hands, but pliable. I widened my cylinder as the wheel spun it smooth, then reached in and bowed the inside. Dipping again, I sped the wheel a tad and narrowed the top on a whim, loving the eloquent irony of a whistle-hole crown on a round little belly. Of course, no infuser would fit through what I’d made. Wetting my fingers again, I widened back the collar, then, using my forefingers, shaped the rim. The lid would sit here, larger or smaller. I couldn’t decide which. First, I made it too wide, and it looked positively stocky at the top of the pot. Then it was too narrow, too spindly. In the process of adjusting it, though, something happened that I liked. My thumbs had nicked notches that undulated around the top of the pot.
Letting the wheel slow to a stop, I smiled and sat back. I often carved designs into the bellies of my pots, sometimes combing through the wet slip with my fingers, sometimes with tools. I wasn’t one for precise symmetry, far preferring an irregularity that made each piece one-of-a-kind, but what intrigued me most was texture. Using any number of techniques, I could add clay or shave it off, shape it, carve it, or glaze it to create a texture with which the user identified. Teapots could be whimsical, joyful, solemn, serious, businesslike, or practical.
It was rather like decorating a cake. At least, to me, it was. My mother had first built her business decorating cakes. I liked to think we were connected this way.
Covering the body with plastic to keep it moist, I fashioned a spout, positioned it, and, after boring a dozen holes in the proper spot, scored it and slurried it to the body. The lid came next. I had just enough time to put a little bee knob on the top—pure whimsy, with honey scones—before setting the pot to dry and cleaning up.
I took extra care with my hands. I would wash them again once I reached the Spa, but clay there would clog the pipes. Here we had two sinks, one to catch clay from the first wash, and a second for actual cleaning. I didn’t skimp on either. Once dry, even a trace of clay would be gritty against the human face, and I had three makeup sessions booked for today.
Hands clean, parka zipped, I stopped only to give Kevin McKay a hug. Kevin owned the studio and, being soft-spoken, understanding, and gay, was as close to a boyfriend as I allowed. Turning away from the student he was helping, he held his clay-wet hands off for an arms-only squeeze. “Another teapot?” he whispered and let his raised brows ask the follow-up.
Kevin knew me well. “Honey scones,” I whispered back and, drawing away to leave that thought here with my teapot, I made for the door.
The stairwell leading to the street was cold, the March sun still too weak to chase off winter’s chill. I pulled on wool gloves and, once outside, climbed up into my truck without looking at the muck that spattered its side. Going through the car wash during mud season—like scrubbing the soles of my boots every night—was futile. I had learned not to make the effort. Besides, mud held a certain cachet. It gave me a sense of belonging. Every other local car looked like mine. Not that there were many right now. I saw several more New York plates and one each from Washington, DC, and Connecticut. Given the nature of Devon, this was normal.
I drove slowly past stores that were chicly appointed, their goods in artful window displays, their names etched in gold across handsome headers of Vermont granite. They were open now, entertaining early weekend visitors. Bookstore, coffee shop, boutiques—all were doing a comfortable business, to judge from the movement beyond those window displays. Same with two art galleries and a silversmith’s shop. And the studio store? Some of the craftspeople who sold there relied on their earnings to live, and although I did not, the artist in me had enough of an ego left to like checking it out.
But I was heading north. The studio store was on Cedar, which came in from the east as I had earlier. Since I had a booking at noon, I had to go straight now to the Inn. That meant continuing for another mile on the Blue Highway, a two-lane road named after the river it followed.