Page 8 of Delay of Game
I turned away from the pottery wheels. “In his blood?”
“Robert, my late husband, God rest his soul.” She touched her fingers to her lips, and her eyes wandered up before she continued with a smile. “He and I met at a pottery studio. We were both production potters. He made mugs. I made plates. Rob grew up playing with clay. Of course, once he had a football in his hand, he found his true love, but he still mucks around in the clay occasionally.”
My job is the least exciting thing about me.
Apparently, that statement was a fact, not a throwaway line that unintentionally got me hot and bothered.
“Do you want to throw something?” Gloria asked, fishing out an open bag of clay from under the table. “Do you prefer speckled brown or white? Personally, I love the speckles. It just looks so nicely rustic. And then, if you mess up your throw, it looks like you did it on purpose. Isn’t that lovely?”
She already had two hunks of speckled brown out on the table, kneading one with practiced ease.
“I haven’t thrown anything in a year,” I admitted. “I wasn’t very good when I learned.”
She waved a hand before tossing me a lump of clay and kneading the second. “Nonsense. I bet you’re a natural. I have some aprons hanging over there.” She pointed to a coat rack by the door. “Pull one on and let’s make something.”
She smiled as she wedged with a confidence that made it impossible to tell her no. I had taken up so much of their time tonight, and a prickle of guilt nagged at me. But Gloria seemed so at ease in the studio, as if there was nowhere else she’d rather be, and the truth of the matter was, I didn’t want to be alone. Not in the rambling giant house that felt lonely with only one person. Not when Gloria and Mila enveloped me like they’d invited me to dinner weeks ago and not at the last minute because I’d had a meltdown.
I picked through the aprons, selecting a durable gray canvas that covered my entire front and dragged on the ground. Probably Rob’s, but too late to change course.
I pulled up a chair in front of the wheel, my mind reeling to recall the steps to turn this hunk of clay into a bowl or a cup or whatever I could manage that wouldn’t make myself look like an absolute rookie in front of a woman who made the type of pottery sold in fancy stores.
“I’m not sure I remember all the steps,” I admitted with a start as Gloria pulled up the chair beside me. She flipped on my wheel, and I pressed my foot on the pedal. The wheel came to life, flying counterclockwise before I stopped it again.
“Throw that piece down and let’s see what you’ve got,” Gloria goaded me into action. I picked up the clay and smacked it onto the board. “Good girl! Now, dab some water on your fingers and seal it in place.”
She walked me through the steps I’d taken so long ago, her hand cupping mine to make sure I pulled the walls up straight and showing me how to knock down the bottom. I lost track of time as she wedged more clay, piling it onto the edge of the wheel and then scuttling away with my finished pieces to dry.
“Youarea natural!” She insisted as the pile dwindled to nothing and I stopped the wheel for the last time. I checked my clay-splattered watch, surprised to find that we’d stayed in the studio for nearly three hours.
“Oh, look at the time!”
Gloria’s face crumpled with concern. “Oh no, did I make you late for something?”
I shook my head. “No. I just didn’t mean to keep you so long.”
“You didn’t keep me,” she shushed. “Rob is putting Mila to bed, and honestly, he probably appreciated the break from having me buzzing around.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, wiping my dirty hands into the water bucket. “That was fun.”
“And you’ll be back tomorrow to trim? Or would you like me to leave them out of the drying room and come back in a couple of days?”
I hadn’t really considered that pottery wasn’t a one and done activity.
“You don’t want to just reuse that clay?” I asked.
Her face fell. “You don’t want to finish these?”
“Oh no,” I corrected. “I do. I really do. I just didn’t want to inconvenience?—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Gloria interrupted, her face bright and eager. “That one vase has an absolutely adorable silhouette. You need to finish it.”
“Okay, if you don’t mind. We have to get ready for the kindergarten tour, but could I come later in the week?”
“I look forward to it!” she said with enthusiasm.
Or maybe I wanted to hear that enthusiasm in her voice so much that I’d imagined it. I couldn’t be sure, but for the first time in a month, I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t feel sad. And I wanted to hang onto that feeling.
I couldn’t pinpoint whether that feeling came from Gloria or the pottery or just being out of the house, but, I agreed.
