but I could see that she had some anxiety over the whole situation. Which was understandable. “It’ll be fine, Kara. Your old lover and her new lover are coming over in a few days, and your spouse will be largely absent. What could possibly go wrong?”

To be continued . . . .