The Cracked Pot (2 page)

"I'm not entirely certain he's even going to show up," I said. "Maybe he forgot about us."

My accusation didn't faze David for a second. "He plays by his own set of rules. The man's a genius."

"I've never met a genius before, but if this is the way one acts, I haven't been missing anything. What time is he scheduled to talk at the college?"

David looked at his watch. "He should be starting in less than an hour. I hope nothing's happened to him."

"Don't be so dramatic. What you should really hope is

that he remembered at least one of the appearances he agreed to make today." I'd had enough hero worship to last me a month.

"If he misses it, I know he'll have a good reason," David said, already making excuses.

"Is Annie going to the demonstration with you?" Annie Gregg was David's first serious girlfriend. The relationship had begun because of Annie's remarkable resemblance to Julia Roberts, the lovely and talented actress—and David's other infatuation. Annie was cleaning houses to save up for Stanford, and David often complained that she spent more time amassing her tuition than she did with him.

"She's busy cleaning a house, but as soon as she finishes, she's going to meet me there."

"Maybe you should go on to the school," I suggested. "You wouldn't want to get a bad seat for the demonstra tion." Or stay here and keep driving me crazy, I added to myself.

"Don't worry about that. I've got two seats reserved in the front row."

"You don't have Hannah holding them, do you? Your mother has better things to do than sit in an auditorium all day saving you seats." Hannah was David's mother and also my best friend, an arrangement that sometimes led to com plications but was generally a good thing for all concerned. She was also an English professor at the college and the push behind David getting a formal education there.

"Are you kidding me? She thinks I'm crazier than you do. I paid Kelly Winston to do it. In exchange for reserving two seats for me, I'm giving her a free lesson in throwing a bowl on the wheel. You don't mind, do you?"

"Why should I mind? It's just my business and the way I earn my living. If you want to give my money away, what right do I have to object?" When I looked at his face, I saw that I'd gone a little too far with my teasing, something I had a habit of doing with young David. "Relax, I'm kidding. Of course I don't mind."

"Thanks, Carolyn." He glanced at his watch again. "Maybe I should call the hospital, or even the sheriff. He'd know if Mr. Potter had been in an accident, wouldn't he?"

"I doubt Sheriff Hodges would know if he had hit the man with his own patrol car." John Hodges was our sheriff, an older man who was hanging on until he could retire with full benefits. Many townspeople thought he was a little less than diligent performing his duties, and I was ready to ad mit that I was one of the first to come to that conclusion.

David waited at Fire at Will as long as he could. After glancing at the Dali-like melted wall clock for the sixtieth time in twelve minutes, he said reluctantly, "He's not com ing, is he?"

"It doesn't look like it." The man had some nerve, agree ing to come by one day and completely blowing me off the next, without so much as a telephone call or an explanation.

David sighed, and as he left the shop, he said, "Promise me you'll get his autograph for me if he comes by here first." He thrust Charles Potter's book,
A Study in Clay,
at me. "Have him personalize it, too."

"Shouldn't you take this with you? It will mean a lot more to you if you see him sign it yourself."

David grinned. "Don't worry about that. I've got another copy out in my car."

"Why am I not surprised." I turned the cover over to get a look at the author, but the back held only a blurb from an other author. "What, no photograph?"

"He won't allow pictures of any sort to be taken of him," David explained. "In fact, this is his first public appearance, and I mean ever."

"Then how did he get so well known?"

David shrugged. "He's sold his work through galleries, and he has a presence online. This is his first book, though. There are all kinds of articles about his techniques on the Internet. You really should get a computer, Carolyn."

"What on earth would I possibly use it for? I'm fine with my portable typewriter."

He shook his head. "There's a whole world out there waiting for you."

"Then it'll just have to continue waiting." I wasn't in any mood to be lectured by my assistant on the modern age and the joys of technology. "Hadn't you better go?"

"You're right. Bye, Carolyn."

"Good-bye, David. Have fun, and don't forget to curtsey when you meet him."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said.

"Oh, that's right, boys don't curtsey; they bow."

He rolled his eyes at me much as my own two sons had done once upon a time, and I felt a stab of nostalgia for when they were younger.

After David had gone, I had the shop to myself for the last half hour of my regular business hours, though I wasn't finished with my workday by any means. Tonight, the Fir ing Squad was meeting, and it was my turn to provide the snacks. Jenna Blake, a retired judge, had instituted a prac tice where we took turns bringing refreshments to our meet ings, since I couldn't afford to feed them without charging more. I contributed whenever it was my turn, and I didn't hesitate to sample what they brought in. It made me feel like a member of the squad instead of its sponsor. Tonight I was hurrying home to make my famous not so Swedish meat balls, and if I knew my husband, Bill, he would be hovering just underfoot, complaining about being hungry as he ate more than his share of the treats.

"How much is this costing you?" Bill said later that evening at home as I was preparing the night's fare. "Are you going to actually make any money tonight?"

"I'm doing fine; you don't have to worry about my bot tom line. This is a goodwill gesture for my group."

"That's all well and good, but don't forget about your husband," he said as he polished off another meatball and picked up one more. "I need some goodwill, too."

"I'm sorry, what did you just say? I couldn't understand you with all that food in your mouth."

He pouted when I said that, something my dear husband was inclined to do, so I quickly added, "Eat all you want. I made a double batch, so there's plenty."

Out of sheer cussedness, he put the toothpick-skewered ball he was holding back on the platter I was filling. "I wouldn't want to deprive your guests."

"Fine, if there are any left, I'll try to remember to bring them back home."

He looked at the meatballs another few seconds, then said, "Knowing you, you'll probably forget. I'd better get my share right now."

"Suit yourself," I said as I turned my back on him. A minute or so later I looked toward him again and saw sev eral more empty toothpicks on his plate. At least I knew Bill wouldn't go hungry tonight. I covered the platter, then leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Don't wait up. We're try ing a new technique of weaving clay tonight, and it might take us a while to get it right."

Bill pointed a toothpick at me. "Have you ever done any thing like it yourself?"

"No," I admitted reluctantly, "but it looks easy enough."

He shook his head, so I asked, "What?"

"I'm not saying a word."

"You don't have to. I'm perfectly capable of learning how to do something from a book."

I was expecting some kind of retort, not the grin he gave me. "Why are you smiling?"

"Was I? Sorry, didn't mean to."

"Sometimes I'd like to trade you in for a hat."

"You hate hats," he said, still grinning.

"Then I'd give it away, too, and be done with you."

"Come here, woman." He wrapped me in his arms, and I tingled at his touch; even after all our years together he still made me feel that way. As I gazed up at him, a gooey and romantic expression on my face, he leaned down and whis pered in my ear, "Don't forget to bring home the leftovers."

I broke away, smiling despite his less than seductive comment. "Don't worry, I've never forgotten yet, have I?"

When I got to the shop, Sandy Crenshaw—a reference librarian and a charter member of the Firing Squad—was standing out front. Sandy was a cute and curvy young brunette with sparkling brown eyes and a sunny smile.

"Have you been waiting long?" I asked as I tried to get my keys out of my purse while balancing the platter of meatballs in the other hand.

"Here, let me help you with those," she said as she took them from me. "Sorry I'm so early."

"Nonsense," I said as I opened the door to the shop and held it for her. "I could use a hand setting up." I flipped on the lights as I walked inside. The front part of Fire at Will was devoted to folks who wanted to paint their own pottery pieces. There were tables and chairs set up, and along the perimeter were shelves stacked with bisque-fired pottery ready for paint and glaze. The front display window had pieces for sale, along with a table by the cash register for more items. I was amazed at how many of the pieces I sold were already finished. Not that I minded, but I much pre ferred folks to come in and actually paint or work with the raw clay themselves. Behind the paint studio, in the back, were the potter's wheels and the worktables for shaping raw clay. I had as many customers who liked hand-building as I did those who liked throwing on one of our wheels. Behind that was my office, a bathroom, and a storage area. Fire at Will didn't have a big footprint, but I'd managed to cram a lot of activity into it.

"What would you like me to do?" Sandy asked as she put the meatballs down on our snack table.

"You could get out the hot plate so we can keep those warm," I said.

As she did that, I started laying out some of the tools we'd need tonight. There were five of us in the Firing Squad. I never counted David, since he usually had night classes at Travers. He had brokered a deal with his mother early on. If he could work at Fire at Will during the day cre ating the pottery he loved, he would attend night classes at Travers for her benefit. Hannah had reluctantly agreed, so whenever the two of them had a conflict, I always managed to get stuck squarely in the middle of it.

After arranging the tools for the evening's activities, I cut off five chunks of clay from one of the bags I stored in a broken refrigerator and started kneading them. It would save some time if I had the clay ready when the others ar rived.

"Can I help you with that?" Sandy asked.

"Sure, that would be great."

As she took a slab of clay and started working it on the board, she said, "I'm really excited about this."

"Then you need to get out more," I said as I worked out a particularly stubborn air bubble. "How's your love life? Are you still seeing Jake?"

"No, that kind of fizzled out," she admitted.

"Not your one true love?"

Sandy laughed. "Not even in my top ten. To be honest with you, he found someone else."

"Oh, Sandy, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," she said. "I kind of set it up myself."

I stopped kneading for a second and stared at her. "You're not going to get away with just telling me that much. I want details."

"I had a friend I thought would be better suited for him than I was, so I planned a double date with Jennifer, and I promised to introduce her to a great guy."

"Okay, I'm with you so far."

She grinned, then said, "I got an emergency phone call when we were standing in line at the theater. I had to leave, they went to the movie without me, and now everyone's happier."

"What happened to her blind date?"

"Now why on earth would I go to the trouble of fixing her up with somebody else when I had a perfectly good plan in place to get them together. Jake really is a great guy. He's just not the one for me."

"I don't know how you keep up with it all," I said, laugh ing. I started thinking about eligible young men I knew who might be right for Sandy. I'd have to do any matchmaking surreptitiously, though. I'd promised Bill years ago that I'd stop meddling in other people's lives, and I always tried to keep my oaths. Most of the time. Okay, I wasn't great at it, but why couldn't he admit that sometimes people needed a little nudge in the right direction, and if I could provide it, didn't I owe that much to my friends? Why shouldn't they be happy, too?

I heard a knock at the front door, so I left the clay at the table and went to the front of the shop. Jenna Blake, the re tired judge, along with Butch Hardcastle, the reformed crook, were standing outside. Butch looked like a thug at first glance, big and burly with an intimidating counte nance, but he was a teddy bear inside. At least he was with us. Jenna managed to look dignified no matter what the cir cumstances. She had allowed the gray creeping gently into her hair to remain, and she absolutely exuded power and confidence.

I opened the door for them and stepped aside. "Come on in. Have either one of you spoken with Martha today?" Martha Knotts was the final member of the Firing Squad, a young mother of five who somehow managed to stay reed thin, a quality I had to work not to hate her for.

"She can't make it," Jenna said as I locked the door be hind her. "Angie has the flu, and it looks like the others may be coming down with it as well. She sounded rather harried when I spoke with her earlier."

I couldn't imagine that crew of hers all getting sick at the same time. "Is there anything we can do to help?"

"No, she said her mother-in-law was coming to pitch in. The poor girl."

"Don't feel sorry for her," I said. "Martha told me the woman is an absolute dream."

Butch said, "You two can stand here and talk all night, but I want to get started."

"You're impatient tonight," Jenna said.

"Sorry. I've just got an appointment a little later on, and I want to be sure I don't miss it." I wondered at times just how reformed Butch really was, but I was afraid to press him too much about it.

On the other hand, Jenna was not. "Butch Hardcastle, I can't imagine any appointment that late being legitimate."