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 . . . .

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 . . . .

CHAPTER FIVE

The silence stretched, stretched some more. Grew awkward. Finally, Jacob said, “I haven’t tried throwing since I was a kid. Watching you just now, I thought maybe I should have kept at it.”

I stood, happy that the tension had been broken. “Try it; see what you remember.”

“It’s been fifteen, sixteen years, easy.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember the first thing about it.”

I grabbed him an apron and cut a chunk of clay, maybe two pounds. I softened it, shaped it, and handed it to him. “Worst thing that happens, I have to run this through the pug mill with the rest of my scrap. Go ahead!”

He took the clay, looking dubious, as I pulled my pitcher and its bat off the wheel. Taking a seat on the stool in front of the wheel, he carefully placed the clay on the wheelhead, trying to get it as close to the center as he could.

I squatted on the other side of the wheel. “It’s more important that the clay adhere properly. Try picking it back up, and slam it down as close to the center as you can manage.”

He looked at me, nodded, and did what I’d suggested. Without prompting, he went around the edge of the clay with his thumb, tightening the seal. Then he got the clay wet, got the wheel going, and put his hands on either side of the clay. He did a good job coning up, then used his right hand to push the cone from the top into the mold formed by his left hand.

“Really anchor that left elbow so you don’t get any wobble or movement,” I instructed. “And press the base of your left hand firmly on the wheelhead. How does it feel?”

He watched the clay spin, feeling it move through his hands. “Not . . . not centered yet.”

“Right. Cone up and compress again.”

He did that, then looked at me.

“Don’t look at me,” I admonished. “In fact, don’t look at anything. Close your eyes. Feel the clay. Trust what your body tells you. Is it centered?”

He closed his eyes, extending his other senses to compensate. He was still for a minute, maybe two, and the tension in his features eased. He looked . . . younger, somehow. “It’s centered,” he said, opening his eyes again.

I smiled. “Excellent. Do you remember how to open the form?”

He shook his head. “I don’t.”

“No worries. Bring both hands to the top, letting your palms and fingers curl over the sides, with the thumbs right above the middle. Okay?”

My instructions had been a bit hard to follow; instinctively, I came behind him, reached around and helped place his hands in the correct position. “Like that.”

“Yup – got it.”

“Okay, bring even pressure with both thumbs – drive down the center of the clay, until you’re close to the bottom, but not all the way through. Then, pull your thumbs horizontally, opening the space, while your hands keep the exterior of the disk on center.”

I walked him through, step-by-step, until he had a short cylinder, maybe four inches tall. Then I had him rib it out into a shallow bowl and fix his rim.

“Feels like a bit too much clay at the base,” he said, feeling it.

I gave his shoulders a light squeeze. “There is, and you would fix that at the trim stage if you finished the piece. But your clay’s getting soft, and if you keep going now, you’ll wreck what you’ve done. And believe me: what you’ve done is pretty remarkable, given how long it’s been since you touched clay.”

He straightened his back. “Ouch! I see why you do yoga!”

“Want to do another, to lock it in?” I asked.

“No need.” He stood. “I didn’t really appreciate it when I was a kid – wasn’t much for sitting still! But I’m a different person, these days. I’d love to take lessons again.”

“Bound to be places near you,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Really more a matter of time than place. I’ve got a lot more going on than I did a year ago.”

“I hear ya,” I said. “Kara said you work for the Park Service?”

“Forest Service, actually. It’s a good gig, for me – Pennsylvania’s portion of the Appalachian Trail is literally my duty station. It’s a full-time job and I love it. But Brea’s kind of a full-time job too. Well, not job. But you know what I mean.”

“I do, I do! Kara’s my full-time job as well – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I wired his piece off the wheel, put it on a ware board, and moved both pieces to my drying area, where I covered them loosely with plastic. “Though . . . when I’m working, I kind of forget everything else. As you just saw.”

He grabbed a sponge and started cleaning the wheel. “I tend to lose track of time in the woods, as well . . . though I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever been as much in the moment as you were when you were throwing.”

“If there’s ever a fire in here, I’ll probably be the last to know,” I said, echoing Kara.

“Will you do a handle for the pitcher?” he asked.

“Maybe an hour before I’m ready to trim, when the pot’s leather hard. If I left it uncovered, it’d be ready to trim tomorrow, but with the plastic on it’ll wait ’til I’m back from Pittsburg.”

He chuckled. “‘Pot.’ That sure brings me back. Mugs, cups, casserole dishes – they were all ‘pots’ to mom.”

“Well, she’s a ‘potter.’ Potters make ‘pots.’ It’s what we do.”

“Was, in her case. But yeah, that’s pretty much what she told me, too.” He finished his cleaning, rinsed his hands and dried them on a towel. “Okay, boss. Let’s get your loading done.”

We went to the back of the studio and got my bins and packing materials, then started carefully wrapping the bisqueware and putting it into bins, making use of paper mache “peanuts” and newspaper to further protect each piece.

After we’d been at it a while, I pulled the trailer around and we started loading up the bins as they were filled, the better to clear space. We worked in companionable silence. I’m not used to company while I work, and silence seemed to flow from Jacob naturally.

I was at least sufficiently aware that I was not alone that I kept track of the time and made sure we broke for lunch around 1:00. Back in the kitchen, I cut up some chicken, apple, and walnuts and mixed them into a salad with lettuce and blue cheese.

As we sat down, Jacob said, “Kez . . . can I ask you a personal question?”

“Go for it – though I don’t promise I’ll answer!”

“When I saw you this morning, I thought you maybe just liked wearing womens’ things. But I’ve spent more time with you, and I’m thinking, maybe you’re trans . . . It doesn’t bother me, one way or another, but I don’t want to inadvertently say something that would offend you.”

“I’m not all that easy to offend,” I answered. “And I don’t have a good answer to your question. Which is weird itself, right? Sometimes I feel very feminine; sometimes not so much. I don’t feel especially masculine ever, though I can still pass for male. What does all that make me? People are coming up with new labels all the time, trying to capture variations. Transwoman; transfeminine, demigirl, non-binary. I’m not sure which is the best fit for who I am. Maybe ‘gender fluid.’”

He looked at me sympathetically. “Do you use ‘he,’ ‘she,’ ‘they’? Something else?”

I shrugged. “Any and all of them, at one time or another. I know it’s a matter of respect for a lot of people in my position, and I get that. I do. But I’ll be honest with you – it’s not something I get worked up about, personally. I think of myself as ‘Kez,’ and I answer to just about anything, long as the speaker’s being polite. Or trying to be, anyways.”

“Unusual name, ‘Keziah.’ Sounds kind of Old Testament?”

I laughed. “Oh, it is – not that my parents knew that when they picked it. I think Mom heard it somewhere and liked how it sounded, and Dad probably thought it was righteous or some such. Neither of ’em ever gave a single thought to religion in their lives, far as I know – which no doubt made my life a lot easier. Anyhow – ironically enough, given how I turned out – ‘Keziah’ was a girl’s name. One of the daughters of Job – the ones he got after God iced his first family. It means, ‘restored to the heart of God.’”

He smiled. “Well, it’s a good name for you. When you were lost in your throwing, I could easily imagine you being in the heart of God.”

I felt my blush coming back. “Ummm . . . wow! I mean, I know I space out. But I’ve honestly got no idea what I look like when I’m throwing. Apart from muddy. For all I know, I drool.”

Jacob caught my discomfort and went with my change in tone. “Not that I noticed, anyway, but I certainly might have missed it.”

We finished our lunch, cleaned up, and went back to work.

It was probably 3:30 when my cell phone rang and I paused to take the call. “Janey! Everything looking good?”

Janey’s voice – raspy after four decades of smoking a pack a day, until a cancer scare made her stop – was unmistakable. “More’r less, as usual. The kiln’s good to go, the weather looks nice – though we’re going to need to factor in a high pressure system. But Darla, Shep and Charlie had to cancel. Shep caught COVID, Darla’s taking care of him, and Charlie’s taking care of her. You know how it is.”

I did. Our household had gone through our own bout of COVID – mercifully, after we’d both been vaccinated. It had not been a terribly productive ten days. “Ouch – how much were they in for?”

“About as much as you, between the three of them,” she responded.

My mind raced through the possibilities. “No way someone can pick up their stuff?”

“I got no one I can send to Mississauga on short notice. Jem went and broke his leg two days ago, when he was bringing in new shelves.”

“Shite,” I said. “Look, Janey, you know we’re going to need some more wares. Nothing will come out right if we’ve got that much dead space.”

She cackled. “Teach your granny to suck eggs, why dontcha? I know all that! I talked to Debbie down at NHTI. She’s got some students who’ve got pieces ready to go. They weren’t planning to wood fire ’em, but they’re all cone 11 clays so they’ll do in a pinch. At least the kiln won’t be empty. You got any extras you can bring?”

I laughed. “Well, there’s the monster, of course. But other than that, I’m already bringing everything that’s appropriate for the train.”

“Hell, yes, bring the monster! Its time might finally have come!”

“Okay, I’ll load it up. But . . . Janey, we’re going to be down four experienced workers, too. Are the students going to stay to fire?”

“Two of ’em will, and that’ll help, though they’ve got zippo experience. But yeah, we’ll have to completely change the schedule. I’m gonna need to lean on you even more’n usual.”

“Hundred percent, far as that goes. I’ll be there by 3:30 or 4:00, okay?”

“Perfect. See ya then, Kez!”

I hung up.

“That didn’t sound like good news,” Jacob commented.

“It’s always something. No matter how much you plan, something happens. Janey’s always able to roll with it. But I do have to figure out how to transport that monster.” I pointed to a corner of the pot storage area, where a large and somewhat dusty piece of bisqueware was propped against both walls.

“What is that?” he asked.

“An exercise in vanity,” I laughed. “It’s a replica of an amphora – what the Phonecians and Greeks used to ship things like wine and olive oil – don’t ask me why. I did it just to see if I could. Had to throw it in three pieces and put them all together. It’d be awesome if I could fire it in the front of a train kiln, or maybe in an anagama, so that it could get a good coating of wood ash. With the clay body I used, it’d look like something Ballard pulled up from the bottom of the Black Sea.”

I looked at it wistfully, seeing the finished product in my mind’s eye, as I had so many times before. Then I shook my head. “But, it’d take up a huge amount of prime space. Back when I made it, I wasn’t thinking about things like that.”

In the end, we wrapped the entire thing in multiple layers of bubble wrap, then placed it in a plastic trash bin that was filled with the paper mache popcorn. Then we put the trash bin in a corner of the trailer and lashed it firmly in place.

In his quiet and unobtrusive way, Jacob was a lot of help in the packing and loading process. Between the two of us, we were done by 4:00.

I pulled the hair that had escaped my ponytail out of my sweaty face. “Miller time, Jacob!”

He laughed. “Tell me you’ve got something better than that!”

“We do – though I’ll confess, I’ve got the Miller, too, and I’ll have one. It’s almost completely water, and right now, that’s just what my body needs.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” he conceded. “Though, I think I’ll have the water by itself, and save my alcohol ration for something worth drinking!”

“Suit yourself,” I said. We walked back toward the house. “I’ll want to shower before the girls get home.”

“Me too.” He took a few more steps, then said, a bit shyly, “Any thoughts on how to keep the two of them from going crazy before we leave them to their own devices?”

I shook my head. “I honestly don’t have much experience with this. Before now, they’d always gone away somewhere. So I didn’t have to deal with Brea feeling jealous about me and Kara. Or Kara feeling jealous about Brea and someone else.”

“Maybe I could just have a headache tonight. Chalk it up to a hard day’s work.” He sounded half serious.

“I get where you’re coming from . . . but honestly, I wouldn’t. If Brea’s the girl for you, don’t back down, and don’t let my lovely wife’s occasional dagger looks worry you. She knows she’s misbehaving. And honestly, I think she’s trying. I think they’re both trying.”

“So . . . what’s your plan for the evening?” he asked.

“Me? Look, I’ll never match Brea in the looks department. Never! She’s – well, you know. She’s a fine looking woman! But that doesn’t mean I have to go all male. I think – if it won’t bother you, that is – I’ll go for being a perfect hostess. How’s that?”

He laughed. “You must make life interesting for Kara!”

“Oh, I do! And I think she likes that – the unpredictability.”

“Then – if you don’t mind! – I think I’ll look suitably dashing and play the man card to the hilt.” He grinned.

“That’s the spirit, Jacob,” I giggled. “Give your girl something to think about!”
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CHAPTER SIX

Kara called a bit before six, clearly from her car phone. “Hey, Kez! We’re on our way back. If you guys are beat, we can pick something up on the way home.”

“No worries, Kara. Jacob was a big help, we got done early, and I’ve got everything under control. The wine is decanting, the pork chops are marinating, and the potatoes are ready to go in. Everything should be done about ten minutes after you get here.”

“You’re amazing!”

“Ain’t I though?” I answered, letting her hear my smile. “See you in a few.”

“Please tell me there’s something I can do to help, here,” Jacob said.

He had changed into some jeans that fit him snugly in the rear end, a pair of well-worn Tecovas and a tailored dress shirt designed to be worn untucked. His sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows, and he’d left the top two buttons unbuttoned, showing off just a hint of a curly chest hair. It was a good look for him, and should definitely draw Brea’s attention!

I grinned. “Please tell me that a manly man like yourself knows his way around the grill!”

He picked up my mood and ran it down the field like a football. “I’ll have you know, young lady, that I’m the Baron of the Barbeque, King of the Grill, and Emperor of all charred and meaty things!”

“Well, then, kick the tires and light the fires! The girls’ll be here in about half and hour, and I figured you could throw the chops on when their tires hit the gravel.”

He threw me an ironic salute and went out to the patio to do guy things with the Webber.

I buzzed around the kitchen, a lacy apron over my pastel yellow cocktail-length dress. Its halter-style top actually looked surprisingly good despite my flat chest, so I didn’t bother with padding. The view from the other side was – if I do say so myself – very satisfactory. I have a narrow waist and a nice back, and the dress provided an unobstructed view of my relatively slender shoulders and fine bones. Being an ectomorph was definitely a plus when I wanted to present as female.

One of the advantages of being a potter is that we eat on some pretty nice stuff. I pulled out dishes I had fired in a salt-soda reduction kiln and set the outdoor table, taking advantage of the beautiful weather. The wine was decanting in one of my pitchers; another held ice water with slices of cucumber. The drinking vessels – cups for the wine; larger pieces for the water – were all unique, but clearly the same clay, same touch of glaze, same kiln and same firing. It made for a table setting like no other.

I put all the lights – indoor and out – on a low-ish setting and put lantern-style candles on the table and the patio wall.

Jacob, fussing with his coals, looked up and smiled. “You look lovely, Kez. The hostess with the mostest!”

I was in full girly mode, so I blew him a kiss and buzzed back inside. As I did, I heard the crunch of gravel. I poked my head back through the slider and said, “Showtime, Jacob!”

I hung up my apron, checked my lipstick, and went to the door with cups of wine already poured.

Brea came in first and did a double take. “Kez! Jesus!”

I leaned in, bussed her cheek, and handed her a cup. “Welcome back, honey! You can drop your bag here. Your guy’s out on the patio seeing to the chops.”

“I . . . uh . . .” She shot Kara a bewildered look, and took a sip of wine while she got her bearings. “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll go see how he’s doing.” She went into the kitchen.

Kara was giving me a knowing look. She giggled. “Honey? Oh, you are a devil, Keziah Brown!”

I batted my eyes – eyes made luminous by various and sundry expensive cosmetic products – and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Kara!”

She took the wine cup, set it firmly on the table by the door, and gave me the kind of kiss I could feel to my painted toenails (which were nicely displayed by my strappy white sandals). “Miss me?” she growled, once she had finished power-washing my tonsils.

“Always,” I responded. Softly. Gently.

Sincerely.

She reached up and rested her palm against my cheek. “You okay?”

“Never better.”

She looked into my eyes as if she were searching my soul for any sign of hurt. Finally she sighed. “I love you so very much.”

“I know.” I smiled. “Now grab your wine, and let’s go be social. And try not to throw darts at Jacob, okay? This isn’t any easier on him than it is on you.”

“Yes, dear,” she said meekly. “I’ll be good – really.”

Out on the patio, Brea was half-perched on the sitting wall, chatting with Jacob in an animated fashion, apparently describing the wonders of Burlington. Don’t get me wrong, it’s my home city and I’m proud of it. But I also don’t have illusions.

Dinner was wonderful. Jacob had not oversold his prowess at the grill, and – while there were plenty of micro-tensions that wove through the conversation – it was clear to me that everyone was on their best behavior. As a sign of which, I noticed that there was no need to open a second bottle of wine. Apparently, no one wanted to test what might be said with a bit of alcoholic lubrication.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Jacob asked.

Kara looked at me, so I said, “I need to leave just after lunch. Everything’s packed, so I just turn the key and go. I’ve got no plans for the morning. Though, there’s a nice, short hike if people are interested.”

Jacob said, “I might be game. I just plan to buzz around and see the area some, so I can leave whenever.”

“Didn’t you make hotel reservations?” Kara asked.

He smiled. “I’m a ranger, remember? Tent and sleeping bag are in the car.”

She shook her head. “I can see the appeal . . . the freedom. But, ah . . . I like my morning showers!”

“Not to mention, a bed that doesn’t include rocks!” Brea shivered in horror.

“I do try not to put the tent down on rocks,” Jacob said solemnly. But his eyes were laughing.

Kara looked around the group and said, “Why don’t we just play it by ear in the morning, then. See what we feel like.”

“Sounds like a plan, lov . . . .” Brea stopped herself. She blushed, and finished, a bit more brightly than called for, “See you all in the morning!”

Jacob was saying something to Kara, so I followed Brea inside and closed the slider. “Hey Brea?”

She looked back at me, wary.

“I just wanted to thank you for trying so hard to make this work. I know it hasn’t been easy for you. Either of you.”

She was clearly surprised. Her expression eased, and she touched my shoulder. “Thanks, Kez. I’m sure it’s been hard on you, too. And thanks for a great evening.”

I smiled, warm and sincere. Truth is, she’s very hard not to like, and I’d always admired her. “Good night, Brea.”

Her eyes regained their usual twinkle, and she gave my appearance a last look. “Good night – Sweetie!”

We giggled – a rare moment of harmony – and she went off to bed.

I put my apron back on and went back out to clear the table.

Jacob moved to help, but I stopped him. “You gave me a full day’s work, Mister. Don’t worry about this.” He opened his mouth to say something, but I gave him a look, and moved my head and my eyes to indicate that he ought to follow Brea.

The light dawned, and he changed what he was going to say to, “If you’re sure?”

Smart man! “Absolutely. Go on!”

He went inside.

Kara was watching me, a sardonic smile on her face. “Got them all settled, do you?”

I walked over slowly – the patio’s pavers were, I learned, a bit of a navigation hazard with the heels of my sandals – and put my lower arms around her torso loosely, elbows at my sides. I dropped my head to her shoulder and closed my eyes. “Go easy on me, love. I’m doing the best I can.”

Her arms wrapped around me in bands of steel. “I know you are,” she whispered fiercely. “And I love you for it. Please don’t think I was criticizing.”

I found myself feeling strangely emotional; the events of the day just seemed to catch me all at once. The tensions . . . and the moments of quiet. I had a sudden vision of Jacob’s face, limned by a cloud of golden light . . . . I clutched Kara more closely.

“Hey! Hey! Are you okay, Dreamboat? It’s okay, babe.” Her voice was gentle. Insistent.

“Just . . . just a long day, that’s all.”

“And it’s enough, too! Listen: I want you to go and take a bath – a nice, calming bubble bath – and leave the clean-up to me. I’ll be there in a few to check up on you, okay?”

I was batting back tears, and I didn’t even know why. Normally, I’d insist on helping, but the idea of just collapsing was too seductive to resist. “Okay, love. Sorry.”

“Don’t you be sorry! Besides; you cooked. I’ve got this.”

I went back to our bedroom, feeling uncharacteristically wobbly on my heels. What is the matter with me? When I got inside, I got the bath started, then sat on the toilet with the seat down, just staring at the tub as the water rose and the bubbles formed.

It was a great day. A great evening, too. What’s come over me? I couldn’t reason my way to it. But when Kara had seemed to fault me for sending Jacob off to be with Brea, some sort of damn had broken inside. It’s not about you, Kez, I told myself.

But this time, a voice in my head talked back. Oh yeah? Why ISN’T it about me?

I had no answer to that, and no energy to find one. I slipped out of my nice dress and just let it fall to the tile. Panties and shoes followed. I put my hair, which I’d worn loose, into a cap, and stepped into the tub.

I woke sometime later to find Kara dressed for bed, perched on the side of the tub, holding a towel. I shook my head to clear it. “I must have dozed off . . . .”

She smiled softly. “I know. You looked so peaceful in there, I didn’t want to bother you. But it’s time for sleep. Preferably someplace where you won’t drown.”

“How long . . . ?”

She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. The dishes are done, the kitchen’s clean, your pretty dress and shoes and back in the closet, and I want you in my bed. Clear?”

“Well, if you put it that way . . . .”

“I do.” She transferred the towel to an arm and held out a hand. “Come on, let me help you out.”

I did feel a bit unsteady, so I was happy for the help. I set the tub to drain and stepped out onto the bath mat, taking the towel Kara had offered. She disappeared back into the bedroom, returning when I was dry with a clean cotton full-length nightgown in snowy white.

“Thanks . . . I really don’t know what hit me.” I pulled the nightgown over my head and pushed my arms through the three-quarter length sleeves.

She kissed my forehead gently. “Kez, honey . . . it’s a lot. For all of us. You’ve just been doing your usual thing, and worrying about everyone but yourself. There’s a price tag for that, and it looks like payment just came due.”

“I’ve got to be functional tomorrow,” I said, suddenly worried. “I can’t be, like, spaced out or something!”

“You’ll be fine, Honey. Honest. You just need some good rest, and I’m going to make sure you get it. Now, take off your makeup, moisturize, and brush your teeth.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, ruefully.

“Long as you do what I say, I’ll take it,” she growled.

I did, and when I was finished I went into the bedroom to find Kara waiting for me. She had me sit on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, then she started brushing out my hair. Her strokes were long and even, soothing. She took her time about it, getting the undersides as well.

Finally she put down the brush, put her hands on my shoulders, and kissed me on the side of my neck. “I love you, Keziah Brown. You are my sunrise and my sunset. My always and forever. Now, come and get a snuggle.”

So I did. “Always and forever, Kara.”

To be continued . . . .

CHAPTER SEVEN

Kara managed to slip out the next morning without waking me, and I slept until she brought me coffee. “Feeling better?”

I worked the sleep from my eyes and sat up. “Ask me when I wake up.”

She smiled and handed me the coffee. Strong and sweet.

Like my woman.

After a long pull, I set the mug down. Brown stoneware. Feldspar Glaze. Franconia Noborigama firing, spring, 2018. “Much better. Thanks.” I looked out the window at the streaming sunlight. “After 8:00?”

“8:30,” she said. “I’ve got breakfast just about ready. Bagels and fruit.”

I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts. “Boy, I guess I needed the sleep. Everything okay out there?”

“No one’s been killed in your absence.” She perched on the edge of the bed. “Relax, already. Brea’s just getting a shower now. Jacob and I had a nice chat out on the patio, and I managed not to get blood anywhere.”

I opened my eyes and smiled. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to sound like a mother hen. Give me five minutes and I’ll be good to go.”

She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. “Jacob told me about your call with Janey.”

I waved the problem away. “Shit always happens. We’ll make it work.”

She chewed on her lower lip, looking uncharacteristically indecisive.

I had some more coffee. Sooner or later, Kara would tell me what she was thinking. She is constitutionally incapable of holding back.

“Jacob really enjoyed the pottery yesterday,” she said, apparently resolving her internal conflict.

“Seemed to,” I agreed.

“I get the sense – nothing he said directly – that he’d much rather go off to the firing than whatever bumming around he was planning to do for the rest of the week. And you’ll be short-handed, right?”

I sighed. “We will be, probably. Mostly short of experience, and Jacob can’t help there. But . . . we’re going to be short on warm bodies, too. The schedule was already pretty tight.” I took another swallow of coffee, thinking.

Kara knows when to stay silent too.

“You think I should ask him?”

She nodded, slowly. “If you think he’d be helpful, then, yes, absolutely. I’m almost positive he’d welcome the offer. But if it would just be more work for you, that’s a different matter.”

I shook my head. “No, he’s a good worker. Focused. Has a good feel for handling delicate material, and not everyone does. Also . . . he’s good about not talking all the time.”

She giggled. “Introvert!”

“It’s not a dirty word, you know!”

“Did I say it was?” She put on an innocent look, though I’m not sure who would be deceived by it. “Would I ever imply such a thing?”

I snorted. “All right, woman! I’m recovered – thank you for the sleep and its antidote! – and I’ll think about it. Now, give me five minutes and I’ll be ready for whatever.”

She patted my knee and rose gracefully. “Sure thing, Dreamboat!” Her stride to the door might best be described as an insouciant saunter. She excelled at many things, but sauntering in all its forms was an area of particular expertise.

I rolled out of bed, did my business, then hung my nightgown on a hook. Today I was dialing up to a solid five – just the unisex outfit of mid-length shorts, a nondescript t-shirt from a national park we’d visited years ago, and sneakers. For now, my hair went back into a ponytail. I washed my face, but otherwise left it alone.

Kara had the breakfast set up by the time I got out, and everyone was up and ready to eat – even Breanna, who looked – as usual – fresh, alive, and exuberant in a pair of white capris and a silky sleeveless top in a lovely shade of coral.

We dug in. Toasted bagels, cream cheese, Nova lox, capers, as well as grapes, more of our fresh and excellent strawberries, and slices of pear. More coffee. Tea for Brea. Everyone was hungry, as the conversation didn’t get going for a good five minutes after we’d sat down.

“Kez, how long was that hike you mentioned?” Jacob asked.

“There’s an easy loop that takes about an hour or so, and a longer one that I certainly won’t have time for today, though it’s a really pretty hike.”

“What’s on the loop trail?” Brea asked.

“Trees,” Kara said. “There’s about a half a mile where you get up high enough to see the lake, though, and it’s a pretty view.”

Jacob’s expression was priceless.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “‘ Trees,’ Kara? Seriously?” Turning to Jacob, I augmented her description. “A fair bit of the red oak, hemlock, plenty of ash, sugar maple, some swamp maple, a few impressive, mature stands of birch. Not a lot of pine, but there’s some. The undergrowth is mostly ferns. Well – and saplings, of course.”

He smiled in response. “Better, thanks! If you’ve got time for a little hike, I’d love to see it.”

To my surprise, Brea wanted to see it as well, and I think Kara decided to come along because she didn’t feel like being left behind. Kara and Brea both changed into t-shirts, I grabbed my ready bag and we piled in the car.

The trail starts on the flat for about a quarter mile before a series of switchbacks brings you higher onto the hillside. Brea and Kara were chatting about something up ahead (well, Brea was chatting, and Kara was interjecting, sometimes explosively), but I hung back and watched Jacob in his natural habitat, so to speak. He seemed very aware of his surroundings, his eyes sweeping back and forth and up and down. He had a purposeful stride, but would pause to examine more closely anything he found interesting.

He was also silent. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t talking; he even moved quietly.

He stopped, a look of delight on his face, and wordlessly pointed to a nest high in a stately sugar maple, where a red-tailed hawk followed our movements with fierce concentration. A few dozen yards later, he bent to examine mushrooms growing at the base of a hemlock tree, then moved on, saying nothing. The girls would start to open up some distance as he paused to examine something, but once on the move he quickly and quietly closed the distance.

We hit the first switchback and Kara stopped to retie her shoe, causing Brea to stop as well. Brea smiled at Jacob as he glided up. “So, what do you think?”

“Lovely.” He smiled back. “You keep talking, girl – it’ll keep the bears away.”

She swatted him. “Nice!”

He chuckled, but said, “I’m serious, Brea. Clear tracks by the stream we crossed back there. Momma and two cubs. They’re shy creatures, mostly. Let ’em know you’re coming, and they won’t be there when you show up.”

Brea looked impressed despite herself. “What kind of bear?”

Kara leaned in close and stage whispered, “The hungry kind!”

Everyone laughed.

“Black bear around here, I imagine,” Jacob said, looking to me for confirmation. I think he’d kind of written off Kara’s relevant expertise when she’d said “trees.” Not that he was wrong.

“Yeah, black bear almost certainly,” I confirmed. “We see them near the farm, too, now’n then.”

“Well, I assume it’s safe anyway,” Brea said. “But if you spot any lions and tigers, you sing out, okay?”

“I always do, don’t I?” Jacob asked, deadpan.

“You never have,” she countered.

“Only because I’ve never seen them. That just proves that I’m very discriminating.”

Brea hopped over, gave him a quick peck, and said, “I’ll go back to talking then!”

“Good plan,” he said gravely.

We continued along the same way, with Kara and Brea ahead, Jacob ranging behind. I followed Jacob, trying to see the forest through his eyes. We were getting close to the break in the trees that provides the outstanding views of Lake Champlain when he stopped, did a double take, and walked ten yards or so off the trail. A tall ash tree stood alone, and Jacob examined it closely, checking both the leaves and the bark.

He looked my way and said, “do you have anything in your bag I could use to mark this tree? I want to call it in when we get back.”

“Uhh, sure. I think? I’ve got a bandana . . . ah . . . I’ve got a couple red straps, too.”

“Straps? Those’ll work, if you can spare them.”

I fished them out. “Yeah, so long as no one needs a splint or something.”

He gave me an approving look. “I like how you think.” Using both straps, he tied a loop around the trunk of the tree. He grabbed his phone, took a picture, and also checked how far he had traveled.

“What’s the problem?”

He brought me in closer. “See these little D-shaped holes in the bark? You can see them in some of the branches too. It’s a marker for the Emerald Ash Borer. Invasive species from Asia; it’ll probably wipe out all of the North American Ash variants within a generation.”

“Is it significant that it’s here?”

He put a hand on my back and started guiding us back to the trail; I could barely still hear Brea. “Might be; I don’t know,” he replied. “They’ve devastated the local ash in Michigan and Ontario, and they’ve definitely been spreading. We absolutely keep tabs on it.”

We picked up the pace and came to the clearing. Kara and Brea were a ways ahead, at the best lookout point, arms around each other’s waists. Kara turned to look our way, and I waved reassurance that we were coming. “Jacob, while I’ve got you . . . Kara suggested I should ask if you’d like to join me for the wood firing. I don’t know what you’ve got planned, so don’t hesitate to say ‘no.’ But you’d certainly be welcome, and there is – God knows – plenty of work to do.”

He shifted his gaze from the girls to give me a careful look. “I’d be very interested. But it’s your community and I don’t want to intrude. Do you want me there?”

His question made me realize that I’d elided that point – maybe intentionally – in how I’d worded the offer. Why did I do that?

I couldn’t think of a reason. “Yes. I would enjoy your company.”

He smiled. “Then I’m your man! I don’t need any special gear, do I?”

I looked at his footwear. “Your hiking boots are more than fine, and Janey’ll supply the welding gloves. You’ve already got a tent and sleeping bag packed. You’re all set.”

“Great! I’ll be honest, I really wasn’t sure what I was going to do with myself, and I’d much rather keep busy.” He moved purposefully to where the women were waiting.

“You brought some water didn’t you?” Kara asked when we reached them.

I shook my head sorrowfully. “How many hikes have we been on?”

“Heaps! Always in trees!” She made a face and stuck her tongue out at me.

“Have I ever failed to bring a canteen?”

“Well, no. But it seemed rude to just assume.”

I pulled the water from my backpack and handed it to her. “Anything for you, girl.”

She drank and handed it off to Brea.

“Damn – it’s even cold!” Brea enthused. She passed the water to Jacob, who drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and passed it back to me.

I took a swallow and preserved what was left. You never knew.

We stood a while taking in the truly glorious prospect before us. We have a good view of the lake from our patio, but Champlain is truly enormous, and you need some elevation to really appreciate its size. It might not be a “great” lake, but it’s a pretty damned good one!

We stayed closer together on the way down, and Jacob was more willing to break his silence for Brea’s sake, pointing out an unusual species of fern, an isolated Poplar, or evidence of where a family of deer had nestled down for the night. His knowledge of the woods was deep, but his love of them was deeper still.

As we hit the flats, the girls lagged behind and the stillness seeped back into him. It was something we had in common, he and I, like a language we shared.

As we recrossed the stream where he had seen the bear tracks, I asked, “Did you learn silence from the woods? Or is your natural silence what draws you to them?”

He looked at me sideways. “Interesting question.”

We kept walking, the quiet between us a peaceful thing, without tension. It wasn’t until we’d come through the trees and the car was in sight that he responded, just as if the fifteen minutes that had passed were unimportant to the conversation. Or, maybe, were an essential part of it.

“Do you shape the clay, or does it shape you?”
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CHAPTER EIGHT

Once we were all back under the same roof, the tensions inherent in our circumstance returned and chafed. There was a growing electricity in Kara and Brea’s interactions, a powerful frisson that was impossible to ignore. You could hear it when they spoke to each other, see it in their looks . . . their touches. They were clearly anxious for “their” time, and, while they didn’t exactly kick me and Jacob out, it was apparent that our prompt departure would not distress them. We left just as soon as lunch was finished.

Kara walked me out to the truck. She leaned in through the window when I was behind the wheel, nibbled on my ear, and whispered, “I love you, Kez. I don’t know why you put up with me.” She hopped down off the step bar, smiled and raised her voice to its normal volume. “Have fun – and good luck!”

Brea and Jacob said their goodbyes indoors. I don’t know what truths were spoken, or which were left unsaid. Maybe the things that were said were not true at all. But Jacob looked unsettled – a rare expression on his usually calm face – and I left him to his thoughts.

We drove into Georgia Center to pick up the 105 and headed north. We were almost in Enosberg Falls before either of us said a word.

Jacob was looking out the window as the small town came and went outside the window. Blink, and you might miss it, just like a million other small towns on the backroads of America. “You love her?” he asked.

I gave the question time to percolate, knowing that he was wrestling with demons and needed more than a quick and easy answer. We’d eaten a few miles before I said, “Yes. With all my heart and soul.”

We hit Richford – more 19th Century brick buildings, clustered by the same river that fed Enosberg Falls – passing the turn-off that leads to the border with Quebec, just a mile and a half away. Dense woods quickly blotted the town from view.

“Doesn’t it eat you alive? Knowing what they’re doing, right now? While we’re just . . . just driving away?” His words were seasoned with anguish, but his delivery was curiously detached. Like he was trying to see from a distance.

I drove, the road continuing to flirt with the easy-flowing Missisquoi, negotiating the border between the New England highlands and the broad Canadian plateau to the north.

“It hurts,” I acknowledged. “I wonder, sometimes, why I’m not enough.” I drove on.

He continued surveying the world we traversed. Silent. Knowing, somehow, that I had more to say. Content to wait until I was ready to say it.

“I wonder, sometimes, if she wants me to fight . . . if she thinks less of me, because I don’t.” The road slowly curved, beginning to turn south, and I watched the Missisquoi disappear, dwindling to a distant, silver ribbon in the rear-view mirror.

We approached Carleton Mountain, with Burnt Mountain and North Jay Peak visible to the south. As we passed the parking lot for the Long Trail, Jacob’s face betrayed a longing that echoed what I’d seen in my studio the day before. “Good hiking ’round here, I bet.” Barely a whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Moose?”

“Sometimes.”

The road took more turns, as it picked its way through the Green Mountains like a billy goat finding stepping stones to cross a creek.

“If you fought, would she stop? End . . . things . . . with Brea?” His question was quiet as his eyes sought to penetrate the woods around us.

I thought about it. Weighed my deepest fears in the balance with the certainties on which I had built my life. Afternoon sun caused water on my right to dazzle as the road flirted with another stream. “I wouldn’t have to fight,” I said, finally, knowing it was true. “I just have to say the word.”

We passed through Jay and took a sharp left near the Jay Branch Gorge. Heading north again.

“But you won’t. You won’t say the word.” He made it a statement, not a question.

I answered anyway. I owed him that. “No.”

It was the strangest conversation I’d ever had, shaped as much by the silences between words as it was by the words themselves. Like we were suspended in a bubble, a cosmos with its own rules that the two of us knew instinctively. We alone.

We drove another twenty minutes in silence, until we reached Newport and Lake Memphremagog stretched away to the north, crossing the international border. He looked at the water, sparkling in the mid-afternoon sunlight.

Then he finally looked at me. "If looks could kill, I’d be dead, you’d be dead . . . and, I’ll be honest, Kara would be dead, too. From the looks I’m giving, in her case. But . . . not Brea.”

I kept my eyes on the road, maneuvering around a repair crew complete with yellow vests and signs that warned me to yield. “No. I like Brea. I’ve always liked her.”

“But . . . .” He stopped himself, and returned to silence.

When we were out of town and back in the countryside, I said, “I can’t blame Brea for loving Kara. How could I? Personally, I think it’s impossible not to love Kara.”

He thought about that for a bit as we rumbled on. We crossed Interstate 91. Passed from Vermont into New Hampshire.

“Kez, I’m sorry.” He sounded lost. Bewildered. “I just don’t understand. It’s a wound that won’t heal. Seven years, and you’re still hurting. How can you not say the word?”

“Because she would do it. She wouldn’t argue, or fight, or plead. She would do it because I asked, and it would be like cutting her heart in half with a rusty meat cleaver.”

We were on Route 111 now, headed south. A Vermont highway that happened to be in New Hampshire. Orphaned and out of place.

As we skirted Seymour Lake, he asked, “Is her pain more important than yours?”

“Yes.” That came out without thought, without hesitation.

Behind us, a car flashed its headlights. Once. Twice.

He stared at me, his expression unreadable.

The headlights flashed again, impatient.

Finally he whispered, “Why?”

There was a wide shoulder ahead, and I pulled off to let two cars pass. People in a hurry, with places to go. I took the opportunity to look Jacob in the eye, to be present to his pain. Pain that I could end, maybe, by saying the word I refused say.

“Because I love her. More than art. More than life. I won’t do that to her.”

A tear escaped from his eye, but he didn’t seem to feel it. His left hand clenched his knee in a vice-like grip.

I reached over and touched his hand gently, saw his grip loosen as he became aware of it. Softly, I said, “Jacob? . . . . I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

And I was. Sorry for him, for Kara and Brea, sorry for all of us, caught in a tangle of love and longing. But I knew the location of the Day Star in the firmament of my life, and I would hold true to that.

I don’t know how long we sat there, kindred souls in wordless communication. More cars passed us, rattling the truck as it idled. I understood his pain, felt it in the core of my being. A good man, quiet and grounded, knocked wildly off his bearings by the force of his feelings, like clay on the wheel, thrown off center by a careless hand.

But over time, his expression softened and he looked away, out his window. “I want to learn to love like you do, Kez. I don’t know if my heart is that big.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. While I wrestled with it, I got us back on the road and resumed our progress. We crossed the Pherrins River and made a hairpin turn onto Route 114, heading north again. Farms. Streams. Ponds. At Norton the road darted left, as if it had bounced off the invisible border with Quebec. Due east now, we traveled in silence through the borderland.

We came to Canaan. The Promised Land. Milk and honey. Just take it from the people who are living there. Your right, your need, is greater than theirs. Isn’t it?

Isn’t it always?

I turned onto Route 3, which would take us to our destination, leaving Canaan behind. “Jacob . . . I don’t know that my answer is right. I only know it’s right for me.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, smiling as a flock of birds rose, startled, from a field on our right. “I don’t know what I’ll say to Brea. And maybe, whatever it is, she won’t accept it.” He wasn’t finished with his thought, but he paused, considering.

I kept us heading north.

“Whether I’m with Brea, or someone else,” he finished, as we pulled off onto the long dirt road that led to Janey’s place, “That’s how I want to live my life. Loving like you do.”

To be continued . . . .

CHAPTER NINE

After the quiet intensity of the drive, Janey’s place was a shock to the system. Dogs bounded up and frolicked around the car, leaving me so petrified I’d run one over that I had to come to a full stop and hit my horn.

On the third long honk, Janey could be heard coming down the lane. “Quincy!!!” – she pronounced it, naturally, “KWIN-zy” – “Maddy! Jackson! Here!!! Here, now!!!” The dogs – lab, shepherd, and some type of long-legged mutt – broke off and bounded her direction.

I looked at Jacob. “Tell me that was all of them. Only three, right?”

“Pretty sure,” he said. “Hard to tell, with how they were jumping around.”

“Can you hop out and check? It’s hard to be certain with the trailer. There were at least four, last time I was here. Might’ve been five.”

He flashed me a smile and hopped out, walking toward the rear of the truck.

The sound alerted the watchers, because the shepherd was loping back, ears at full attention.

“Jackson!! Jackson!! Dagnabbit!” Janey emerged from around the bend in the tracks, the other two dogs at her heels.

Jackson streaked past my door and caught Jacob as he came into view in the side mirror. But when the dog reached him, it stopped, looking uncertain.

Jacob was still, but not frozen, holding himself in a loose, ready stance. Rather than make eye contact with the dog, he glanced forward and to the right, unconcerned, as if the dog posed no challenge.

The dog whimpered, unsure of what to make of the human who was not providing the expected fear signals.

“Now, Jackson!” Janey hollered. Sticking two fingers in her mouth, she let out a piercing whistle.

The dog turned, tucked its tail down, and trotted back.

“Crap, I’m sorry about that!” Janey was striding forward, her dirty gray hair as always a riotous bird’s nest, her pale eyes full of fire and her spare frame fence-rail thin.

I hopped down from the cab and gave her a hug. “Damn, woman! Aren’t witches supposed to have cats?”

“Whaddya mean?” She pushed me back to arms’ length. “You sayin’ they aren’t cats? Well, fuck me dead!” She looked over to where Jacob stood, waiting calmly. “C’mon over, son. Once I pass you, you’ll be jake.”

“Janey, this is Jacob Harmon, a . . . well, the connection’s otherwise complicated. He’s my friend. Jacob – Janey Townsend. She might be annoyed if you call her Calamity Jane, but everyone does.”

“Usually once.” Her pale eyes twinkled. “Don’t recall anyone was ever dumb ’nuff to say it twice.”

Jacob smiled. “I’d offer you a hand, but I think you’d better make those other introductions first.”

“Too right,” she said approvingly. “Maddy. Quincy. Jackson.” She snapped her fingers. All three dogs were sitting at attention, looking at her. She reached over and gripped Jacob’s shoulder. “Friend. Friend.”

Six eyes watched. Three tails wagged approval.

She released his arm and snapped her fingers again. “Good dogs!” She pulled some treats from a well-worn pouch on her belt and made appropriate distributions.

When they’d gotten their treats, they circled back to Jacob and gave his legs a thorough sniff.

He ignored them and reached out a hand in greeting. “Good to meet you, Janey – and your Praetorian Guard!”

“Likewise,” she said, her raspy voice still warm. She looked over at me. “Didn’t know you were bringing someone, Kez. The rooms’r all spoken for.”

“Not an issue,” I assured her. “It was a last-minute thing, but Jacob’s going to pitch a tent by me. I thought we could use the extra help, and he knows his way around bisqueware.”

She smiled broadly. “Fantastic! You a potter?”

“No ma’am,” he said. “But my mom was, back when, and I learned some things.”

“Wait . . . your name’s Harmon?” Her eyes narrowed. “Trixie’s boy?”

Jacob looked uncharacteristically confused. “Ah . . . no. My Mom’s . . . .”

She cut him off. “Patricia Butler. I know. I can see her in you, now I know to look. Harmon, when she was married.”

“Yes. I, ah . . . I didn’t know she had a nickname.” He smiled, a bit warily. Janey can be a bit of a stormwind.

Janey positively cackled. “Christ on a cross! Trixie was one of her more socially acceptable nicknames! We met in art school.”

“Small world,” he said.

Janey’s face shifted out of antic mode, seeing something in Jacob’s posture, or maybe catching something in his voice, that alerted her to the potential for shoals. She reached up and gave his arm a squeeze. “Well, you’re welcome three times over – once for Kez here, once for my old buddy, and a final time just for yourself. I know things got tough for your ma. I’d love to hear about her sometime . . . but I understand if you’d rather not.”

Jacob visibly relaxed and laid a hand over hers. “I’d like that . . . . And I’d like to hear some of your stories too, if you’re comfortable ratting her out! But maybe later?”

“Sure thing, Hon.” She turned back to me and said, “I’ll keep this lot back. Go ahead and drive out to the kiln; we’ve got tables under the tent for the wares. I’ll be along in a bit.”

“Sounds good.” I hopped back in the cab and Jacob joined me. Fifty yards down, the road split, with the left fork going to Janey’s home and studio. We went right and down slightly, emerging onto a meadow which held Janey’s primary kilns – an older-style gas kiln and her big train kiln. The area to the left of the train kiln currently housed a large open tent with lots of eight-by-two folding tables, some of which already held an impressive amount of bisqueware. On the other side of the tents were massive, carefully stacked bins of split wood. Our fuel supply.

Jacob helped me unload the trailer, working to put my wares in with the rest, segregated by area of the kiln, and within that, by size. Jacob was even better in his handling than he had been the prior day, and the work went quickly. He was helping me unwrap my monstrous amphora when Janey rejoined us.

She marveled at it. “Well . . . damn, Kez! I mean, I get it! I do! But . . . what on earth you gonna do with it?”

I pulled myself to my full – and not very impressive – height. “Do with it? Madam, it’s Art! It doesn’t do! It simply is! In all its . . . ah . . . ya know . . . artistic splendor!” I held my pose for maybe three seconds, my face a mask of faux hauteur. I couldn’t make it to four before I cracked up.

Janey laughed uproariously. “Oh, Kez! I really want to see what our dragon here’s gonna do to that thang!”

“Me, too! Been waiting five years! But . . . We’ll see. I know you’re running light, but it’s still a bear’n cubs, and there’s only one place for it.”

She patted my shoulder. “You’re the boss on the load, Kez. I trust you more’n anyone. More’n me, even.”

I smiled my thanks and looked at the tables. “I see lots of Tatiana’s work, yours and Jem’s, Bill Frost’s usual acres of mugs . . . Sug’s sculptural pieces . . . and look at Gary’s covered pots! Wow, he’s improved! The underglaze pieces must be from Janice, and the pitchers are Mike’s. I don’t recognize that series of tall cylinders. Interesting work.”

“Paul Sylvester – that studio in Boston I’ve been trying to lure up here.” She sounded a little wary.

“Huh,” I said. I expected I’d get the story later. “Who’s stuff’s still out?”

“The NHTI kids Debbie’s sending; they should be here by 7:00. Kelly’s in for six k; I expect her any time. I leaned on Travis Morton, and he said he could scrape up three k or so, but he can’t be here ’til the morning. He told me to tell you not to worry, it’s all middle-middle so it’ll load last anyway.”

I nodded, playing a game of high-value Tetris in my mind. “How much from NHTI?”

“Deb wasn’t able to give me hard numbers. Could be three; could be eight.”

I shrugged. “We’ll just have to see. Who’s helping the load?”

“You on the inside; me, Jacob here, Sug, Janice, and Sylvester.”

That sounded good. “And everyone’ll be there for the pow-wow tomorrow night?”

“Yep. All confirmed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to finalize the schedule. Tatiana and Sug are both staying up at the house, and they’re working on some food. Should be ready in an hour or so.”

“Perfect. I’ll move the trailer and we’ll get our tents up.”

She waved and walked briskly back toward the house.

Jacob and I pitched our tents in the meadow, about thirty yards from the kiln. I’d had lots of practice, but Jacob’s was up in half the time. It was light-weight, low, and unobtrusive. Mine was taller – ironically, given our relative heights – and I was embarrassed to fill it with a battery-pumped air mattress.

“I’m such a wuss!” I said, as the air pump whirred away.

Jacob had just thrown a small, thin, self-inflating cushion on the floor of his tent. “I’m a ranger, Kez. This is, like, my day job. You have enough trouble keeping limber, doing what you do.”

“Thanks . . . I think!”

While we were setting up, I heard dogs barking again, and Kelly Clifford’s big SUV trundled toward us. She parked by the tent and started to unload her wares.

I waved.

We wrapped up our work, then walked up to the house, pausing to ask Kelly if she was coming up.

She bussed my cheek. “Hey Kez! Nope, I’m staying in town with the lunk this time. I’ll be back tomorrow night for the Pow-Wow, and I think Janey’s gonna want me on door building first shift.”

Up at the house, Tatiana and Sug had made a wonderful fish stew of some sort, and there was fresh bread, and plenty of spring water. We were still eating when the two college students arrived – late – having already eaten on the road. Brice and Tawney (who, name notwithstanding, had dark brown hair). Janey took them down to the unloading area, since she had to get both of them straight with the dogs anyway.

It was a pretty subdued gathering; everyone had worked hard to get things ready and were ready for some sleep. Jacob and I, as the late arrivals, sent the rest off to their beds, washed and dried the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and headed down.

“Long day,” I said.

Jacob appeared to chew on this pedestrian comment as we strolled down the dirt road. “It’s an interesting life you have.”

I made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort.

“Do you like it?”

The moon was up, and the meadow opened up before us. My decadent air mattress beckoned. I shrugged. “Keziah Brown, Potter. It’s who I am. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to be anyone else.”

“But Kara comes before even that?”

I smiled. “Always.”

He touched my shoulder lightly. “Good night, Kez.”

“Good night. And . . . Jacob?”

He turned back to face me.

“Thanks for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”

He smiled and ducked into his tent.
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CHAPTER TEN

I began the day with a personal ritual. I wear my hair fairly long, and that’s not a good thing for working around fire. The sensible thing to do, then, is to put it up somehow. Girls do all sorts of things, from simple braids to up-dos.

However, one of the more experienced potters at my second or third wood firing was a Sikh. On a lark, I asked him to show me how to put my hair in a front knot and wrap a turban over it. It was fun, and the firing had produced some of my first truly professional wood-fired art. So it became something of a good luck totem for me. It had the added advantage of hiding how truly grimy and awful my hair was by the time a firing was finished.

So I stood outside my tent in the morning air, my hair in a coiled braid above my forehead covered by a thin patka, wrapping a gauzy cloth around my head, one end in my mouth.

Jacob was already up and wandering about, but naturally he chose that moment to return. His dark eyebrows went sky high, but he waited until I was done, the cloth no longer in my mouth, to say, “please tell me that’s not a required part of the uniform!”

“Well of course it is,” I said earnestly. “I mean, you wouldn’t want to bring shame upon the craft, or draw the wrath of the kiln gremlins!”

He chuckled, and it bubbled over into a long laugh. “Are all potters crazy?”

“No.” I shook my head emphatically. “I wouldn’t put the percentage any higher than 92. But I wouldn’t guess it’s much lower, either.”

We started the loading at 9:00 sharp. I’d fired with all of them except Paul Sylvester, a spare, intense man with thinning hair and pronounced opinions. Janice Ramsey, in contrast, was pleasantly plump, with apple cheeks, merry eyes and an easy disposition. Her underglazes tended to pop in the firing, producing colors that were unusual for wood-fired work. Sug Sealy was an old friend. We’d taken workshops and classes together years ago and discussed life, art and pottery deep into a lot of nights. Ethereal and willow-thin, she made abstract sculptures and achieved dramatically different results in different parts of the kiln.

“Okay, alla ya,” Janey said with a clap of her hands. “Welcome, in your case,” she smiled at Paul, then Jacob, “and welcome back, everyone else. Here’s how this is gonna work. We’ll load the front first, then the back, then the middle. Same as usual. Like the last two firings, I’m putting Kez on the inside. And let me be clear what that means. Once the pot crosses the kiln wall, I don’t want anyone’s hands on it, other’n Kez. We got space for one person in there, and Kez is the best. Clear?”

Everyone nodded. Nothing unusual, really.

“My pieces and Jem’s are already wadded; the rest’ll have to be done as we go. For now, I want Paul to help me get the pieces to Kez in the right order, and glue the wads on them. Sug and Janice, if you could roll more wads that’d be the biggest help for now. Jacob, let’s put that strong back of yours to work. Kez will need posts” – she pointed to an area of wooden shelving with different sized fire bricks – “and shelves” – here, she pointed to stacks of heavy silicon carbide sheets – “as we go along. Everyone good?”

More nods. “Okay! Let’s get cracking!”

It all sounded terribly efficient, but reality bit almost immediately. I was inside the kiln, doing some measurements. Janey leaned over the kiln wall – the top was off, suspended overhead by a heavy chain raised on a crank – and said, “What are you thinking, Kez? How much height do you need under the first shelf, if you put the monster up front?”

I re-checked my measurements. “Only way to fire it is on its side, and even there, it’s eighteen inches at the widest part. We’d have to start the other tall pieces further back.”

She whistled through her teeth. “Oooh . . . Ouch. It tapers a lot, though . . . Couldn’t we orient a shelf front to back, so we can get a few more talls up front?”

I scratched my head, thinking about it.

“Excuse me.” Paul Sylvester joined Janey. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Look, my tall pieces really need to be front-front. It’s what they were designed for . . . Why I came here.”

Janey said, “Now hold on! We got to be fair to everyone!”

“Well, if I understand right, if this piece goes in, we’ll have limited space right by the firebox. How’s that fair?” His intense eyes were troubled.

“Now c’mon, Kez’s been waiting for years for the chance to fire that thing . . . and, besides. If we don’t put it in, the whole kiln’s gonna be short!”

Paul looked stubborn. “Like I said . . . .”

I cut in, “Paul, sorry for interrupting. I think you’ve raised an important point, and I’ve got an idea.”

He looked at me hopefully.

Janey, on the other hand, looked suspicious. She knew me too well.

I popped out the side, which would get bricked up when we were done loading. “Paul, why don’t you get your pieces wadded.” I looked back at where they were in the tent and added, “The two tallest ones’ll need to be fired on their sides. I’ll be back in just a couple. Janey?”

She followed me, still looking suspicious. When we were out of earshot, she said, “Dammit, Kez!”

I put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. Really. It was only a ‘if possible.’ And Paul’s right about his pieces; you know it. He’s looking for the same gnarly, heavy look I am.”

“Why him’n not you?”

I laughed. “’Cuz I’ll be back, regardless, and he’ll only be back if he gets what he’s looking for. You want that studio’s work, Janey. C’mon now. It’s a business, like it or not. I get that.”

She growled, sounding suspiciously like her dogs. “If you fire it further back, you won’t get the effect you want. And if you don’t fire it at all, there’ll be too much space between pots. We need that volume!”

“I’d agree with you,” I said, smiling, “If I didn’t know you were holding out on us. You’ve got eight big refires on the shelves off your kitchen; I saw them last night. If we need more pots, you can put some of them in.”

“Refires!”

“They’ll do great. Looks like most of ’em just were underfired a bit. This time, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

She threw up her hands. “Fine. Damn, Kez! I really wanted to see that piece!”

“Me, too. Someday. But I’m thinking I’ll have more luck with an anagama firing.”

We went back, the problem solved. The work proceeded pretty efficiently. Paul and Janey were keeping me with a steady supply of pieces, each on little wadding “stilts” so that they didn’t rest on – and get fused to – the shelves. As each space filled, Jacob brought me another shelf, and we decided the size of the posts to use for the next area. I set each pot, each post, and each shelf, with an eye to ensuring airflow from the front of the kiln to the back.

It took a couple hours to load the front, then we took a short break. I was chatting off to the side with Jacob, explaining a bit more how placement worked, when Paul came over. “Look, I’m sorry I was such a prick. It’s just . . . .”

I smiled. “You're an artist, you know what you’re looking for, and you came a long way. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get that beast of mine fired someday, but there’s no rush. The chance that anyone will ever want to buy it is remote.”

“Well . . . thanks, anyway. I really appreciate it – and your loading looks awesome!”

He wandered off.

Jacob gave me a look, and I smiled, shrugged, and rolled my eyes. “All in a day’s work!”

After the break, I placed the pieces on the floor of the back of the kiln by the sutema – relatively tall pieces. So I used nine-inch posts to hold the first set of shelves. Jacob was handing one of the first slabs to me when Travis Morton arrived and started unloading his pieces on the tables reserved for the middle section of the kiln.

We had a good rhythm down, and the rear section went faster than the front. We broke for lunch at one, and everyone was glad for the break.

Jacob sat across from me at one of the picnic tables, after having acquired big glasses of ice water for both of us. “Damn – that’s some thirsty work!”

I guzzled a full third of the glass, smiling my appreciation. “It is! But it’s easier when it’s cooler out. Janey won’t fire the train over the summer because it’s just too hot.”

“Seems pretty well insulated,” he said. “Heavy-duty firebricks and all.”

“It is, absolutely. But we crank it up to 2300, 2400 degrees, and you have to open it up every few minutes to stoke it. You can get through a shift feeling plenty warm when there’s snow on the ground. Well . . . not your feet, but everything else.”

“I plain hate those shifts!” Janey plopped down beside me, a paper plate with a sandwich and chips in her hands. “Getting too old, and too ornery, to walk into the house with toes gone numb with the cold, while I’m near dyin’ of heat stroke.”

“It’s not that bad, Janey,” I laughed.

“Try it when you're sixty, punk!”

“That’s the plan,” I said affectionately, giving her a one-armed hug. Janey’s a character, but she’s a mentor as well as a friend. And I knew it meant something to her, that I was just as committed to this enterprise, and this art form, as she was.

We got back to work, now filling in pots in the area where I had stood while we’d loaded the front and back of the kiln. The middle took longer, as we had more, and smaller, pieces. Mugs and small cups, tiles and some plate stacks, as well as some of Sug’s smaller sculptures. We finished up around 4:30.

Everyone was there at 6:00 sharp, up by the house. Janey had, with mock reluctance, given Tatiana her secret recipe for North Carolina barbecue. Might not be world famous, exactly, but sure’s hell, it was well known in the small world of ceramic artists! Amidst the pulled pork and the chicken, there was a tangy coleslaw, buttery cornbread, and everything you could drink.

Every kind of water, straight from Janey’s artesian well.

After a day of physical labor on a late spring day, everything tasted as perfect as sunrise on a beach in Maine. Janey finished with some pecan pie, on the theory that some flavors just go together. While we were all sampling that, she stood and clapped her hands.

“All right, I’ll keep this part short. Most of you know the rules, but some o’ ya are new here – and others could damn well use a refresher!” She glowered at all and sundry.

“So, first thing. I’m in charge from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm. You got a question, concern, whatever, you get me. If I’m not down at the kiln, you call me – took a while, but we finally got some cell service up here.

“8:00 pm to 8:00 am, Kez is in charge. Same deal. You got questions, you ask Kez. Tent’s not far from the kiln. And when I say ‘Kez is in charge,’ I mean it. I’m old and mean and I need my frickin’ beauty rest, especially after a day of dealin’ with you lot. So do not – DO NOT! – make me come down there! Clear?”

She waited until she’d seen a nod from everyone there.

Or, in my case, a broad smile.

“All right. Next. No alcohol, no drugs, no exceptions. And get the rest you need when you aren’t on. I mean it. You need to be sharp and alert. Worst accident I’ve had was some idiot who scorched both eyebrows putting his head too close to a peephole. Stank to high heaven. But I run a safe firing, and it stays that way.

“Oh – reminds me. Closed-toed shoes. Wear ’em. I know it’s warm and sandals feel more comfortable, but some of the wood we’re throwin’ in there’s pretty heavy. Break a toe easy, you drop it. And there’s alway spilled embers when we rake the coals.”

Again, she looked around and got visible affirmations. “Alright, that’s the big stuff. You’ve got your shift assignments, so if you’ve got questions, ask ’em this evening or tomorrow while we’re bricking up the door. And Kez or I’ll go over things with you at the start of your shifts.”

She looked around. “Any general questions? Stuff everyone might be interested in finding out?”

Bill Frost, the King of Ugly Mugs™, looked up thoughtfully. “Janey, I’s wondering if you might be able to tell us whether there’s life after death. Been thinkin’ it over some, and I figured, you’re the boss.”

Amidst the laughter, Janey said, “Can’t say I’ve looked into Bill, but if you're that curious, you kin go straight to hell and send us an email about what you find there!”

He laughed along with the rest of us.

“If there aren’t any relevant questions” – Janey gave Bill a look as she stressed the modifier – “I’ve got a bit of a treat lined up. I leaned on ol’ Travis here to come join us, mostly because we needed the pots. But, he also brought his fiddle. And as you know, he’s even better with the bow than he is with the wheel.”

There was much clapping and laughing, and amid sounds of general approval, Travis got up and played. Back country, mostly, high and fast. Some of it was suited for dancing, and most everyone was up and spinning, clapping with the rhythm and having a good time.

To my surprise, Jacob joined in with gusto; I expected a man with such reserves of quiet to hang back, to seek the shadows at the edges of the gathering. But there he was, stomping and clapping, twirling the gals and me, and to all appearances enjoying himself immensely. He looked particularly good with Sug, who was a surprisingly good dancer and looked sweet in a lavender sundress.

The sun set – late, as it does in June, this far north – and Travis began to slow his tempo, choosing quieter pieces. Before long, we were all seated at the picnic table or on the grass, listening. I found myself a tree to lean against, my legs out straight on the short grass.

Jacob wandered over, once again bearing glasses of water.

I gazed up at him. “You born in early February, maybe?”

He smiled. “September. That tree trunk big enough for two?”

I took the cup he offered. “Dunno. Pretty broad back you got. Give it a whirl.”

He bent and sat, surprisingly graceful for someone so large. Leaning against the tree, 6:00 to my 3:00, he took a long drink of water and sighed. “Sooooo good.”

The silence enveloped us again, easy and companionable. Travis paused, looked around, and said, “all right folks, last one, and I’m for bed.”

“Here it comes,” I said quietly, so only Jacob could hear. “I’ll cry, but don’t mind me. I always do.”

Travis paused, gathering the silence himself, then he began, and the haunting strains of the Ashokan Farewell, slow and stately, filled the night air.

I stared at the moon, transported. Travis always played this piece last, and it always pierced my heart, filled me with longing. For what, I never knew.

The music held us transfixed. I was acutely aware of Jacob’s presence at my side, sharing the moment of such otherworldly beauty.

I wept. I always weep.

The party broke up, and Jacob and I walked alone, down the road to the pasture. The night insects were loud as the sounds from the house faded behind us. With the sun down, the temperature dropped and it was delightfully cool.

I could hear my boots as they connected with bits of gravel and old leaves. Jacob, as before, seemed to move in silence.

“You surprised me, with the dancing. Thought you were an introvert.” My tone was light, and I let my voice rise at the end, making it a question. Inviting a response.

He walked a bit, thinking. I was used to that now. Even appreciated it. Words are better . . . truer, maybe . . . when silence surrounds them. I found myself wondering, irrelevantly, whether Brea appreciated that silence, or even noticed it. So full of life, of buoyant, passionate energy. Was there a silence, anywhere, that Brea couldn’t fill?

Finally he replied. “I am, sure. And I expect I’ll need some deep sleep to recover. I like people. Really. They just . . . tire me out, you know?”

“Amen, brother!” I said, fervently. “Though this group’s easier for me. I know them, they know me. My peeps. But . . . I most definitely need downtime, when firings are done.”

We reached our tents and I touched his arm lightly. “Good night, Jacob.”

“Good night, Kez. Quiet dreams.”

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Janey had assigned herself the task of supervising the bricking up the door and lowering the top of the kiln into place. “You two got the day off tomorrow Kez,” she’d told me at dinner. “I’ll do the chimney pre-heat this afternoon, and you can start the kiln pre-heat when you come on at 8:00. Make sure you rest up.”

But I was already up and dressed when she wandered down with Tatiana; Kelly was parking and joined them directly.

“Morning, Kez,” Tatiana called out. “You recovered from all that fun last night?”

I laughed. “Give me a day. All those people, you know!”

Janey snorted. An extravert and damned proud of it, she has to deal with a lot of my kind in our business. “Your friend’s been up and about a while. Not sure where’s he got to, but I ‘spect he’ll turn up.”

“He knows where to find me.” I smiled. “Besides . . . I’ve got the keys to the truck.”

I watched Janey for a bit as she got her door crew going. I didn’t hear Jacob come up behind me, and I jumped a bit at his good morning. “Damn, how do you do that?” But I smiled a greeting nonetheless. “Sleep okay?”

“Always do,” he said easily. “But I’m used to it. How’s that decadent air mattress doing for you?”

“Superfine, thank you very much!”

Janey glanced our way. “Only idjit kids like you could imagine an air mattress being some kind of fine. Give me a real bed any day!”

“Well, Janey,” I said judiciously, “We can’t very well fight you for it, since you own the joint.”

“Gotta love the golden rule,” she agreed. “There’s coffee up at the house, and a loaf of somethin’. Couldn’t tell you what.”

That got a smile from Tatiana. “Zucchini Bread,” she told me. “Janey’s not into it, but most people like it – especially given the alternative.”

“Which is?” I asked, for curiosity’s sake. Tatiana really has a touch in the kitchen.

“Go hungry,” Janey said cheerfully. “Well . . . there’s always kibble, I s’pose. Though even the dogs don’t exactly turn cartwheels at it.”

We laughed, and Jacob and I walked up to get a nibble. Unsurprisingly, the bread was excellent. When we were done, I said, “We aren’t needed here until the preheat starts tonight. I’ll want to bank a bit more sleep this afternoon, but we’ve got some time. Want to go see the sights?”

“Seems like we’re pretty damned close to the middle of nowhere,” Jacob replied. “So, yeah – count me in. Those are most definitely my kind of places.”

We left the trailer and took the truck into . . . and through . . . town. Pittsburg is in the very heart of the Great North Woods, on the border between New Hampshire and Quebec. Staying on Route 3, we went past Lake Francis, then followed the road past the series of Connecticut Lakes. It’s beautiful country – evergreens, New England’s signature hardwoods, and lots of pure, cold northern lakes.

Jacob, characteristically, soaked it all in quietly. We had the windows down, the better to enjoy the fresh, clean scent of the forests around us. “Are the lakes the source of the Connecticut River?” he asked.

I nodded. “Technically, I’m pretty sure the Fourth Connecticut Lake is the ultimate source, but they’re all connected, one kind of flowing into another.”

We drove a bit more, and Jacob fished out a map. I tend to keep one of the big Rand McNallys in the car, since I’m as likely to be driving in the back of beyond as anywhere with cell towers. After a few minutes’ study, he said, “Looks like there’s a short trail to that fourth lake. What do you think?”

“We’ve got plenty of time. I figured we could see whatever struck our fancy, then catch lunch back in town. Not that there’s a lot of options that way.”

He gave me directions, and we ended up at a trail head that was only fifty feet or so from the station marking the international border, where the Maple Leaf of Canada and the Stars and Stripes fluttered side-by-side in a light morning breeze.

Soon we were back in his element, and silence seemed to flow from him as we walked. The trail wound its way up a wooded hill, and it did not take us long to reach our destination, though Jacob made frequent stops to take in some unusual sight that had piqued his interest.

Unlike the lower lakes, the Fourth Connecticut Lake was just a small glacial tarn, a couple acres total. The Connecticut River, flowing out from the lake’s edge, was barely more than a brook. Jacob took a knee, cupped his hands and splashed water from the brook across his face, a smile of pure delight lighting his features. “The Mighty Connecticut!” He laughed.

I smiled in return. “Yeah, doesn’t look like much up here, does it?” Seeing a likely stone, flat and round, I bent, ran a thoughtful finger over it, and sent it skipping across the tarn. “Five!”

Jacob chuckled. “You’re not going to count that little dribble at the end, are you?” He shook his head ruefully. “Three, Kez. I’ll give you that. But five?”

“Ha! You try!”

He eyed his options and selected a missile. Rising, he bent his knees, and with a fluid twist of his body and a whipping wrist motion, sent the wafer of granite bouncing. Five . . . six . . . and . . . dribble. “Six!” He looked at me in challenge, a grin on his face.

I nodded. “Six.” I found another, and tried to match him. It was better than my last cast, and the stone was superior. I managed a tie . . . generously construed.

We tossed a few more, then lapsed again into stillness, just enjoying the quiet and peace of this remote and secret place.

I touched Jacob’s arm, light as a feather.

He looked at me, a question in his eyes.

Careful to move slowly, I pointed across the tarn where, fifty yards away, an enormous bull moose stepped lightly from the surrounding woods. It paused, looking right and left, raising its nose up to sniff the morning air.

We stood still as the trees around us, barely breathing.

The moose resumed its motion. How can such a massive creature move without sound? It continued its walk until the fetlocks of its front legs were fully in the waters of the lake. Again it paused and tested the air before slowly and gracefully lowering its head to drink.

The moose must have been thirsty. It took its time drinking before raising its head and scanning the area again. Then, without warning or sound, it flowed back into the surrounding woods.

It was easily a minute before either of us moved. I became aware that my fingers were still resting on Jacob’s arm. Suddenly self-conscious, I lowered my hand and said in a low voice, “that was amazing!”

He turned to look at me, the magic of the moment lingering, a look of wonder and delight on his face. “That right there? That was worth the whole trip, regardless of what else might happen.”

“Never saw one before?”

He shook his head. “Never. Didn’t think I’d ever get that lucky, either.”

We headed back down, silent once again. When we got back to the car he touched my shoulder gently and said, “that was very special. Thank you.”

On the way back, we stopped at the Buck Rub Pub for some lunch. There are, like, four places to eat in the whole town, and two of them aren’t open for lunch. So it wasn’t all that surprising that we ran into Gary Severs and Bill Frost, who were just leaving as we arrived.

Bill stopped and smiled. “Kez! And . . . Jake, right?”

Jacob returned his smile easily. “Jacob, but don’t worry about it. Given how much everyone was drinking last night, it’s a wonder we all remember our own names.”

He played it so completely straight that Bill and Gary both looked bewildered, until suddenly Gary chuckled, then guffawed. “Damn, you had me going, and I was there!”

Bill joined in on the joke. “Hell, yeah, that’s some potent water Janey’s been brewing!”

“Artesians. Gotta watch out for ’em, or they’ll getcha every time." I nodded at the restaurant at their backs. "I don’t ’spose they changed the menu?”

“Why ever would they up and do something like that?” Gary asked, rhetorically. “That’s just crazy talk.”

“Yeah,” Bill agreed. “It’s like that pope – you know, the one who only liked one type of architecture? – told the guy he hired to preserve all the churches in Rome.” He looked at us expectantly.

Knowing his penchant for really bad jokes, I said, in my most resigned voice, “All right, Bill. Go ahead and hit us with it . . . you will anyway.”

Bill pretended to take offense, but before he could deliver his punch-line, Jacob beat him to it. “If it ain’t Baroque, don’t fix it?”

Bill laughed out loud, slapping his thigh in delight. “Got it in one!”

Gary, who’d known Bill forever, just rolled his eyes.

I gave him a sympathetic look and said darkly, “art humor. Don’t let it happen to you.”

Everyone had a bit of a laugh, then Gary said, “We’re gonna catch a bit of a nap this afternoon. See you at midnight?” They had the second shift together.

I nodded. “Yep, see you then.”

I had the door open to enter, when Bill looked back at Jacob. “Hey, you're from down south, right?”

I shot him a bemused look. “Northern Pennsylvania’s not exactly Dixie, Bill.”

“Spoken like someone who hasn’t lived there,” Jacob corrected me. “Trust me, there’s a big ol’ stripe of ’Bama that splits the state right up the middle.”

“Well anyways,” Bill said, “long as you're up here, you oughta try the poutine.”

Jacob assured Bill that he’d give it a go, then followed me inside. “What did I just agree to try?” he asked me. “Isn’t that some kind of rotgut moonshine?”

I shook my head. “No such luck.” He raised an eyebrow, and I shivered. “It’s a Canadian thing. Don’t ask.”

Despite my warning, Jacob ordered the poutine, which mercifully came as an appetizer. After the waitress walked away, he gave the concoction a careful look. “Well . . . I, ahh . . . I mean, I do like french fries. In moderation. So, there’s that.”

“Uh huh.” I was determined not to help.

He tried again. “And . . . nothing wrong with brown sauce.”

I shrugged. “Kinda on my ‘take it or leave it’ list, but, you do you.”

He looked at the dish again. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he sighed and shook his head. “Okay, yeah. Even I can’t find something nice to say about cheese curds.”

I snaked out a hand to snag a fry that had somehow retained its purity, untainted by sauce or curd, like a virgin in a debauched seraglio. Performing my extraction with the precision of a surgeon, I said, “I think this poor puppy should be permitted to die chaste, like one of those female martyrs.” I popped it in my mouth.

“What female martyrs?” He sounded disbelieving.

I waved a hand airily. “How should I know? I didn’t exactly major in religion.”

Sidetracked, he asked, “What did you major in?”

“I didn’t.” I grinned. “Look, I know you have a Ph.D. I respect that. But this is what I do, you know? Pottery. All a four year degree woulda given me – that I don’t already have – is a shitload of debt. I’ve taken plenty of classes. Ceramics, mostly, but honestly, anything that grabs my attention. Wine making. History. Statistics. Haiku. There’s a lot you can find online – good stuff, not just the crap – at a decent price.”

“Haiku? Seriously?”

“Why not?” I replied. I closed my eyes and thought for a moment.

“Vision of stillness,
power and grace. Delicate.
King of the North Woods.”

I opened my eyes to see him looking at me strangely. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. And everything. You just did that, right?”

“Sure, though I’ll be the first to admit it’s not art. Still . . . I was inspired, just now.”

“It’s what I noticed most as well,” he said, sounding distant. He stared away, his eyes unfocussed. “It was huge – way bigger than I’d imagined. Not that I’ve spent all that much time thinking about moose, but . . . you know what I mean. Anyhow, I was just floored by how quiet it was. And the movement – you’re exactly right. It was delicate – even dainty.”

We were silent, sharing the memory.

Then I shook my head and broke the mood. “Brea’ll never believe it, you know. ‘Pics, or it didn’t happen!’”

His expression was hard to read. Speaking slowly, like he was teasing out a mystery, he said, “What we saw today . . . that’s not something I think Brea could really appreciate, pics or no pics. She’s . . . I mean, I love her to death. I do! But, quiet? Stillness? It’s just not her.”

I weighed my words carefully, hesitant to intrude. But he had probed my feelings about Kara and Brea pretty deeply, and I felt a rare closeness to him. “Jacob – it’s not Brea, I mean, like, at all. You’re obviously right about that. But . . . it’s the heart of who you are. How do you make that work?”

He thought about that briefly, then shrugged. “The way people usually do, I expect.” He looked at me, and the smile touched his warm brown eyes. “Magic, you know?”

“Magic?” My smile matched his. “Okay, yeah. I’ll buy that!”

“You gonna finish that?” The waitress stood over us, looking at the “appetizer.”

We gazed at the congealing mass between us.

“I actually don’t think we’re going to start it,” Jacob replied, sounding like he was giving the matter deep and considerable thought. “We might ruin the aesthetic.”

Or our entire digestive tracts, I thought.

To be continued . . . .

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was probably close to ten at night before Jacob asked why on earth Janey had assigned us both to work the preheating shift. “Barely enough work for one person, much less two.”

I carefully slipped a chuck of wood through the left-hand opening, closed the door, and repeated the process on the right. “You should ask her,” I said. “My guess, she likes having back-up. Once this gets underway, you need to keep it going smooth.”

“So it’s not just that I’m a complete nube-child?” he asked. “I was kind of wondering.”

I sat back on the wooden bench. “Nah. Bill and Gary’ll be doing the same thing during their shift – slow, steady ramp-up, about 100 degrees each hour, and build up some coals. Each of them’s been doing this longer than I have.”

After a bit, he stirred and said, “Don’t think I’m complaining. It’s kind of peaceful. I’m just surprised . . . and I guess I was worried that Janey felt she had to come up with some make-work for me.”

I watched the numbers on the pyrometer creeping up as the wood I had added hit its peak combustion and began to release its stored energy. 193 . . . 194 . . . 195. It hovered at 195 for a long while before finally ticking over to 196. “Your turn,” I said.

Jacob rose and fed a single piece of wood through each of the openings, being careful to drop them as vertically as possible. There was no barrier inside the kiln between the firebox and the area where the shelves of pots were placed. You could clearly see Paul’s big pieces in the light of the glowing coals. Jacob called them the “Paul Potts,” but I’m afraid he had to explain the joke.

193 . . . 192 . . . 191 . . . . The drop was expected. Opening the doors allowed the cooler night air in, and the new wood had to consume some heat energy before it released its own.

“Should I get more wood?” he asked.

I looked at the wheel barrow and smiled. “It’ll take us half an hour to go through what’s there. Relax.”

“That I can do,” he replied.

We sat, and watched the gauge, and fed the flames, bit by careful bit raising the temperature, preparing the pots within for the ordeal to come, when they would be bathed in searing flame and transformed, becoming hard, strong, and impermeable. When their clay bodies and any glazes would interact with the gathering wood ash, flashing into startling colors and patterns. Some of the pots, of course, would not survive. The heat and flame would find every weakness, every imperfection, and when the kiln was opened the artists would find some pots, transcendently beautiful, yet cracked, broken, and beyond saving.

“You’re younger than almost everyone here,” Jacob observed during one of our periods of waiting, of watching the pyrometer. “But you’re clearly Janey’s number two. How does that work?”

“A lot of potters aren’t that interested in the technical side of things.” I got up and added some more wood before rejoining him on the bench. “Some of them love throwing, or hand-building. Some really enjoy decorating their pieces, although there’s less of that in a wood kiln. But . . . this part, I guess, feels more like science than art. There’s a schedule, and a method, and we all need to be on the same page.”

Jacob chewed that over while he had some water. “I would have pegged you as the artistic type, too,” he said after a while.

“Oh, I am! I get lost in throwing – I mean, you saw me. So you know. But, like I told you before, I’m an artisan first. A craftsman. I want to know about my materials – where they came from, how they were processed . . . everything. I want to know why porcelain throws one way, and stoneware throws another. The origin of the techniques that we use. So, yeah . . . I want to understand the kilns where I fire. Who invented them? How did they evolve? Which kilns best suit particular pieces, and why. How to fire them properly.”

He nodded. “I can see that.”

I chuckled. “Put it this way – no one fought me for the ‘honor’ of supervising. They’re more’n happy to let me and Janey fuss with all of this. They’ll do their shifts – it’s the only way it all works – but they’ll leave it at that.”

It was Jacob’s turn to feed the beast. When he resumed his seat, he said, “Mom was the artist type too, I think. I don’t think she was into the technical stuff.”

I studied his profile carefully. Whenever his mother came up, he seemed to withdraw into himself, and his handsome features seemed more guarded. “What happened, Jacob?” I asked softly. “Why do those memories hurt so much?”

He was silent for so long that I would have thought he wasn’t going to answer, if he had been anyone else. His eyes, ostensibly looking at the pyrometer, were unfocused, lost in memory.

“It was . . . bad. When Dad left.” He didn’t turn to look at me. “One day, we were just living life, you know? Like we always had, just assuming that’s how it would always be. And then, suddenly, everything changed. I guess he’d fallen out of love with Mom and in love with someone else. Within a couple months, he and Mary Pat moved down to Jacksonville to start a new life together . . . .”

“Leaving the rest of you to try to figure out the old life?” I kept my voice gentle.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Mom . . . like I said, she was an artist. She made beautiful things. But . . . when he left, it’s like she couldn’t find the beauty any more. She’d sit at her wheel, and start to throw, and . . . it just wouldn’t come. And she’d rip the wet clay off the wheel, all flopped over, and she’d be so frustrated . . . so hurt. You know? It’s like, the things that made her life worth living, that defined her, were just gone.”

My blood ran cold, listening to his description.

He continued. “Anyway . . . I heard her screaming one day, and I ran into her studio. She was crying, shrieking, smashing things with a stick. I . . . I had to grab her tight. I was as big as she was, by then, and stronger. I held her until she stopped. Tried to tell her it would be alright.”

Lost in the memory, he lapsed into silence.

I touched his shoulder in quiet sympathy, then added more wood to the kiln before resuming my seat.

He sighed and straightened up. “I was an ass. It wasn’t ever alright for Mom. Not really. The next morning, she got up early and cleaned the mess. She made some calls, and sold all of her stuff. Wheel, tools, glazes . . . everything. Deirdre tried to talk her out of it – my sister’s a sweetheart – but Mom told her art was a game. A luxury we couldn’t afford anymore. And that was that.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“Got a job at a restaurant, waiting tables. Worked her ass off, and came back exhausted every night. After maybe two years of that, she met Kevin and they started dating. He had money – way more than we ever had, even when Dad was with us. So, I thought, maybe she could afford her ‘luxury’ again. But . . . I think . . . she was too afraid. Afraid she’d lose Kevin too. So his interests are her interests, and art’s not on that list.”

I had nothing to say to that, nothing that seemed remotely adequate. Finally I reached over and squeezed his hand as it rested on his knee. “Jacob, I’m so very sorry.”

We sat staring at the pyrometer, silent, until Jacob asked, “Did you two ever consider having kids?”

“We wanted to, at first. Had some fun trying.” I smiled at the memory, briefly. “Turns out, I can’t, and Kara wasn’t interested in adopting. She’d known some folks who’d had really bad experiences. And . . . a lot of adoption agencies wouldn’t accept me.”

He watched the kiln a bit longer. “You’d be good at it.”

I shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no. A road not taken.

We sat there for a few minutes, silent once more, until we saw the flash of headlights coming up the access road, followed by the muffled sound of car doors shutting, and male voices in low conversation.

I rose. Bill and Gary were coming down from where the cars were parked, a flashlight guiding their steps. “Evening boys,” I said with a smile of greeting.

“Hey, Kez,” Gary replied. “How’s the beast?”

“Everything’s right on schedule,” I told him. “Pretty routine.”

“Not like last time,” Bill said. “Now that was a storm!” The last firing had been challenging, with crazy winds that shifted direction every few minutes, and rain that varied from “moderate” to “torrential.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you’ll be telling the story of that firing for years, Bill!”

Gary grinned. “Oh, yeah! And each time he tells it, the wind gets rougher and the rain gets colder. Couple years, and you’ll think Bill had survived the great flood!”

We laughed.

I went over our stoking pattern with Bill and Gary and gave them notes on the settings for the primary air and the dampers. Then Jacob and I left them to it.

We walked out into the field in the direction of our tents, a pale, gibbous moon providing enough light. Fifteen yards out, and with our backs to the low lights around the kiln, the night sky opened up. It had been a clear day, with relatively low humidity, and the stars of the far northern sky flared in jewel tones, imminent and awe inspiring. Spica close to where the moon hung . . . Vega and Deneb . . . the stars of the Great Bear, the dipper, pointing to the Pole Star, dim only by comparison . . . .

I felt a hand on my elbow, and heard Jacob’s voice, low and amused. “Kez? You still in there?”

I shook my head. “I . . . yeah. I guess.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you, but after five minutes or so I wasn’t sure you’d make it back to earth on your own.”

In the moon’s faint light I couldn’t see his smile, but I could hear it in his voice. “It takes my breath,” I confessed. “Every time.”

He put an arm around my waist and guided me forward. When we got to our tents, he reached up and gently brushed away the tears that I had shed, lost in the magic and wonder of space and time, of planets, stars and galaxies. “Good night, Kez,” he said softly.

“Good night, Jacob,” I replied.

* * * * *

My phone buzzed me awake at ten minutes to four. I slipped cargo pants over my boy shorts, a fleece over my tank top, and boots onto my bare feet. The moon had set, and the night sky was even more spectacular, if that were possible.

But I was on task, and so managed to restrain my desire to gawk and gaze. Using a small flashlight, I made my way across the field to the kiln. I stepped into the pool of light that surrounded the workspace, and spoke quietly. “Hey guys – how goes?”

I heard the rumble of wheel over uneven ground, and Gary joined me in the light, a full load overflowing the sides of the wheelbarrow. From the other side of the kiln, Bill’s head popped up. “No issues, Kez. It’s all burning well, and the coal bed’s looking good.”

I checked the readings on the three pyrometers, confirming what Bill had said. “No change for the intake or the damper?”

Gary shook his head. “Nope. No need to; everything just chugged along.”

We were all keeping our voices low. While it’s possible we were thinking about Jacob, sleeping a relatively short distance away, I’ve noticed the same thing at every firing. There is something about the hush and stillness of the predawn hours that seems to compel a response, command a measure of restraint and respect, from people who find themselves awake.

Bill stomped his feet, restoring some circulation to his extremities. “C’mon, guys,” he muttered. It was 4:00, and their relief should have arrived.

“Go on, you two,” I said. “I’ve got to go over the drill with them when they show up anyway, and you’ve left me plenty of wood.”

“You sure?” Gary asked.

“Positive. I’m sure they’ll be here in a minute or two.”

“Well . . . okay, then,” Bill said, relief overcoming his reluctance. “Thanks, Kez!”

I waved them off. “Good night guys . . . sweet dreams!”

They chuckled and departed, and soon I lost the sound of Gary’s truck making its way to the main road.

I was a bit surprised that Mike Swyderski and Paul Sylvester hadn’t already arrived, but I wasn’t worried about it. I was awake and alert, and I was enjoying the rare moment of solitude in the midst of the firing.

My conversation with Jacob last night had left me wrestling with an undertow of deep sadness. How could a father just abandon his children and their mother? Even if, for whatever reason, the love he had felt for his wife had faded?

No wonder, I thought, that Jacob found solace in the silence and stillness of nature, the movements of the animals and birds, the mysteries of the things that grow in the wild. It was his nature too, of course. But I imagined that the call of the silence, of the simplicity of creation itself, would have been irresistible in the face of a human world that had lost its center.

But his story unsettled me on even deeper levels than that.

I shivered, though the night wasn’t really cold. What would it take, to crush my very desire to engage in my craft, to rise to the challenge of my art? I had said that I would give it all up for Kara, but . . . would I ever have given my heart into her care, if she had been the kind of person to ask me to do that? And, could she have loved me in the first place, if she hadn’t cared for that part of me? Pottery isn’t just a hobby, or even a job. It’s who I am. Keziah Brown, Potter.

At the thought of Kara, my eyes misted over. The love we shared was the bedrock of my existence. Could I continue to live, if one day I looked into her lapis lazuli eyes and saw, not the warmth and love that had always been there, but a tepid indifference?

And could my own heart ever turn, as Jacob’s father’s heart had turned? I shook my head, unable to imagine such a thing. Without my love for Kara, I wouldn’t know myself. Wouldn’t want to know myself.

I was reminded of a podcast I’d listened to once while I was cleaning my studio. A woman was talking about her favorite piece from her favorite opera. She’d sung it – amazing voice! – and even without understanding the words, it had captured me. I stood stock still in the middle of my studio, work forgotten, crying my soul out. The woman said the title of the piece translated as, “I lived for art; I lived for love.”

That's me, sure enough.

My phone buzzed, and I saw it was Gary. “What’s up?” I asked.

“Hey Kez – we just passed Paul and Mike on the road; they’re in a dead spot for coverage and couldn’t call. Mike had to swerve to avoid a deer, and he popped a tire. They should have the spare on soon; they’ve already got the truck up on the jack. So I expect you’ll see them in five or ten.”

“No worries. If you guys have the juice left, could you just make sure they’re good to go before you head back to town?”

“Don’t worry, Kez! We’re on it. See you soon.”

“Thanks for the heads up, man.”

I went back to my silent contemplation. On the eastern horizon, the faintest hint of approaching dawn began to dim the brilliance of the stars. My art . . . but first, always first, my love.

“You are my Day Star and my Pole Star,” I said softly, Kara’s lovely smile vivid in my mind’s eye. “My wellspring and my heart’s desire.”
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I was back at the kiln at ten of eight to do the hand-off from night shift to day shift. Janey was down as well, and everything seemed to be going pretty well. Jacob and Janice were doing the 8-12 shift with Janey supervising; I was going to try to catch some sleep. We saw Mike and Paul off and the new crew got to work.

When I woke again, I could hear Janey’s voice, and occasionally Jacob’s, coming from the direction of the kiln. I couldn’t make out the words, but the overall tone sounded relaxed. Janey was probably saying five words for every one that came from Jacob. Knowing them both, that wasn’t at all surprising.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, rolled over and rummaged through my bag for a change of clothes. Panties, shorts, tank top, unbuttoned work shirt, sneakers. Then I stepped out of the tent and redid my turban before heading across the field.

“How’s it looking, Chief?” I asked Janey.

“Right on schedule – hittin’ close to 1600 degrees.” She took a drink from her water jug, then added, “We’re going through the wood a bit faster than usual, though.”

I looked at the wood piles, which were in fact a bit lower than I would have expected. “Do we have enough?”

She waggled her fingers. “Prob’ly. But I’d be happier if we had another cord ready. Any chance I can draft you to do some splitting this afternoon?”

“Of course,” I assured her. “Just as soon as I get a bite.”

“I can give you a hand as well,” Jacob offered.

I gave him a grateful look. “That’d be a real help – the wood splitter’s a lot easier to manage with two people.”

“There’s some sandwiches and such up at the house. Tatiana again – coddlin’ alla you like a momma hen!” Janey grinned to take the sting out of her words. She wasn’t much for food herself – I often thought she’d killed her taste buds with cigarettes – but she understood that the firing could be expedited if there was some ready sustenance on hand.

“I’ll go up and see what she’s got.” My phone said it was a bit before noon, so I said to Jacob, “Come join me once your relief shows up.”

He waved an acknowledgment, and I wandered up to the house.

“Shri Keziah!” Tatiana gave me a grin to go with the Sikh honorific she had dredged up to honor my turban. “Ready for some food?”

I smiled in return. “I’m famished. Jacob’s coming in a couple as well, and I expect Janice too. What miracles have you achieved today?”

“Nothing special. Some chicken salad for sandwiches. Some nice olives I brought along. Pickles. Local hothouse tomatoes. Janey’s contribution was a really nice cheddar. And, of course, lots and lots of fresh water.”

Tatiana’s idea of “just” chicken salad was pretty amazing, involving freshly cooked and shredded chicken breast, quartered red grapes, walnuts, and a hint of dill. I got to work slicing the sourdough bread and getting place settings ready.

Sug came down while we were getting ready. “I like your friend,” she said, conversationally. “Seems nice.”

“He’s been a real help, too,” I agreed. “It was good of him to come.”

“How do you two know each other?” Tatiana asked.

“Kara and his girlfriend go way back,” I said. “The two of them are having a ‘girl’s week,’ and Jacob drove Brea up.” All of which is true, I thought, if ever so slightly incomplete!

Tatiana looked surprised. “You mean you two just met? Damn! I’d have sworn you’d known each other forever!”

That’s an interesting observation. “I think we kind of operate on a similar frequency,” I said after a moment.

Sug said, “I’d always thought of you as a ‘water’ person. Jacob’s all ‘earth.’”

Tatiana’s eyes rolled. “She’ll be talking about chakras next!”

“Oh, I’m sure their chakras match perfectly,” Sug replied with a grin. “Which is so cool. You know I’m all in on New Age spirituality!”

I laughed and threw a dish towel at her.

She caught it deftly, folded it, and put it back where it belonged.

Jacob and Janice came in just as we had everything set out, and Janice gave Tatiana a big smile. “Janey’d get a lot more volunteers if you were here for every firing!”

Everyone was hungry and we dug in with enthusiasm. No one said much until we were left to nibble on olives and cheese, the truly excellent chicken salad completely gone.

“I hope Janey didn’t push you too hard on your mom,” I said to Jacob. “She can be a bit of a bulldog when she gets going.”

He shook his head. “No, it was fine. Mostly, she did the talking. She knew mom back in her early twenties. Sounds like she was lit, back in the day.”

Janice giggled. “I’ll say! And I thought Janey was the wild one!” But then she subsided and looked at Jacob more thoughtfully. “It must be strange, seeing your mom through a contemporary’s eyes. They would have been younger than you are now.”

Jacob nodded silently, selected an olive with undue care and popped it in his mouth. Finally, he said, “I suppose. But . . . I couldn’t see my mom in Janey’s stories. At all. She might as well have been describing a complete stranger.”

Janice reached over and touched his hand lightly, her kind eyes crinkling with concern. She rose and started stacking plates, and we all moved to help.

Jacob and I spent the next few hours with the big log splitter and a pile of ash, precut in 30-inch segments of trunk and branch. The splitter was a noisy bastard, making speech difficult. But neither of us found silence oppressive, so we worked quietly and efficiently. After three hours, we had a sizeable pile of wood that could be used late in the firing if it was needed, so I decided to declare victory and shut it down.

The transition from a loud, chugging gas engine to complete silence was startling. I shook my head to clear it, then wiped my brow with the bandana from my back pocket. “That was hot work!”

Jacob wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his workshirt, a smile of accomplishment on his face. “I don’t know about you, but I could drink a gallon of water right now.”

“Me too. Look, we’ll need to get all this down to the kiln, but that job’ll wait until tomorrow. Right now, we need to get some water, grab a bite and rest a bit before our shift.”

“Sounds good to me,” he responded, his smile growing broader.

As we walked toward the house, I said, “That seemed to get you all kinds of happy.”

“I’m a simple soul,” he replied. “Good honest work, and you can see the results right away. What’s not to like?”

“I don’t know. Sunburn? Heat stroke? Early onset hearing loss?”

He laughed. “Didn’t happen. All that happened was, a pile of wood we couldn’t use is gone, and a pile of wood we can use is there. Instant gratification. Sometimes I wish my whole life could be that kind of simple.”

“Might get kinda dull?” I suggested.

“Oh, it might,” he agreed, easily. “Still, every now’n then, I’d like to give it a shot. Just to see.”

“And then you go and fall in love,” I teased.

That got a laugh. “Yep! And all thoughts of the simple life go ‘poof!’”

We went inside and got some water.

* * * * *

As expected, the contrast between our prior night’s 8-4 firing shift and this evening’s could scarcely have been more dramatic. As we arrived, Janey was overseeing Mike and Kelly as they completed an hour of intense, low-oxygen firing at 2000 degrees. The oxygen reduction caused the smoke billowing from the chimney to be inky black – completely opaque. And wood was going in through a side stoke hole as well as the two back doors. More importantly, large chunks of wood were being heaved into the upper firebox, which was separated from the wares by a heavy metal grate. Activity was brisk.

“How’s your girl?” I called to Janey.

“Screamin’ hot!” Janey looked excited, as only a pyromaniac with her own fire-breathing dragon might. “Damn, I love this part!!!”

We took a turn around the kiln, and she showed me where the dampers and intakes were set. “You been in reduction for the full hour?” I asked.

She nodded. “Will be, by eight. You can give it more oxygen then. Just bring her up to 2100 and let it soak there a piece.”

“Got it.”

Mike and Kelly, a bit winded from their exertions, were happy to turn it over to me and Jacob, and soon we were almost as busy as they had been.

The upper firebox was a particular challenge, since the person doing the loading had to have a face-shield and helmet on, and needed to heave hefty chunks of wood through big doors that were more than five feet off the ground. After watching me a few times, Jacob said, “Look, I don’t want you thinking that I doubt your ability . . . you obviously can do it. But, my frame is a bit more optimized for this particular task.”

I closed the big door, dropped the latch, and pulled the helmet and face-shield off. “Delicately put, kind sir!” I grinned. “But I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of loading the top chamber.”

“I do recall your saying something about older potters having a variety of joint and muscle problems . . . .” He returned my grin with interest.

I clapped his shoulder. “I’ll let you get the next few, anyhow. But I can’t let myself get too soft.”

Through a goofy grin, he said, “If you say so.”

We settled into a good rhythm where we would first feed the back of the kiln, then the small side stoke hole, then the upper firebox, before waiting for a few minutes to begin the cycle again. Every fifth or sixth cycle one of us would go to the woodpile to fill up the wheelbarrow. Once we had the pattern down, it was just lather, rinse and repeat.

Probably half way through our shift, Jacob returned to our earlier conversation. “Kez . . . shouldn’t love be simple, too?”

I took off the welding gloves long enough to scratch my nose and unscrew the cap on my water bottle. “Why?”

“Because it’s so basic . . . so fundamental. Like breathing.” His eyes stayed glued on the pyrometer, judging when we would need to begin the next cycle.

I thought about his question carefully. After a minute of watching the slowing movement of digital numbers, I said, “I think love is simple. Relationships are complicated, because they involve other people who have their own needs. Love is what allows us to navigate the complications.”

He took a swig of water and looked at me. “Time?”

“Time,” I agreed, rising. We put our welding gloves back on. Jacob moved to the back of the kiln and I moved to the side. “Go ahead,” I said.

I heard the sound of first one door, then the other, opening and closing and Jacob fed in more wood.

“Clear,” he said, as he closed the second door.

I removed the blocking brick from the kiln wall and set it down on a metal plate, hot-side down. Then I carefully fed a couple narrow sticks straight into the hole and replaced the brick. By the time I was done, Jacob had the helmet and face-shield on. “Ready?” I asked.

He hoisted his first log and said, “ready!”

I unlatched the big top door and pulled it open, staying behind the door as a gout of flame shot out. Jacob tossed in the log, then reached down, grabbed two more, and tossed them in. “Done!” he said.

I slammed the door shut and dropped the latch, and we sat back down.

“So,” he said, picking up where we had left off, “your relationship with Kara is complicated because she has her own needs and desires – Brea being just one example – but love makes it simple?”

“Yes. Love tells me what I need to do – gives me a nice, clear answer.”

“An answer that – forgive me – causes you a whole lot of pain?” He gave me a searching look.

I shrugged. “I said it was simple, Jacob. I didn’t say it was easy.”

The rest of our shift passed in silence, the quiet efficiency of our synchronized movements requiring no conversation. And we had, each of us, plenty to think about.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The two kids from NHTI, Brice and Tawney, showed up a couple minutes after midnight. Late, but not worth making a big deal about. Jacob and I had just finished a cycle, so I took a few minutes to orient them.

“Good evening! Welcome to the inferno!” That got a tentative smile from Tawney, though Brice’s face was hard to read.

“Grab yourself some gloves.” When they had fitted themselves out from Janey’s bin, I continued. “This’ll be a busy shift – you’ll be hopping! – but it’s also pretty straightforward. We’ll walk you through the drill, I’ll watch you go through it once or twice, then you just keep doing it until 4:00. Cool?”

So I explained our cycle, then watched the pyrometer until it was time to start. This time, I was with Jacob when he fed the back firebox. “Notice how he’s making sure the wood drops straight onto the coal bed. Don’t toss it in, or you’ll hit those pots.” I pointed to Paul’s tall forms, which were now glowing a deep, luminous red and showing lots of gorgeous ash build-up.

I walked them over to the side-stoke hole and showed them how to feed the wood in without touching the pots on either side of the opening. “Line your head up with the hole, or you’re likely to misjudge the angle.”

Finally, we demonstrated loading the top chamber. Tawney gave an “eeek!” of surprise and involuntarily jumped back as the flame shot out from the open door, but she was calm enough once we had everything closed up again. “It’s safe,” I assured them, “but you need to do it just like Jacob and I did: the person who’s got the door stays behind it when opening, and the loader has the helmet and face-shield. Sometimes there’s no fireball, but you can’t count on that, okay?”

I clapped Jacob on the shoulder. “Grab some sleep; I’ll just hang for a couple and make sure they’re set.”

“We got it,” Brice assured me.

“Janey pays me to worry.” I smiled. “My air mattress is calling, so I won’t be long.”

Brice shrugged – a bit ungraciously, I thought – then sat down, eyes on the pyrometer. Tawney wandered over and sat close beside him. Ah. A couple.

Jacob sketched me an ironic salute and went off into the darkness, heading toward the tents.

I watched Brice and Tawney go through a stoking round. Brice seemed a bit overconfident; Tawney was a bit skittish.

They did alright.

I gave a couple pointers, stayed to watch another round, then said goodnight. They didn’t seem sorry for me to leave.

Back at my tent, I went through my usual routine. I took off my turban and let my hair loose, stripped completely, then put on some fresh underwear – briefs and a thin tank top. The night was warm and I didn’t want anything else. Shirt, shorts and boots were laid out where I could grab them in a hurry if needed. I set my alarm for 3:45 and fell asleep to the sounds of the night, punctuated by the regular sounds of metal doors opening and closing as the firing continued.

* * * * *

I woke suddenly with a feeling that something was wrong.

What?

I could hear the kids talking, though I couldn’t make out the words. Brice’s voice – low, urgent – followed by Tawney’s higher register, sounding . . . annoyed? Petulant? I couldn’t tell. Not my business, probably. But I wasn’t sure when I had last heard the sounds of the fire being stoked. Probably what woke me up. The dog that didn’t bark.

I listened for a minute or two longer, then finally cursed and sat up. I pulled up my shorts, slipped into my boots, and got my work shirt on without bothering to button it up. Halfway to the kiln, the smell hit me. Shit!

“Brice, I don’t want to,” Tawney whined. “Can’t we just chill?”

“Fuck,” he said, frustrated. “Why . . . .” As I stepped into the light around the kiln, he whirled to face me, hair wild, shirtless. He glared. “Get lost!”

I ignored him. The pyrometer was showing about a hundred degrees lower than it should, and was dropping fast. I grabbed gloves and immediately began to feed the kiln. Two pieces on the back left . . . two pieces on the back right . . . .”

Brice was staring at me. “We got it, okay? Jesus!”

Over to the side stoke hole. Remove the brick. Check. Coal bed definitely a bit low here. Slip in one stick . . . another. Three. Four. Close it up.

“Fucking fairy! This is our shift!”

I grabbed the helmet and face shield and put my hands on the latch of the upper chamber. I paused to look at Brice, his face a mix of emotions, with anger – rage, even – dominant. This close, I could smell the alcohol. “Step back.”

No fireball this time – the wood inside had burned down too far for that. Two . . . three . . . four chunks of heavy wood, heaved into the chamber. That should hold it for a few. I closed the door with a ‘clank,’ dropped the latch, then walked over to Tawney, for the moment ignoring Brice.

Squatting down next to where she was sitting, I pulled off my helmet and mask to see her more clearly. Brown eyes unfocussed. Pupils dilated. “Tawney . . . you okay, hon?”

“I’m . . . sure . . . I’m good,” she said, vaguely. “No worries.”

“Janey was real clear, though. No drugs.”

“It’s not drugs – just weed. Isn’t it legal now?” Her whine was back.

“Leave her alone!” Brice was behind me, still sounding angry.

“Tawney,” I said gently, “the kiln’s a dangerous piece of equipment. You can’t operate . . . . ackkk!” I flew backward and landed on my ass, my shirt ripping as Brice pulled me back by the collar.

“I said, leave her alone,” he snarled. “Now fuck off!”

Dealing with angry drunks was not something I had a lot of experience with. I scrambled to my feet and said, “Brice. You can’t operate the kiln like this. Period.”

Tawney was crying. “Brice, c’mon, we’re gonna get in trouble!”

Brice was putting welding gloves back on. “I got this,” he snapped at Tawney. He took two steps to the back of the kiln, opened a door, and grabbed a piece of wood. Based on his angry, jerky motions and how he was angling it to the opening, he was about to throw it in, hard. Straight into all of Paul Sylvester’s pots.

“No!!!” I shouted, launching myself. I hit him at an angle and he spun, dropping the wood on his foot.

“Agggh!!!” Brice hopped on his uninjured foot, swearing. The idiot had taken his shoes off.

I took the opportunity to close and latch the door so we didn’t lose more heat, but turning my back on a now-enraged drunk was a mistake. He grabbed my left arm with both of his hands, jerked me off balance, then spun me in a wide arc before letting go. I tumbled painfully, struggling to keep control of my flailing arms and legs.

“Let’s play ‘fairy-go-’round!’” he sang out as he stalked over to where I had fallen, just outside the pool of the kiln’s lights.

“Let’s not.” Jacob’s voice was calm as he took a step forward into the light and buried a rock-like fist in Brice’s solar plexus. Brice doubled over, gagging, and Jacob put a hand on the back of his neck, holding him down. He looked at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Can either of them drive?”

I sat up. “Not Tawney, for sure. Don’t know about this one.”

Brice was sputtering, trying to say something, but he hadn’t gotten his wind back. He vomited, weakly.

Jacob was still looking at me, assessing my condition. “Can you manage here while I run them into town? Or should we call Janey?”

Brice started to shake, but Jacob just tightened his grip and pushed the boy’s head down further.

“I can manage,” I said.

I got back on my feet and went to where Tawney was crying. Sitting next to her, I put an arm around her shoulder. “Honey, are you two staying in town?”

“Ye . . .es” she stammered. “But . . . I don’t want to go with him. He’s . . . he’s . . . .” She couldn’t finish.

“We need to get him into town. But you can sleep in my tent while I do the shift. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice small and frightened.

“I can drive,” Brice finally managed to say.

I stayed next to Tawney and let Jacob deal with him. Handling drunks, it turns out, is something Forest Rangers need to know how to do.

“Prove it,” Jacob said. “If I let go, will you stand up, stand still, and do what I say?”

Mumble, mumble.

“I can’t hear you,” Jacob said, keeping his grip intact.

“I said ‘yes!’’”

“Yes, what?” Jacob asked.

“‘Yes,’ faggot!” Brice sneered.

“Not helpful,” Jacob explained patiently. “I need to know that you can control yourself before I let go, or I’ll have to hurt you some more. So . . . what will you do if I let go?”

“I’ll stand up and stand still.”

Jacob just waited, his hand heavy on the young man’s neck.

I looked at the pyrometer. Still rising, but clearly slowing.

“I’ll do what you say,” Brice ground out, finally. Jacob removed his hand and the boy came more-or-less upright, still somewhat hunched from the body blow. “Happy?”

Jacob examined his eyes closely. “I need to give you a field sobriety test,” he said.

“Why? You’re not a cop!” Brice argued.

Jacob cut him off. “I’m not, but I’ll call them, if I’m not reasonably certain you can drive back to town safely.”

Brice glared at him, but Jacob remained impassive.

“Fine!” Brice said, with less heat and more disgust.

“Jacob,” I broke in, “Can you do that up by the cars? I’ve got to stoke again.”

He nodded. “Let’s go,” he said to Brice.

“C’mon Tawn, we’re outta here,” Brice said, looking over to where she was sitting. Clearly he had not heard our earlier conversation. When he saw me with her, he said, “Stay away from her, freak!”

Jacob warned, “One move that direction, and I’ll drop you like a dead tree. Understand?”

Brice whirled back to face him, but something in Jacob’s expression and stance caused him to change whatever he had been planning. He looked back at Tawney, but wisely didn’t move his feet. “I said come on, Tawn!”

She shook her head, not looking at him.

“Bitch!!! Fucking bitch! Fine! Stay with Tinkerbell!” He stomped off toward the cars, Jacob following carefully behind.

I gave Tawney’s shoulder a squeeze. “Give me a minute, okay?” I rose, donned the gloves, helmet and face shield, and stoked the kiln, back, side and top, adding extra wood at each step. She was crying softly when I came back.

“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” she said, through her tears.

I gave her a hand to get back on her feet. “You made a mistake tonight, Tawney. Bad things could have happened. Mostly, they didn’t. Don’t fret about the consequences right now. Just get some sleep, okay?”

She nodded. I put my arm around her and led her back into the dark, keeping her stumbles from turning into outright falls. When we got to my tent, I said, “sorry for the mess. But the sleep will help, I promise.”

“Okay,” she whispered. She climbed in, kicked off her shoes, and flopped down on my mattress, looking like a lost kitten.

I gave her a last look. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah . . . I guess.”

“Okay, hon. I’ll see you in the morning.” I walked back into the night, towards the kiln. I heard an engine come to life, then saw headlights cruising along the entrance road. Praise the Lord, he’s gone.

My feet were dragging as the adrenaline of the encounter faded. I felt all of the scrapes and bruises, and my eyes felt rubbery with lack of sleep. But I put one foot in front of the other, got to the kiln and checked the pyrometer. Just about back where it should be, and still climbing strongly. Crisis averted.

Jacob stepped into the light, moving silently as always. He took one look at my face and closed the distance between us. In an instant, I found myself wrapped in a powerful embrace, my head against his chest. Bless the man, he didn’t feel the need to say anything.

We stood like that for what seemed like a long while, though it wasn’t. I could feel every beat of his heart, firm and steady, and there weren’t that many of them. “Thank you,” I said.

He didn’t let go. “I’m sorry. I should have seen to you first.”

“No; that’s why I’m thanking you. For behaving like an adult, and for treating me like one. You kept your head, the firing isn’t ruined, and the kids are dealt with.”

He chuckled, the sound magnified by my ear against his chest. “You’re a strange woman, Keziah.”

Ummm. Assuming I’m a woman at all? Which is a questionable proposition. Isn’t it? But sometimes? And . . . maybe . . . just at the moment? I kept quiet. Honestly, it felt good to be held, and my own heart rate slowed as the danger receded. He felt warm and solid.

It dawned on me, probably more slowly than it should have, that Jacob was hard as a fire brick. Given the disparity in our heights, I could feel his erection from a bit south of my belly button to quite a bit north of it.

I stilled my instinct to jump back. I would need time to process what was going on – and how I felt about what was going on – but I was not going to freak out about it. Jacob didn’t deserve that. Instead, I remained still, listening to the whirl of my thoughts and the strong, steady beat of his heart.

I sighed, pulled back, and glanced at the pyrometer. Turning my eyes back to Jacob, I said, “We need to stoke the fire.”

His eyes were warm, and a smile played at the edges of his lips, equal parts merry, knowing, and rueful. “If you say so.”

To be continued . . . .

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

We had an hour and a half to fire before Tatiana and Sug came down to relieve us. Tatiana took one look at us as we finished stoking the upper firefox and said, “Where’r Brice and Tawney?”

I took off the helmet and faceshield and wiped sweat and grime off my forehead with the back of my wrist. “I had to pull them. Brice is sleeping it off in town; Tawney’s conked out in my tent. Coming down off a bit of a high.”

“Janey’s gonna shit a brick.” Tatiana gave me a sharp look. “You look like hell.”

“I’ve had better nights,” I admitted.

Sug spoke up, her voice gentle. “Go up to the house and crash, Kez. You need it. I'm using the first bedroom at the top of the stairs.”

I was grateful for the offer. I wasn’t looking forward to telling Janey what happened, and doing it without any sleep was even less appealing. I nodded.

“Kez?” Jacob asked softly.

I looked over at him.

“Will you be okay?”

I smiled. I expect it looked gruesome, and I’m sure it was tired and threadbare, but it was still a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

Tatiana was watching us both. “Go on, you two. Get some sleep. Jacob, feel free to use the bed I’ve been in; it’s better than whatever you’ve been sleeping on.”

Jacob gave her a smile that no doubt looked better than mine and said, “Thanks, Tatiana. But I’m good. I’ll see you in a few, Kez.”

“Well . . . I’d say good night to you all, but it’s just after 4:00 am, so that sounds stupid.” I took off my gloves and threw them in the bin. “I’ll be down later.”

“Kez, honey,” Sug urged, “sleep right on through. I’m not going back to bed after the shift. Well . . . not right after, anyway.”

“Believe me, I’d love to. But I’m going to need to talk to Janey when she gets up.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I guess you will. Well . . . the offer’s still open. If you get the chance.”

I waved an acknowledgement, gave Jacob a parting smile of thanks, and walked up the road to the house. Before I went upstairs I spent some time in the kitchen rinsing the grime off of my hands, arms, face, neck . . . Tatiana was right. I did look like hell.

I quirked a smile when I saw the state of Sug’s room at the top of the stairs. Her clothes were scattered here and there, and the table was covered with sketch pads showing various abstract drawings in colored pencil. Inspirations for some of her sculptural forms.

I pulled off my boots, dropped my shorts, and got what was left of my work shirt off my back. It was badly torn and gave every evidence of having been rolled in the dirt while I was still in it. Complete loss, I thought tiredly. I finally crawled into bed, closed my eyes, and expected to be out in seconds.

I wasn’t.

Freed from the pressures of the moment, my brain decided it was a fine time to process my strange interaction with Jacob at the kiln. He had held me in strong arms, called me a woman (okay, a strange woman, but still). There was no denying the fact that he’d had one hell of an erection.

What was I, to Jacob? A “friend?” Could I even say that, when we’d only met each other days earlier? But there’s no denying that our shared predicament had brought us close together. We’d talked about things that I normally didn’t share, at all.

It’s more than that, I thought. That much is undeniable.

I forced myself to go back through each of our interactions. At the house . . . the morning on the patio . . . my studio . . . the dinner party . . . the walk in the woods . . . the drive . . . the tarn . . . the dancing . . . . Tatiana thought we’d known each other forever, and it felt like we had. Somehow, we understood each other. Clearly a connection.

No. An attraction.

No! For God’s sake! He was in love with Brea! No way he would be attracted to me!

Yeah, that explains the boner.

I told myself it was just adrenaline. The excitement of the moment. But . . . it hadn’t felt that way.

Okay, Kez. Stop avoiding the tough issue. What is Jacob, to you?

I had never been attracted to guys. But . . . no guy had ever been attracted to me, either. Finding myself in the arms of a decent, seriously good-looking guy who seemed to be attracted to me hadn’t actually felt unpleasant.

Not “unpleasant?” Really? You don’t say?

Alright, fine! It felt . . . good. On my usual “Barbie equals zero, Ken equals ten” scale, I might have hit a “one” for the first time ever. I’d enjoyed that, thoroughly. And from that place of deep, profound femininity, Jacob had been very attractive. Very attractive. I couldn’t deny it.

But so what? I am happily married. I have Kara, Kara is my world, and that’s all that needs to be said.

But the worm in my head forced one last thought into my brain before I managed to get myself to sleep.

Kara’s happily married, too. She also has Brea.

* * * * *

My alarm pulled me from a deep but troubled sleep less than three hours later. I hit “snooze,” but then snarled at myself, rolled out of bed, and changed the command to “off.” No stalling.

I could hear Janey downstairs, so I put my shorts and boots back on. The work shirt was a rag; there was no point in trying to put it on again. My tank top would have to do.

“Good morning, Janey,” I said as I stepped into the kitchen.

She looked up from her coffee. “Uh huh. Why do I think you’re gonna be wrong about that?”

“Because you were born with a suspicious mind. Beside, you’re probably still undercaffeinated.”

“My third cup, so that ain’t it.” She set the cup down and looked at me more closely. “How ‘bout ‘cuz you’re here, and ‘cuz I’m not blind. What happened?”

“I’m sorry, Janey. I had to pull the kids off last night. Brice was drinking and Tawney was high. Jacob and I finished their shift.”

She said nothing for a full minute before saying, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Everything’s good. We caught it before there was any damage to the firing, and everything’s still right on schedule.”

“Okay. Good.” She took another pull of her coffee. “So now we’ve established what you aren’t not telling me. S’pose you save me some trouble and tell me what you are.”

I felt like a school kid, standing there, so I walked over and sat across the table from her. “Brice got violent. Jacob had to get physical in order to get him to leave. Tawney . . . ah . . . she didn’t want to go with him. With Brice.”

She got up, refilled her cup from a Mr. Coffee, then poured me one and sat back down. “Kez. I appreciate that you kept the firing on track. But I need to know exactly what happened. It’s my kiln and my property, so I’m responsible. You can just tell me, or I can pry it out of you like I’m some damned detective. What’s it gonna be?”

I sighed, then took a sip of the coffee. Execrable, but it would do in a pinch. For medicinal purposes, as it were. “We turned over the shift at midnight and I stayed to watch them through a couple rounds of stoking. They looked okay, so I went to bed. I woke up, probably 2:30 or so, and I didn’t hear the kiln doors opening and closing like I should, so I went over to check it out. I smelled weed half way there. The kiln was about 100 degrees lower than it should have been and dropping, so I stoked it. Brice kept telling me it was fine. Then I went over to Tawney and confirmed that her eyes were dilated, she’d been smoking pot and was out of it.

“Then. . . ah . . . Brice threw me to the ground and tried to load more wood in the back of the kiln. He was going to heave it in, right into the pots. So I rushed him, and he dropped the wood. On his foot.”

“He was barefoot?” Janey sounded disgusted.

“At that point, yeah. Not when he showed up!”

“Idiot,” she muttered. “Okay. Go on.”

“Well, he was hopping around, so I closed the kiln door. He grabbed my arm, spun me around and kind of tossed me to the ground. That’s when Jacob showed up and gave him a gut punch. After that he was pretty much finished. He agreed to leave and Jacob agreed to let him, long as he took a field sobriety test. Tawney didn’t want to go with him, so I left her sleeping in my tent.”

She thought about it a minute more. “Okay. First things first. Are you hurt?”

“A few scrapes. Nothing.”

She continued to give me very careful scrutiny. “You’re sure?”

“Sure.”

“Did he break his foot?”

I shrugged. “No idea. I mean, it clearly hurt when it happened, but it didn’t seem to slow him down when he came after me.”

She reached over and patted my hand. “Okay. Look, you did good. You should have called me – you know that’s the kind of emergency I should deal with – but you handled it well. I’m gonna need to give Debbie a full report, and she can decide what happens to them in terms of their class. Their education, for that matter. She’ll need to send someone else next week to pick up their wares when we open the kiln. The question I’ve got for you is . . . .”

She broke off. We heard the sound of her dogs sounding off, loud and strong. She gave me a puzzled look, set down her cup, and charged outside, shouting. “Quincy! Maddy! Jackson! Come!!!!”

I got up and followed, feeling generally sore all over. Outside, I heard the dogs continuing to bark – it sounded like it was coming from the parking area – and I followed Janey to see what was going on.

The dogs were circling a car that had pulled in, and Janey successfully managed to get them back.

It was a police car.

Once the dogs were clear, two officers stepped out. Both were men. The driver was in his mid-forties and stocky; the passenger was younger, sandy-haired, and on the tall side. They looked at the dogs warrily.

The older officer took the lead. “Hey, Janey.”

“Fred.”

“Uh – we got a complaint this morning. Kid claims he was assaulted while he was working on your kiln last night.”

I stayed silent. This was Janey’s domain, and she knew the players.

“Okay. So you’ve got a complaint. We might have one, too. You planning on making some arrests or something?”

“Not yet, Janey. But we got to investigate. Check it out. If we can talk to the people who were there, we might be able to avoid making any arrests.”

She chewed on that. “But everything they say can be used against them in court, right?”

He shrugged. “You know how it is, Janey.”

I decided to speak up. “I was there, and I’m willing to answer your questions.”

Janey shot me a look. “You don’t have to, Kez. You know that.”

“It’s okay.” I told her.

Janey’s face had a sour look. “Your call.” She turned her attention back to the police, “Fred, this is my night shift supervisor, Keziah Brown. Kez, this is Officer Fred Prescott.”

“Sergeant,” he said, with a half smile.

“Sergeant?” Janey looked pleased despite herself. “Well, good for you! And past time, for whatever my opinion’s worth.”

“Thanks, Janey,” he said. “There’s a ‘Kez’ on the list of people I wanted to talk to.”

She shrugged. “Look, Fred, I got a firing to run. You want to talk to Kez, I’m happy to let you use the kitchen up at the house.”

“That’s fine,” he told her. “But we’d also like to speak with” – he checked his notes – “Tawney Mason and someone named ‘Jacob.’ I don’t have a last name.”

“I’ll find out if they’re here – and if they’re willing to talk to you,” Janey said.

“Janey . . . if they run off, we’re gonna need to grab ’em.” He sounded apologetic.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” she growled, then pointed at the house. “Kitchen. Now!”

They brought me up to the house and we sat in the kitchen. I went through my story with them – again – then answered their questions.

After several questions, the Sergeant looked at me and said, “Just so I’m clear, you confirm that Jacob Harmon hit Mr. Carson somewhere in the stomach, then held him down by his neck?”

“Yes. But I want to be very clear: he did so to prevent Mr. Carson from continuing to attack me.”

He looked up from his notes, and his eyes were not unfriendly. “I understand, Miss. We got that part, honest.”

I was tempted to let it go, but decided I’d better not. “Ummm . . . I hate to have to say this, but it’s not ‘Miss.’ Technically, I’m a ‘Mister.’” Mighta looked more believable if I’d had time to get my turban.

His eyes popped. “Oh! I’m terribly sorry!”

I waved it off. “Don’t be. I don’t get worked up about it, but I thought your report had better be accurate.”

“I . . . ah . . . I see,” he stammered. More strongly, he said, “Mr. Carson indicates that he was robbed. Can you comment on that?”

I must have looked baffled; for sure, I felt baffled. “No idea what he’s talking about. He may have left stuff behind when he drove off, but no one took it from him.”

“Okay,” he said. “I think we’re done with our questions. Based on what you’ve told me, do you want to press charges against Mr. Carson?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not operating on a lot of sleep. Charges for what?”

“Assault and battery. Maybe disturbing the peace.”

“Oh . . . ah. No. I mean, if he intends to press any charges, against anyone, I’ll absolutely press charges. He broke Janey’s rules – practically all of them – he attacked first, and Jacob was just trying to keep him from hurting me or anyone else. Including himself. But . . . long as he clears out and doesn’t try to make any trouble, I’m willing to let it lie. He was stupid to drink while trying to fire a kiln at twenty-two hundred degrees, and even stupider, if that’s a word, once he was drunk. But I don’t think ‘stupid’ is a crime.”

“Okay,” the sergeant said. “If you're sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He looked a bit relieved. Less paperwork, I imagine. “Before you go . . . . I see you’ve got scrapes on your legs and arms. Can I take a closer look?”

I shrugged. “Sure. Okay.”

After he was done, he said, “Thanks. If you can find Mr. Harmon, we’d appreciate it. Uhh . . . you should probably put something on those scrapes. And clean them out, thoroughly.”

I nodded and went outside. I wasn’t surprised to see Janey, Jacob and Tawney all in the yard, each effectively in their own corners.

“I figured they wouldn’t want anyone coordinating stories,” Janey explained.

Jacob looked calm, rested and unconcerned. “Are you willing to talk to them?” I asked.

He gave me a smile. “Of course.”

“You’re up, then.”

He went in.

“Tawney?” I asked.

“Yeah?” she responded.

“You okay?

She nodded, a bit jerky. “I’m . . . I’m sorry about last night. I just . . . .”

I cut her off. “It’s okay. We can talk later. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

She nodded again, stronger this time. “I’m okay. Really.”

I sat down across from Janey at one of the picnic tables. “Is everything okay down at the kiln?”

“Yep. The gals are sitting around chatting ’til we’re done up here, and Bill and Gary are on shift. We’re at 2200 and everything looks good.”

“I can cover a shift this afternoon if you need it.”

She grunted. “We’ll see.”

The sun felt good on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and put my head down on the table. God I felt tired. At some point I must have fallen asleep.
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I woke to the sound of voices talking in hushed tones nearby.

“You should nail his ass!” Janey. “He filed a false report. He attacked Kez. And add what he said? Dammit Fred, it sounds like a hate crime!”

Ah, shit. So Jacob and Tawney must have gotten into that part. I kept my head down.

“His report wasn’t false, exactly. He said Harmon hit him; everyone agrees that happened. He didn’t say he’d started it, but he didn’t say he hadn’t, either. . . . And . . . based on what everyone said, he wasn’t going at your supervisor because of the transexual thing. It’s more like he just threw that stuff out in the heat of the moment.”

“How do you know? Jesus, Fred, I’m so mad about this I can’t see straight! Besides, it’s transgender. Where you been, the past twenty years?”

I decided I had better intervene. “Janey?” I raised my head.

She looked back at me, and man, she wasn’t kidding. You could break rocks with her expression.

“Janey, thanks. Really. But I didn’t mention what Brice said, ’cuz I agree with Sergeant Prescott. He tossed me around because I caught him breaking your rules and called him on it. The words . . . yeah, they were meant to sting. But it’s not why he did it.”

The sergeant came over and sat across from me. “You still should have told us, Mr. Brown.”

“Keziah. Please. So much easier, that way,” I said.

He nodded his acquiescence. “Keziah, then. I thought your friend was making it up, ’till Miss Mason confirmed what he said.”

Oops. “Okay. Sorry about that, and I should have thought of it. I just . . . damn. I just really didn’t want to deal with the whole gender thing. It’s not important.”

He gave me a shrewd look. “Or, maybe it is important, but you’d still rather not have to deal with it?”

I acknowledged the hit with half a smile. “Maybe.”

“You can still press charges on the assault and battery claim.”

I shook my head. “What I said before still stands.”

“Okay,” he said. “It’s your call. If Carson’s got any brains at all – if – he’ll stop trying to make trouble and he’ll get out of town in a hurry. No one here has any time for that sort of . . . ah . . . behavior.”

“Thanks.” It occurred to me to ask, “Is Tawney alright?” Neither she nor Jacob were in evidence.

“She . . . ah . . . neither confirmed nor denied possessing or using marijuana. It would only be a citation even if we had evidence – no different than a traffic ticket. So . . . we don’t intend to pursue it. Her testimony with respect to Mr. Carson was very helpful.”

I shook my head. “Good to know, but that wasn’t really what I meant. She . . . she wasn’t hurt, was she?”

His eyes crinkled in understanding. “No. She wasn’t completely positive that would have been the case, though, if you hadn’t showed up when you did.”

“Ah.” I thought that’s what I had been seeing.

Just then Jacob made an appearance, moving so silently that he gave no warning he was coming. “Sergeant Prescott,” he said, approaching the older man. “Looks like some of Mr. Carson’s stuff is down by the kiln. No one’s touched it.”

“Ah – that’s helpful.” Turning to Janey, he said, “I got no warrant, Janey, and it’s your place.”

“Go on,” she said. “If he’s got stuff there, you can take it and give it back to him, far as I’m concerned. Might want to take pictures before you do, though.”

“I’d be happier if you came with us,” he replied. “I don’t want to pick up any of your stuff by accident.”

“Alright,” she said. “Time I checked in on Bill’n Gary, anyhow. And I’ll tell the gals the house is available as well.” She got up and accompanied the officers down the hill.

Jacob came and joined me. “You feel as bad as you look?”

“Haven’t seen a mirror this morning. Do you feel as goddam chipper as you look?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Truth is, I am starting to feel a bit tired.”

“Can’t imagine why. Though, I’m glad it’s not just me. . . . I hope the police weren’t any trouble?”

“None.” He snorted. “Brice is an idiot. Maybe he thought Tawney would back up his story, though I have no idea how he thought she would figure out what it was. I can’t imagine she did, anyhow. Didn’t hurt that I carry a tin.”

“Tin?” I asked.

“A badge.” He opened his wallet, and there it was, in all its enameled glory. “U.S. Forest Service, but a tin’s a tin. If I’m caught in a lie they’d crucify me – and rightly so – but they’re not going to bust me on the say-so of some snotty hung-over college kid.”

“Doesn’t seem very fair,” I observed.

“It’s not,” he said. “And God knows, it gets abused. But I was on the side of truth, justice and the American Way today, so I’m not going to sweat it.”

My expression was a bit sour. “A fair number of upstanding citizens don’t think I’m part of the ‘American Way.’”

“A fair number of ‘upstanding’ citizens have a problem with the Declaration of Independence. It’s still the American Way.”

“Believe me, Superman, I’m not arguing!” I smiled.

He smiled back. It was a nice smile. “I told them I thought you should be the one pressing charges. Will you?”

“No. Not unless he wants to press charges against you or Janey. Or me, I suppose.”

He gave me a long look. “Why not?”

I shrugged, uncomfortable. “He was a drunk jerk. If we locked up every drunk jerk, the prisons would be overflowing.”

“It’s not something you get jail time for,” he said absently, before adding, “Please don’t tell me it’s not a big deal. That attack was bad, and it was about to get worse.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

His expression softened, and he reached out and covered my hand with one of his. “It’s because of the transgender angle, isn’t it?”

I looked away. “Yes. Partly.”

“You don’t think that’s even more of a reason to press charges?”

I looked back at him. So solid. Grounded. How to explain this? How can a Boy Scout understand my world? I sighed. “Look, I don’t think it’s why he attacked me. But if I press charges, that’s suddenly what this will be all about, won’t it? I don’t want to get dragged into some goddamned culture war, just ’cuz a stupid kid got drunk and disorderly.”

“Only one way to deal with bullies,” he countered.

I snorted. “I know. Really. And maybe I ought to take up the banner, and strike a blow against hatred and bigotry and all the rest. But . . . Jacob, I just want to live my life. If people think of me, I want them to think of my pottery. I want them, maybe, to think I’m an artist. Not a ‘trans artist,’ or a ‘gender-fluid artist.’ Just . . . Keziah Brown, Potter.”

He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “I understand. I think I do, anyway. But . . . it’s got to eat at you.” His voice was soft. Concerned.

“It’s better now. I can go weeks – months, even – without having anyone throw it in my face. Back in middle school and high school . . . then, it was rough.” An image from gym class suddenly and vividly pulsed painfully in my memory. “Probably any boy who looked like me – much less felt and acted like me – has heard all the insults. And worse. I learned to cope. Mom and Dad helped me, that way. And I had friends. That helped, too.”

He shook his head. “Until today, I didn’t even see the scars. You seemed so . . . I don’t know? Comfortable in your skin?”

I looked into his frank brown eyes and smiled, a bit sadly. “Some of that’s my folks’ influence; most of it’s Kara’s. But I can’t say it doesn’t hurt. People who claim to love and respect women think less of me because I have a strong feminine streak. I don’t get it and I never have. But that’s the world, and nothing little ol’ me does is gonna fix it.”

“Hopefully having friends still helps.”

I felt a prick of tears and suppressed it. Putting my free hand on top of his, I said, “I couldn’t make it without them, Jacob. And . . . thanks. I hate admitting that it still bothers me, even now.”

We heard the sound of voices on the path, so we extracted ourselves from the picnic table.

Before I could say anything, Sug spoke up. “Hey Kez – did you manage to get some sleep?”

I nodded. “I did, thanks!

Tatiana said, “Janey told us, in no uncertain terms, to take care of your scrapes.”

I nodded. “No worries; I’ve got a first aid kit in the truck. I’ll take care of it.”

Tatiana just shook her head. “What part of ‘no uncertain terms’ did you miss? Sit down; Janey’s kit’s in the kitchen. I’ll be right out.”

“Honest, guys, it’s . . . .”

Tatiana cut me off. “It’s Janey’s world, kid. We just live here.”

Laughing, I sat down and decided to bow to the inevitable with whatever grace I could muster.

Tatiana was soon fussing over me with a wash cloth, then spraying an antibacterial formula on the affected areas. “Lots of scrapes, but nothing that really needs a bandage. I’d tell you to keep it clean, but it’s a firing. You can’t. So . . . just wash and re-apply when you’re off shift.”

I stood. “Thanks, Tatiana.” Sug had hovered nearby, but first aid is a bit too practical for her skill set. “Let me go talk to Janey about the schedule.”

“Feel free,” Tatiana said, “But I’ll tell you now it’s up in the air with Brice out of the picture. And . . . I think I dinged my shoulder stoking the upper chamber. Sug here can’t do a whole four hours of that, so she’s gonna have to break us up, too.”

“She’s going to let Tawney back on shift?” I was surprised. Janey takes a dim view of rule violations.

Sug snorted. “Let her? Are you kidding? The kid’s going to be doing double duty if Janey has her way!”

“Which,” Tatiana added needlessly, “She almost always does.”

“I’m glad,” I said. And I was. Tawney didn’t strike me as a particularly strong personality, and she could learn a lot from being around this lot. Especially without her greasy boyfriend to get her going off the rails.

Jacob and I started down the path, but Tatiana called me. “Ah . . . Kez?”

I looked back, a question on my face.

“I hate to break it to you, but the seam on your shorts is split, and it looks like it’s spreading.”

I shook my head in disgust. “Of course it is. Damn! Well, thanks for the heads up. I need to go change, anyways.”

The police were leaving as we got to the parking area. “Find everything you were looking for?” I asked.

Sergeant Prescott nodded, a smile on his face. “Everything on Carson’s list. Shirt, shoes, wallet. The item he forgot to mention was his backpack, which is where his wallet was. Along with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. About two thirds full.”

I shook my head. “Idiot.”

“Our tax dollars at work, educating that one,” Prescott said, disgusted. They drove off.

When we got to the kiln, Janey was going over the schedule on her phone. She looked up when she heard us . . . well, heard me, since Jacob doesn’t make noise when he walks. “Can I break you two up? Jacob, I’d like to pair you up with Sug on a shift; I don’t want Tatiana doing any more lifting this firing. And Kez, I’d like to have you on with Tawney.”

We looked at each other. Jacob smiled and shrugged. “I’m here to help.”

“Hundred percent, Janey,” I said. “But we both need a bit of rest first.”

“Can one of you do a noon shift?” she asked.

Before Jacob could answer, I said, “I’m in. You probably don’t want Sug on again that soon.”

Janey nodded. “Okay. Rack out. The rest of the schedule’s gonna be a bitch now. Sorry.”

* * * * *

Janey was right – the rest of the firing was hard. We were short-handed before we lost Brice and had to take Tatiana off duty, and most of the other participants had front-loaded their scheduled shifts so they could leave early.

The ambient temperature hit the high eighties, which definitely didn’t help, and of course it was much hotter around the kiln, which hit its full-throated burn at 2400 degrees. Worse still, I had to do it all in long pants since my shorts were a lost cause.

Probably just as well I was a bit more protected though, since I slipped on a ladder while I was putting out a bit of a fire on the beams of the roof that covered the kiln enclosure. Fire coming from the air intakes for the upper firebox had caused the overhead beams to smolder in the late afternoon sun. I was more clumsy than usual and I banged my tailbone when I landed, but I’d have torn my leg on a loose nailhead but for the cargo pants, which tore in place of my flesh. A bargain for sure.

Tawney was my partner on two shifts, and I had some good conversations with her. She was terribly embarrassed by what had happened the prior evening, and eager as a puppy to get in my good graces. Clearly she was worried about what would happen with college. But eventually she calmed down enough to have a reasonable discussion.

“I thought we were in love,” she’d told me. “I sure thought I was in love. But . . . I didn’t really know him. I was such an idiot! Thinking it would be cool and romantic, you know? The two of us, a starry night, working a kiln together?”

I’d given her shoulder a squeeze. “Love takes practice. But . . . when it’s right, you’ll know. I promise.”

“How long have you and Jacob been together?”

I’d looked at her like she had two heads. “Me and Jacob? Whatever gave you that idea? I’m married to a stunning, perfect, beautiful woman.”

She shook her head, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! We just assumed . . . .” Her voice trailed off in confusion.

I was exasperated. “You know what they say about assuming!” But, seeing her deer-in-the-headlights look, I relented and said, as gently as I could, “Tawney . . . gender can be complicated. So can sexual orientation. But love is simple . . . even if it comes in forms people don’t expect.”

She was with me when active firing finally finished at midnight. I walked her through the process of closing up the intakes with paste, so as to lengthen the cool-down time. When we’d sealed up the last crack, Jacob gave her a ride into town. Brice had cleared out, but she still had the room in the motel where they had been staying. Tatiana lived down near NHTI, and she was going to give her a ride home the next day.

I stayed awake until Jacob got back. We were both tired at that point, and I was worried. But when he came down the hill, we headed across the field to our tents. It was still warm, and I thought sleep was going to be tough to sustain. “Jacob – thanks so much for being here. We’d have been in a real pickle if you weren’t.”

He smiled. “It’s my pleasure, Kez. Really.”

I looked at him again. Solid. Decent. “I hope . . . .” I stopped, embarrassed.

He studied me for a moment. “You hope?”

I touched his shoulder lightly. “I just hope Breanna appreciates you properly. You’re a gem.”

“Like Kara appreciates you?” His question was soft.

I felt the color rise in my cheeks.

* * * * *

Sleep came easily, but a dream, steamy and embarrassing, had me awake and fretting in the predawn hours. In my dream, I had been all woman . . . and I had been sharing a bed with Jacob. It had felt so real . . . every muted color in the darkened room, where a shaft of moonlight illuminated Jacob’s handsome features; the smell of musk and sweat and sex; the taste of salt as I nuzzled his neck, my moist lips eager. He was deep inside me and my legs wrapped around him possessively. As his hand closed around my full breast, I gasped with pleasure . . . .

Dammit, I thought, as, waking, I stripped off what had been my last clean undershirt and underwear. Dammit!!! What is WRONG with me?

To be continued . . . .

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jacob and I were up at 8:30, breaking down our tents, when a raucous canine chorus heralded Janey’s arrival. “Hey, Maddy!” I gave the mutt a treat and he bounded away, happy. I had a soft spot for that one. Soon the lab and the shepherd were circling us as well.

Janey picked her way across the field. “Mornin’ Kez. Jacob.”

We said our good mornings, and she said, “Listen. This firing woulda been a complete bust if you hadn’t been here. Both of you,” she stressed, giving Jacob an approving look. “We’d of lost thousands of dollars worth of pots, and god knows how many hours of work. You don’t get nothin’ for all that but thanks, but . . . I do want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

Janey’s not much of a hugger, but I hugged her anyway. “All for one, and one for all, woman!”

She hugged me back, briefly, then stepped back and looked at Jacob. “Trixie – the Trixie I knew, anyways – would be proud of you. Very proud.”

“Thank you.” Jacob’s voice was a bit husky.

Janey cleared her throat, a bit out of her crusty comfort zone. “Alright, then. The gals are all up and dressed. Why don’t each of you go up and grab a shower before you hit the road? There’s coffee, and Tatiana made some muffins.”

I looked at Jacob.

He smiled. “Thanks, Janey. That would be very welcome.”

“Take the first shower,” I told him. “You’re way ahead of me on breaking stuff down.”

Jacob grabbed a change of clothes and headed up to the house. Janey and the dogs kept me company while I packed up. She told me that she’d agreed to go easy on Tawney when she talked to the instructor at NHTI, but she was going to leave nothing out in her report on Brice. Apparently Sergeant Prescott had called her in the afternoon to say that Brice had withdrawn his complaint and left town with his tail between his legs.

Jacob reappeared after about half an hour, looking ridiculously fresh and clean. “All yours,” he told me.

Janey stayed to speak with him and I made my way to the house. As a result of Brice’s antics and my own accidents, waking and sleeping, I was out of fresh clothes. At least we’d be home soon. I snagged a coffee from the kitchen and went upstairs.

Sug was cleaning her room out, and gave me a smile. “How you feeling, Hon?”

“Better, thanks. But I’m looking forward to my own bed!”

“I hear you! Janey’s place is nice – I won’t do tents! – but there’s no place like home.” She gave me a closer appraisal and noticed my hands were empty. “No change of clothes?”

I shrugged, ruefully. “It was a tough couple of days for my wardrobe.”

“You’re coming back next weekend for the kiln opening, right?” When I nodded, she said, “Borrow my sundress. I only wore it that one evening.”

“Thank you,” I said warmly. It was a sweet offer, and the thought of wearing something that wasn’t sooty and grimy – or worse – was sorely tempting. “I would, gladly, but I don’t have anything clean to wear under it. I wouldn’t want to mess it up – it’s so pretty.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” she admonished. “I always have extra underwear.” She pulled a clean white bra and panty set from a drawer and put them on the bed.

I was very touched. “Sug, I couldn’t possibly!”

She gave me a look, then came over and put a hand on my cheek. “You can, and you will. You’re my friend, and you and Jacob saved the whole firing. It’s the least I can do. Besides . . . . I haven’t seen you looking properly cute since that kiln opening party in Franconia. Must have been four years ago.”

I smiled at the memory. It had been a great firing, and a couple of us had organized an impromptu party to celebrate. I’d decided to let my freak flag fly, as it were – they had all been friends, like Sug – and I’d glammed up nicely, if I do say so myself. “Fun times,” I said.

“Good!” she replied, as if my response cleared any objections. “Now get cleaned up. My bathrobe’s on the hook behind the door, so put that on when you’re done and get changed back here. It’s too steamy in the bathroom!”

I did as I was told. I took a bit of time in the shower, scouring the scrapes on my knees and forearms, and washing my grimy hair several times. The bathroom had a good hairdryer and I made use of it, leaving my hair in a dark, wavy cloud around my face. When I was done, I put my filthy clothes into a tight bundle, slipped into Sug’s short robe, and padded back to the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

Sug’s face lit up. “You look a thousand times better! Now . . . underwear, dress, and some flip-flops. How’s that?”

I folded her into a hug. She was about my height, and if anything, thinner than I am. “Bless you! I was really dreading coming out of the shower and getting back into dirty clothes!”

She gave my cheek a peck. “I’ll be downstairs.”

She left me to my business, and I didn’t waste time. The underwear was plain and functional, though the bra, I saw with a grin, was designed to give a girl the illusion of a bit more up top. Sug didn’t have much going that way either, and I was glad for a boost. The sundress definitely looked better with the help.

It was a thin-weave cotton, very light, with a loose tie in the back that hung just above my butt and gave a little definition to my waist. Capped sleeves left the scrapes on my forearms visible – no hope for that – but the calf-length skirt at least covered the abrasions on my legs. And the soft lavender color looked very spring-like.

The dress buoyed my spirits immensely. Sug’s flip-flops were decorative and girly, but sturdy enough that I wasn’t worried about breaking them.

“Into a nearby phone-booth!” Sug said approvingly as I re-entered the kitchen.

“No, silly,” Tatiana argued. “Jacob’s obviously Superman. Kez must be Lois.”

I frowned a bit at that, though it’s hard to be mad at the woman who’d made apple walnut muffins. Especially since I hadn’t snagged one yet. “Married, remember?” I held up my left hand and wiggled my fingers, prominently displaying my wedding band.

Tatiana shook her head. “Sorry, Kez! But in my defense, I’m married too, and I still say he’s pretty damned dreamy!” She handed me a muffin.

I laughed and took a bite. “For one of these, I’ll cut you all the slack in the world!”

The three of us chatted a bit while I finished my muffin and the rest of my coffee, then I got up to go.

“Hold tight,” Tatiana said, rising. “Give me a pucker.” She applied a little color to my lips, then tucked the tube into my roll of clothes. “Better!”

I thanked her. Even though I’m very hard to clock, it’s always smart to look as believable as possible when dressed in public. I gave them both hugs goodbye, then made my way down the hill.

Jacob, Janey and the dogs were in the parking area. Jacob smiled. “I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long, but it all becomes clear now!”

Janey laughed. “Kez, you kill me!”

I found myself blushing. “Sug’s a sweetheart. She saw that I didn’t have anything clean and gave me a loaner.”

“I’ve got everything loaded up,” Jacob told me. “Ready to go when you are.”

I tossed my remaining dirty clothes into the back of the trailer after extracting my keys and my wallet. “Okay, then. Let’s hit the road.”

“Want me to drive for a bit?” Jacob asked.

“I can drive a truck in a dress,” I scolded. Then I gave him a smile. “But sure – if you’re feeling fresh, I won’t object.” I tossed him the keys.

“I’ll see you in a week,” Janey said to me. Turning to Jacob, she said, “I don’t think your Ma’s gonna want to hear from me. But . . . give her a hug’n a squeeze for me, would you? I miss that girl.”

“I’ll do that.” Unexpectedly, he gave Janey a warm embrace. Looking down at the crown of her head, he said softly, “Think of this as a hug from the person she used to be.”

She hugged him back hard then let him go. Her eyes might have been a bit misty, so her parting was gruff. “Go on now, both of you!”

I hopped in the passenger’s side of the cab. Within minutes of our hitting Route 3 I had fallen asleep.

* * * * *

“Hey, Kez.”

Jacob’s soft voice brought me back to consciousness. I noticed we weren’t moving. “Hmmm?”

“I guess I was a bit more tired than I thought,” he allowed. “ I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I pulled off. We’re in Newport.”

I blinked my eyes, feeling a bit disoriented. We were in a parking lot, and Lake Memphremagog stretched before us, clear and blue and full of morning sparkle. “Oh! No trouble,” I assured him, still blinking. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll be good to go.”

“I thought it might make sense to stop here and have a bite,” Jacob replied. “Brea and Kara aren’t expecting us for lunch . . . and I’m not sure they’ll be all that eager to have us back early.”

I thought about it and sighed. “There, you have me. You were thinking here?” According to a sign prominently displayed on our right, the parking lot belonged to the Eastside Restaurant and Pub.

“Can’t beat the location, though I obviously can’t vouch for the food.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said. We hopped out. I didn’t have a purse, but my wallet is just a fabric pouch, so I carried it.

It was a bit after eleven – a bit late for breakfast; a bit early for lunch. As a result, we had no trouble getting a seat outside, right by the water. It was a beautiful day, with enough big white clouds to give the sky some drama, without it being overcast or gloomy. Being this far north, they did indeed have poutine on the menu, but this time Jacob was wise enough to avoid it. It gave us something to laugh about.

I went with a cod dish that had lemon and capers, while Jacob braved their Cajun chicken and pasta. Our conversation was, as usual, slow and easy, with pauses that should have felt long but didn’t.

“Thank God for good coffee!” I said. “I love my friend Janey, but I don’t know how her stomach survives what she puts in it.”

He smiled. “She’s quite a character . . . I’m glad I got to meet her.”

I gave him a long look while savoring a bit more decent coffee. “Is she right, do you think? That your mom wouldn’t want her to reach out?”

He nodded; I was sad but not surprised to see his smile fade as well. “Yeah, I think so. She – Mom, that is – doesn’t want any reminders of her old life.”

“I hope that doesn’t extend to you!”

He shrugged. “Not that she’d say so. But . . . yeah. It does. To me and Dierdre both. If we don’t make a point of reaching out, we don’t hear from her. Since we were old enough to be out of the house, she’s never even invited us back for holidays. She was barely civil to Brea when I brought her around. Kevin is Mom’s whole world now, and I think she’s terrified to consider anything beyond that.”

“So you lost both your parents,” I said. “Even though both of them are alive. Jacob, I’m so sorry. I just can’t understand what would bring people to do that.”

He sat looking out at the lake, sipping his coffee. Finally, he said, “Love is a powerful thing, isn’t it? I avoided it for years, afraid of what had happened to my parents. There were opportunities . . . but I stayed away. I told myself I didn’t need it. Peace . . . serenity . . . that was all I needed. You know?” He looked at me.

I nodded.

He went back to looking at the water. “And then, Brea came along, and my world got turned upside down. I wanted to be with her, every minute. I was giddy when she called. Joyful when we were together. I started thinking about . . . .” He waved his hands, indicating a vastness of things. “A house and a dog, a white picket fence. Two point three children. Romantic walks in the woods with . . . .” His voice cracked, and he stopped.

I put a hand on his wrist in sympathy, but said nothing. He was fighting to regain control of his emotions.

“It won’t be like that, will it, Kez?” His voice was low, strained.

I thought about that. It didn’t sound like Brea to me, but . . . I only really knew her through Kara’s eyes. “I don’t know. Love does things to people. And . . . people do change.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “Not mostly. It’s – it’s this thing. With Brea and Kara . . . I couldn’t have made it through this week without you, knowing what’s happening. I’d have gone crazy. Maybe even postal.”

I shook my head. “Not postal. That’s not you.”

He thought about it, staring at a boat making its way north toward the border. “No,” he whispered. “But honestly, I don’t know how I can deal with it.” The pain in his voice wrenched my heart, and his handsome face was seared by longing, anguish, and fear.

“Come on, let’s walk,” I urged him. I took some money from my wallet and settled the tab, then led him out of the restaurant. Away from people. There was a lawn area surrounded by trees that faced the lake, and I pulled him after me. When we were far enough away, I said, “You okay?”

He took a deep breath and held it, then let it out slowly. “Yeah . . . sorry. I just . . . .”

I gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve never been in love before?”

“No.”

I kept my hand on his shoulder, and we stared out at the lake as if it had all of life’s answers. Who knows? Maybe it does.

“What makes it worse,” he said after five minutes or so, “is that I seem to have fallen in love twice.”

I looked at him, startled. He can’t mean . . . ?

“Jacob?” My voice sounded shaky.

He turned to face me, and his deep brown eyes seemed to bore into me.

I started to tremble. It’s like a dream . . . like MY dream.

Seeing my distress, he reached out with both hands and drew me to him, unresisting. “I was drowning, and you were there. So calm and kind. Such a beautiful, loving heart, so full of understanding. Like a kindred spirit,” he whispered.

I lowered my head against his chest, avoiding his eyes. Again I felt the beating of his heart . . . and his rising excitement.

This time, I felt my own excitement as well.

His hands began to move over my back, lightly, rough skin playing against the soft fabric of my borrowed sundress, making it whisper and rustle as it slid across the bra’s satin firmness. I was grateful for Sug's generosity; I had never felt so feminine. It felt right to be in his arms, in a pretty dress and lingerie, my hair framing my face. I was, for once, all woman. Just like my dream. I couldn’t stop trembling.

My hands snaked up, almost of their own will, to rest on the strong muscles of his mid-back.

“I can live with it,” he said, his head bent above mine. “I think I can, anyway. If you’re with me. If it’s our week, and not just theirs.”

My arms tightened, and again his erection pressed hot and urgent against my belly. His breath, as he bent in close, was sweet and inviting.

God, I want this!!! I pulled back . . . just a bit.

Just enough.

His lips brushed mine, firm and hungry. They pressed harder, and I found my lips melting . . . parting. My heart was bursting . . . my breath quickening . . . . my fingers dug into his powerful back.

My mind whirled as my senses reeled. Was it possible? Could it be the solution to this impossible situation all of us are in? No need for Kara and Brea to feel guilty any more . . . no need for Jacob to feel rejection . . . and for me . . . . Oh, my God! For me!

I brought my hands up to cup his face, then managed, somehow, to pull back enough to look into the depths of his marvelous, beautiful, expressive eyes. Eyes full of the same desire I felt myself. It can work! It can!

“No, Jacob.”

The words came from a place beyond thought, beyond feeling or desire. From the very core of my being.

His arms loosened and he pulled back too, resting his hands on my shoulders, fingers curling over the capped sleeves of Sug’s sweet dress. “Don’t tell me you don’t want it, too.”

I shook my head, my hands still framing his handsome face. “No. I won’t lie to you. I want it. I want you. I’ve never wanted a man before, and suddenly . . . .”

Echoing my own thoughts, he said, “Kez. Kara is faithful to you fifty-one weeks out of the year. You don’t think less of her for the one week she isn’t, do you?”

“No. Never.”

“Then why . . . .”

I placed a gentle finger on his lips and he stopped talking, letting the silence swallow his question, continuing to hold me lightly. Waiting for me to explain, and trusting that I would.

It hurt to look at him, so strong and patient even in his anguish. To look at him, and still say “no.” I said it was simple, I had told him two nights before. I didn’t say it was easy. Finally, I said, “What Kara does? I can’t do that. I just can’t. I can’t split my heart; it would kill me. I’ve only got room enough for one love. Kara is my beginning and my end.”

His gaze never left my face, and the love in his eyes did not waver. “How can you say that, looking at me the way you are right now?”

“Love isn’t just a feeling, Jacob. It’s a decision. One I made, when Kara and I got married.”

“Does she deserve your devotion? Does she deserve you?”

“Yes. But even if I didn’t think so – know so – it wouldn’t matter. What matters is that I love her. She is my one . . . and my only.”

He thought about that for a good long while, as we stood on the lawn, eyes locked, inches and worlds apart.

I let my hands drop, until they rested lightly on his chest. Giving him time.

A smile touched the corners of his mouth, full of rue and understanding. “That’s what it means, isn’t it? To love like you do.”

I smiled back, and tried to keep my regrets from showing. “Yes. That’s what it means.”

He gave my shoulders a final squeeze and released them, and I brought my hands to my sides.

He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. His gaze was clear now, and his smile was almost normal. “You are a remarkable person. A beautiful person. I needed to meet you, and I’m very glad I did.”

“Likewise,” I told him. “Though the experience has been more than a little unsettling!”

“Well . . . I can’t hog all the instability. Wouldn’t be fair.”

We smiled at each other, and this time the smiles barely seemed forced at all. “We should go,” I said.

“So we should.”

We walked back to the truck and got back on the road. This time, I drove.

We were close to home when his voice broke in on my thoughts. “I can’t do it,” he said softly.

I kept my eyes on the road. Even without people around, you have to watch for animals. Mostly deer, though hitting a moose ruins everyone’s day. “I know,” I replied.

“I love Brea so much; it makes me want to give her anything. The sun, the moon, the stars! But . . . I can’t even give her a week. I can’t commit to an unequal relationship. It’s got to be all, or . . . or nothing.” His voice cracked again on that last word, as he contemplated losing the woman who had finally brought love into his life.

He might not, of course. Kara certainly thought Brea would likely choose him, if she were forced to choose. It seemed likely to me as well. Even putting aside Jacob’s many fine qualities, would Brea give up the chance to finally have a life partner, just so she could preserve her annual tryst? True, she’d never had trouble finding new – and gorgeous! – partners, and I couldn’t imagine that would change. Brea was Brea. But still, none of us were getting any younger.

None of which would be any comfort to Jacob. He was the one who had to run the risk of a rejection that would tear him apart. Through the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. “I wish I had your heart, Kez,” he whispered.

I looked over long enough to give him a warm smile. “The heart you have is pure and perfect. You should learn to trust it.”

“You’re an angel,” he said.

“I’m a potter,” I corrected.
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

When we drove up, Kara and Brea were standing side-by-side by the chicken coop, shapely arms encircling slender waists. Two damned good looking women. They turned, loosening their holds, until only their hands were touching . . . then their fingertips. Finally they let go, as Kara came to my side of the truck and Brea went to Jacob.

Jacob jumped out, grabbed Brea by the waist and effortlessly raised her up, squealing, to plant a kiss on her lips.

“Look at you!” Kara said, approvingly, as I opened the door. Seeing my sundress, she helped me down from the high cab and gave me a hug and a kiss. “Miss me?” she whispered.

I leaned forward, my forehead touching hers, and closed my eyes. “Always.”

I heard Brea’s voice fading as she and Jacob moved toward the house.

But Kara and I stayed still for a moment, forehead to forehead. With my eyes closed, I extended my other senses. Kara’s back was warm from the sunshine, her sleeveless white cotton top stiff under my fingers. Her scent . . . I could never pin it down. I knew what she wore, of course, but on her, it always smelled different. Unique.

Kara was the smell of life and of love. The smell of sunshine, of waterfalls, and rainbows over the lake after a summer storm.

Kara was the smell of home.

“I like the dress,” she murmured. “But there’s no shopping between here and Pittsburg. Got to be a story.”

I opened my eyes, raised my head and smiled. “Lots. Let’s go share them.”

“Sounds good,” she replied. “I approve, anyhow. Normally I can’t let you into the house after a firing without having you strip!”

We walked back to the house, following Brea and Jacob. “Might have been a bit awkward, with company and all,” I said.

“You’re no fun,” she admonished, though it didn’t feel like her heart was in it. “You know that, right?”

“I do, indeed.”

We went inside and joined Brea and Jacob in the kitchen. “Kara and I were thinking drinks and nibblies out on the patio,” Brea said. “Unless you two are too beat?”

Jacob and I looked at each other. “I’m game,” I said, across the invisible gulf that had opened between us as soon as we had paired off with our partners.

“Absolutely,” he responded with a smile. But his eyes, meeting mine, acknowledged the chasm.

We sat down outside, and a breeze from the lake cooled the afternoon heat. Kara had made a pitcher of margaritas, and there were a couple of cheeses, a sliced baguette, olives, almonds, cherry tomatoes and more fresh strawberries.

Jacob and I told our stories, suitably edited. Of moose and poutine, and dogs and dancing to the music of a backcountry fiddle. Of bad coffee and hard beds and Tatiana’s culinary surprises, of the depth of a star field over a long-abandoned pasture, and the fierce and primal roar of a wood kiln, pulsing with 2,400 degrees of flame and raw power. I told the story of Brice, Tawney and the police, leaving out the insults.

Jacob, understanding, let me get away with the omission.

I described how I came up short in the clothing department, between Brice’s rough handling and my fall from the ladder, and how my friend Sug had bailed me out. I left out how I’d come up short on underwear.

They asked questions, laughed at the appropriate places and were suitably indignant about Brice’s nonsense. But there were undercurrents; I could feel them. I couldn’t pin down what I was sensing. Was the indignation too sharp? Was the laughter too bright? It was like things were subtly off-key. Or else in harmony with music I couldn’t hear, something just beyond the range of my perception.

And, I found myself watching Brea and Jacob. Were they sitting close? Did their hands brush, and would they linger? Weighing what was said . . . and what wasn’t. Measuring the meanings in their glances. Brea seemed . . . distracted.

Would she accept Jacob’s decision?

What am I missing?

Our story wound down. I poured another round of margaritas from the pitcher. Continental Porcelain, the barest touch of turquoise glaze providing some crackle and pop . . . one of the success stories from that wild train kiln firing that Bill will be talking about forever . . . . The work of my hands, transformed by ice and fire. “Okay, so that was our week. Tell us about yours.”

“We chilled,” Kara said. “Though we took a sailing cruise on the lake on Wednesday, and that was great.” There was that something in her voice again, even as she mentioned an apparently pleasant excursion. As if it were tuned to a minor key, or set to music played andante . . . . Maybe only I caught it.

Why are you distressed, love?

Brea leaned forward, the late afternoon sun causing her pale blue top to shimmer like a mirage in an arid desert. “We talked, mostly.” Her eyes met Kara’s, and a look, full of meaning and mystery, passed between them.

Kara nodded, almost imperceptibly, her eyes shadowed.

Brea continued, her usually exuberant voice muted and strained. “We talked a lot. What we’ve had, all these years . . . how it’s never enough, or always too much. . . . Honestly, all of us need to talk. All of us. Right now.”

In her voice I heard it now, knew it, the music beneath their words.

The Ashokan Farewell.

I looked at Kara, but she was looking at her glass, avoiding my eyes, her expression unreadable. Kara!!!

“We can’t do this anymore,” Brea said, her voice stronger, but with no lessening of the strain. “I never really thought about how hard this was, until we were all together last weekend. All four of us.”

I could feel each beat of my heart. Slow. Labored. Keeping time, now, with the fiddle’s high and lonely lament.

Brea looked at me, her eyes pleading. “Kez . . . I’m so sorry. I . . . I just wouldn’t let you be real, all these years. I wouldn’t let myself think about how you must feel, letting Kara go every year. But when I saw the two of you together . . . when I actually let myself see how perfect you were together, I felt so awful!”

Wait . . . what?

“That isn’t even the worst of it. It’s not!” Her distress was palpable. “I felt so jealous! I’d wanted Kara so much, all this time . . . wanted to be the one closest to her heart. And there were times last weekend that I wanted to just scratch your eyes out. Not because you were bad to her, but because you weren’t. Because you were perfect! That’s not how I want to live. That’s not how I want any of us to live!”

Kara broke in before Jacob or I could respond, though her eyes remained fixed on the glass in her hand. “Me too, Dreamboat. There I was, getting jealous of Jacob, who was a perfectly wonderful guy and just what Brea has always needed. Someone who can ground her a bit.”

Despite herself, Brea quirked a smile at that description.

“Me, getting jealous. When I have everything!” Kara was fighting her tears and losing. “You are my whole life, Kez, but that wasn’t enough. And . . . I wouldn’t let myself see how much I was hurting you. But I knew . . . I knew, when I was trying to deal with my own jealousy, that I’d just been lying to myself, the whole time. I was just trying to have it all.”

Brea’s words, and Kara’s, stilled the sudden, paralyzing fear that had almost overwhelmed me, but I couldn’t endure Kara’s distress. “It’s not like that!”

Her tears were bright as she finally turned her haunted eyes on me. “Yes it is, Kez. I am selfish, and I have hurt you, and it stops. Now. Yesterday. It stops.”

She turned to Jacob and said, “I’m sorry. I had no right to feel the way I did about you. It’s no excuse, but please . . . try to understand. When Brea met me, I was . . . angry. I mean, all the time. Enraged. I pushed people away, so I didn’t have to put up with their bullshit. So I didn’t have to put up with all the rejections. All the judgments. I was just a mousy girl who’d always been attracted to other girls.”

Jacob, motionless at Brea’s side, watched Kara with compassionate eyes, but made no move to speak. He understood the importance of silence, and he knew she wasn’t finished.

She wasn’t. Looking at Brea, she said, “And then, you came along. The hottest chick in town, the one that every guy was just dying over . . . and you wanted me. You wouldn’t let me push you away. Wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. You didn’t see me the way I saw me . . . .” Kara’s tears coursed down her cheeks.

Brea was crying too. “Sweetie, I saw who you really were. You were the one who was blind.”

“You see?” Kara said to Jacob. “She believed in me. She made me believe in me. If Breanna Quinn said I was beautiful, then, maybe, just maybe, I was beautiful. Or at least, I could try to be. If she said I was desirable, then maybe I’d been wrong.”

Kara looked at me again. “If you had met me before Brea, you wouldn’t have given me the time of day . . . and you’d have been right.”

I reached out and wrapped my hand around her wrist.

She gave me a ghost of a smile, then turned back to Jacob. “That’s why it hurt so bad, when Brea and I couldn’t make it work. We moved in together, and suddenly everything was a fight. I mean, everything. Money. Housework. Cooking. What we would eat, and when. Where we’d spend time off. Shit, even who got which side of the bed!”

“Left side’s mine,” Brea said, smiling through her tears. “Always.”

“I felt the old me coming back,” Kara said. “The angry me. And I didn’t want that; I’d fought so hard to put all that behind me. We couldn’t live together, but . . . I just couldn’t let her go!”

Brea’s smile was brittle as bisqueware. “We were just two alpha bitches who’d never learned to back down. Never learned to compromise. So young! I’d like to think we’d have done better, later.”

“Maybe,” Kara said. “Maybe. But if I’m better now, I owe it all to Kez. All of it. Kez showed me . . . .” She let out a sob, then choked out, “I’m so sorry. I love you both so much. But all I was doing was hurting you. Both of you!”

“You never hurt me, Kara!” Brea insisted. “Not . . . not since the day you left.”

Kara took a ragged breath to get control of her voice. “Brea, honey, it shouldn’t have taken you eight years to find the right person. I was holding you back. Me. Being selfish. But . . . at least . . . I think you hit a home run.”

Brea clutched Jacob’s hand. “If you’ll still have me,” she whispered.

Finally, Jacob broke his silence. Tears were running down his cheeks too, but they were, at last, tears of unalloyed joy. “Have you? Damn, woman! You’ll never get rid of me!”

There were tears all around, and hugs and forgiveness and assurances . . . it was beautiful and wonderful and frankly exhausting. The music still played, beneath the words and the tears, but now I was attuned to it as well. It wasn’t the farewell I had feared, but it was still farewell – the necessary ending, that allows space for new beginnings.

By mutual agreement, we called it an early night. Kara and I made love, long and sweet and perfect. I have no doubt that the activities in the guest bedroom were no less powerful, no less filled with healing. We had survived the firing and emerged transformed.

And in all my heart, there was no shadow. I could sing for the joy of it.

* * * * *

I woke before sunrise, Kara soft and warm and wonderful at my back, her breathing even and untroubled. I watched the last stars fade and the sky turn light in the east.

After the emotional storms and tumult of the past week, I felt surprisingly rested. I’m a potter, I’d said to Jacob, and it was true. A potter’s wheel can have only one center, and Kara was mine – the fixed point around which everything else moves. My art; even my life.

She murmured something in her sleep, and I smiled. I was home again, where I belonged. At peace.

Centered.

Alert and refreshed, I slipped from under the covers and threw on underwear, leggings and a T-shirt. I tucked the blanket under Kara’s chin, pausing to give her silken hair a feather-light caress. Trying to move as quietly as Jacob, I closed the door behind me and went to feed the chickens.

He found me in the studio twenty minutes later, as I was maneuvering my monster amphorae back into its perpetual waiting place. Masterwork or ruin, I might never know.

As usual, he appeared without a sound. “I think I’ll always remember you in this space. The way you looked when you were lost in your art. ‘Restored to the heart of God.’”

He was little more than a shadow in the doorframe, the morning light a halo around his solid form. “I’ll remember you in the woods,” I said in reply. “In the stillness at the tarn when we saw the moose.”

He watched me put a tie around the piece for stability, his expression lost in the darkness by the door.

“It’s goodbye, isn’t it?”

“I expect so,” I said gently. “Our girls are going to need a long time. They might need forever.”

He nodded, understanding, and we let silence, comfortable and pregnant with meaning, say the rest of what had to be said.

Breakfast was subdued, an anticlimax, and before long Brea and Jacob were packed, loaded, and ready to go. “Let’s get you home,” Jacob said to her.

“You are my home,” she replied, her voice for once devoid of mischief, but rich in love and full of promise.

Kara and I stood together by the chicken coop, arms around slender waists, waving farewell as Jacob maneuvered them back down our road. When the dust of their passage had settled, she whispered, “Can you forgive me?”

My arm tightened on her waist. “There is nothing to forgive, love. You didn’t take your time with Brea away from me . . . I gave it to you, freely. A gift.”

“I don’t deserve you. I never have.”

I shook my head. “You are my sunrise, my sunset, and my Day Star. My always and forever. I will love you, and only you, until the end of my days.”

Tears streamed down her soft cheeks, and her voice was choked with emotion. “Always and forever, Keziah Brown. Always and forever!”

The end.
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Author’s note: I tried a lot of different things in this story. Some of them worked, some didn’t. I am thankful to all of you who stuck it through to the end; I hope you found your patience rewarded. An extra thanks if you left kudos; it’s very useful feedback. To everyone who left comments – Rachel Moore, Catherd, Erisian, Dee Sylvan, Ron Houston, Wendy Jean, DorothyColleen, JoanneBarbarella, AlisonP, Dallas Eden, KayD, Wendy K, Dave (“Outsider”), Ricky, Patricia Marie Allen, Gillian Cairns, Source, Jill Rasch, Gwen Brown, Guest Reader, and Jengrl – know that I love you all to pieces. Your support and encouragement mean so much to me. And finally, I want to give an extra scoop of ice cream to my friend Erisian, the Seraph of Cliffhangers,™ for inspiring the title of this story.

So now Keziah, Kara, Jacob and Breanna join all the other characters who’ve taken up room in my head for a season – Jessica and Janet; Cami and her crew – figments of my imagination who nonetheless felt very real to me when I was writing about them. Another necessary farewell. If you have never heard it, I encourage you to listen to what is, effectively, the soundtrack for Chapter Eighteen, the Ashokan Farewell. An excellent version is available for free on YouTube:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=2kZASM8OX7s&pp=ygUQYXNob2thbiB...

With that, let me say once more, good night, and joy be with you all!

Emma Anne Tate, June 5, 2023

For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.