ten

Nathan splashed cold water on his face and scrubbed his skin dry with a fragrant towel that Zoe had left next to the sink in his studio. The fresh spring scent smelled like a sham. He tossed the towel aside.

On second thought … He retrieved it from the floor where he would have left it if a guest weren’t about to arrive. The studio was a bloody disaster, as usual. Glaze drips enlivening the flagstones, a half-thrown vase drying out on the wheel. This was his space, and he’d put his foot down with Zoe about tidying up. He’d told her—no, told her wasn’t correct. He’d suggested she leave his studio alone. Yet Zoe couldn’t resist adding her stamp to the room.

He draped the towel over the tap. To his chagrin, he’d gone along with the idea when Annie Belden requested a studio visit. “Pottery has fascinated me ever since I took a class and failed miserably.” She’d laughed, a sound like chimes. “I think I have uneven hands. At least that was my excuse. My right hand knew what to do, but my left hand always cocked it up.”

Nathan watched himself as if from a distance, saw that he smiled as Annie confirmed the day—today. She appeared happy with the prospect, but as soon as the words, “Brilliant, I’ll see you then,” were out of his mouth, he’d longed to suck them back up.

Now here he was, squirming with uneasiness but also looking forward to seeing her.

The wall clock said 1:10. Ten minutes late. He’d hoped she was the punctual type. Zoe wasn’t due back for a few hours, but since EJ’s wake, she’d been hovering more than usual, asking him questions, wanting to know more about EJ than Nathan felt like answering. Finally, he asked her why she cared, to which she’d answered that all of his friends interested her.

Nathan had put many things out of his mind in the years since returning to Ireland. By necessity—for his mental health, one might say—these things included Zoe. He refused to think about the many ramifications of her reappearance, one of which had already become apparent: Her need to involve herself in all aspects of his life.

“Hello? Nathan?” Annie’s voice called out. “The door’s open. I hope you don’t mind that I came inside.”

Nathan checked the clock again. 1:16. Time slipping away from him, as usual. “I’m in here. Come through.”

He turned the taps on and let water play over his hands. The coolness against his sweaty palms helped ground him. Something about Annie had penetrated the dead zone that surrounded him. Maybe it was her perfect salt-and-pepper hair that formed a messy fringe around her face. He liked that she didn’t bother to camouflage the early grey. Maybe it was her careful smile, neither friendly nor fake friendly. Or her sharp jaw and long neck—

“Sorry for the state of me,” Annie said as she entered the room. “You live in a bloody maze. How many Meadowlarks can there be? I must have driven a street, a lane, a court, and a place before I landed on the correct one.”

Nathan turned off the taps and dried his hands. “Crest,” he said. “Meadowlark Crest.”

Annie laughed. Dimples appeared in her cheeks. “The only thing crested about it is its sense of self-importance.”

“True. Well, here’s my studio.”

Annie’s smile dimmed but her gaze didn’t waver. “Right. Of course. Daft of me. You’ll be needing to get on with your work.” She stepped past him toward the connecting door that he indicated. “I don’t have a creative fiber in my body. Maybe that’s why I’m fascinated by people who pursue art. I get to wondering if they have special insights that allow them to capture life in their art. Does that make sense?”

“Not really. I make pretty things. There’s nothing deep about my job.”

“The creative process is one of the deepest endeavors of all.” Annie stood on the edge of the enclosed patio that Nathan called his studio. “Now this is more like it. I love the glorious disarray of the place.”

She’d turned to look at him again, assessing him but not in a judgmental way. He couldn’t tell what kind of response she expected, and in any case, he didn’t have the energy to try to anticipate her. Zoe had used that bit of him up for today.

He glanced down at his mobile and showed her around the studio. The potter’s wheel, boxes of clay, canisters of chemicals for the glazes, shelves of vases in various stages of completion, a giant worktable, the discards pile, and trays filled with every tool imaginable. Glazing tongs and trimming tools and wooden ribs.

Annie wandered toward the far corner of the room, where an old desk covered in dust hunched in the shadow of the shelves. Her fingers brushed over a black painted birdcage. One of Susannah’s antiquing finds. She’d called it Chinoiserie in design, and it reminded Nathan of a miniature pagoda. It wasn’t big enough for a songbird to flit around in, yet many a bird had no doubt languished trapped and singing their poor hearts out.

Annie’s voice floated back to him: “But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams, his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream.

“Do you know that poem?” she said. “By Maya Angelou.”

Yes, he knew the poem. He knew it well. Sometimes it haunted his dreams.

Annie pointed to the ceramic figurine of a goldfinch with its red and black markings positioned inside the cage. “You sculpt, too?”

Nathan spouted words, the first that entered his head. “Did you know that people used to poke out their eyes with red-hot needles to force them to sing better? They sang in memory for what they’d lost.”

Annie’s hand dropped limp to her side. “That’s a distressing image.”

“It’s blinded memory,” he said, “and memory is a slippery mistress.” He pivoted away to lead her to the pretty things. The finished vases. “This way, please.”

Annie’s footsteps followed. They sounded deflated. Nathan picked up a tall, slim vase with a tuliped lip. He’d used the last of his lichen glaze to imbue the vase with its rich green hue. Like spring, that color. Which reminded him that he’d forgotten to buy magnesium carbonate to make more glaze. “Please, take it. I insist. Please.”

Annie’s reaction surprised him. “Shame on you, devaluing yourself that way.”

Money. He hadn’t thought about it in a serious fashion since Susannah died. “Take it or leave it, either way.”

“If I were a dog owner, I’d say you weren’t well socialized when you were young.” Annie smiled as she picked up the vase and cradled it in her arms. “Thank you. It’s beautiful. Don’t mind my mouth. It’s hard to let go of old patterns.”

Nathan understood about old patterns. The mobile gripped in his hand slipped. He wiped his hands on his jeans and swiped a glance at the time again. After a few more minutes of chat, he steered them outside. The air helped ease the queasiness that had settled over him. This was the first time he’d forgotten to cover the birdcage before a guest arrived.

“Most people are interested in the firing process,” he said. “I can show you that now if you’d like.”

“I’d like, indeed.”

The firing shed took up most of the space in the minuscule yard that backed up to a gentle hillside undulating into the next gentle hillside. Zoe had carved out a spot for herself in a corner. One stool, but its presence oppressed him. He didn’t like her out here when the kiln was going. He needed focus to transfer the molten pots to aluminum rubbish bins for the last stage of firing.

Nathan had given the raku firing talk so often he could spout it without thinking. Today he spoke faster than usual. Annie interrupted with pertinent questions along the way. She wasn’t going to let him hurry her along. In her own way she was as strong-willed as Zoe.

“Why is raku a low-fire technique?” she said. “What does that mean?”

Nathan nodded toward the giant silver-colored gas kiln in the corner of the shed. “It refers to the temperature up to which I fire the clay. The key to raku is removing the pots from the kiln when they reach their maximum temperature. You don’t wait for them to cool.”

“That must be dangerous.”

“I wear protective gear and pull the pots out with tongs.” He lifted the lid off one of the bins to reveal a brick pedestal and lots of soot and ash. “I transfer the pots into these bins and cover them. They are so hot they ignite the combustible items—like leaves—I’ve put in the bins. I’m forcing the pots to cool rapidly, which stresses the glaze, causing it to crackle. The smoke from the burning leaves soaks into the cracks.”

“Craquelure,” Annie said, sounding proud of herself.

“Yes.” Nathan tapped the lid back down on the rubbish bin. “The smoke also has an interesting effect on the glazes, which is why raku is known for its metallic sheen.”

“Your pieces are lovely.”

“That’s all they are. Their only function is beauty.”

Annie held out the vase that Nathan had gifted her, admiring it. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m not sure.”

She cocked her head at him, looking interested. He supposed it did sound odd. Here he was, a potter who created vases that leaked, that existed only to be praised, and that he wasn’t convinced deserved a place in the world.

On the other side of the house, the front door slammed, startling Nathan. He stepped away from Annie. “My daughter is home.”

“Dad?” came Zoe’s voice. “’Allo? Oh! Why, hello.”

The air crackled like his glazes when Zoe stepped into the yard. Nathan rubbed at his side. It had begun aching a few weeks ago.

“This is brilliant.” Zoe wrapped an arm around him and squeezed. “Glad to meet one of your lady friends for a change.”

“A studio visit, that’s all,” Nathan said. “Giving the tour.”

Zoe beamed; she positively radiated good cheer. Nathan grabbed the vase from Annie, murmuring that he should package it up.

“Oh, you bought it, wonderful,” Zoe said.

Nathan sneaked another peek at his watch. “You’re back early. I thought you’d be at Liam’s for hours.”

“He was in fine form today,” Zoe said. “Besides, I need to change. See here, I got blood on my dress.”

Nathan winced against a softening around the edges of his vision. The cotton batting that surrounded Nathan most of the time began buzzing, all around him a loud buzz that radiated from the base of his skull. He touched his fingertips to the tabletop to steady himself.

Annie opened her mouth to comment, but Zoe barreled on. “Not to worry. It’s not my blood. Bijou stepped on a shard of glass.” She pulled it out of her jacket pocket. “But she’s as good as new now.”

She dropped the shard on the table near Nathan’s hand. He jerked away, his stomach rising, and made it to the sink in the nick of time to throw up.

“Blimey, Dad, I didn’t know you had issues with the sight of blood,” Zoe said.

“That surprises you?” he retorted and immediately regretted it. “Not always,” he amended.

He sank onto the stool that Zoe set down beside him. Annie picked up the unpackaged vase, reassuring him that she’d be careful and that she’d enjoyed the studio tour.

“I’ll walk out with you, shall I?” Zoe kissed Nathan’s cheek. “I’ll change fast and be off again, too. We need more coffee. You be good.”

It took all of Nathan’s effort to nod. Yes, be gone. When her voice had faded into the house along with Annie’s, he stood, set the stool back in its spot in the corner of the shed, and sank down onto the floor instead.