— not the fleeting feeling of physical lust, although he had felt plenty of that too, or the intellectual curiosity he felt when meeting a woman who was interesting to talk to, although Laurel was fascinating to him. It was the deep, abiding connection that he had with her, even still, even after all those years apart and everything that had happened between them. He was inexplicably drawn to her in a way he’d never been drawn to anyone else. Now that he was sure of what he wanted, he had to take this chance to make it happen.
He rounded the corner, and there was the gallery, a brilliant red, orange and yellow phoenix emblazoned on its white stucco exterior. His lips twitched. Was it some weird quirk of fate that he was going to try to resurrect her love for him in a place called the Phoenix?
There was quite a crowd inside the little place, and he watched as people milled about, looking with admiration at the pottery on display. He felt a swell of pride when he overheard the patrons compliment the quality of Laurel’s work and the beauty of her designs. He wandered about, looking, listening, and feeling very pleased for her. A group of four people was examining a serving set, and he sidled up to them to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“Yes, it’s marvelous work,” said one of the women, “but I’m wondering how a relative unknown scored a venue like this. There are so many deserving artists around.”
“I heard,” said the other woman, “that she has connections through a friend of the owner.”
“She knows Crenshaw?”
“Through a mutual friend — some professor at a little college in the mountains — fellow by the name of Edwards. Fancies himself a player in the art world.”
“Are she and this player . . . a couple?”
“What do you think?” was the knowing reply.
“He’s crazy if they aren’t,” one of the men volunteered. “Have you seen her? Pretty hot stuff in that granola kind of way.”
“She’s giving a demonstration at 3:30. I guess we’ll get to judge for ourselves in about five minutes.”
James resented the implication that Laurel had to sleep with someone to get this opportunity, even as he wondered whether there was something to the gossip, but he seethed inwardly and kept his opinions to himself.
He followed the crowd upstairs to the loft and stood over to the side to wait. His breath caught in his throat when she appeared through a side door. The gray apron she wore gave her a serious artist look, but her hair shone like the sun under the recessed lighting above, and the blues, violets and greens of her flowing skirt peeked out in defiance of her attempts to subdue them. An older man with silver streaks in his dark hair came up beside her and whispered into her ear, putting a gentle hand on her lower back. When he turned around, James recognized him as Cooper Edwards, Mr. Elliot’s professor friend — and the apparent player in the overheard conversation. Laurel laughed softly at whatever Edwards had said to her and made her way to the platform.
James ducked behind a group of onlookers and a post. He didn’t want her to notice him just yet. He wanted to watch her in her element, working and interacting with people. She had this way of relating to everyone she met in a gentle, nonthreatening way. What an incredible gift that was!
“Hello!” Laurel stood behind the potter’s wheel and addressed the crowd with a brilliant and disarming smile. “I’m Laurel Elliot, and I’m so pleased you all chose to come today. Pottery is an ancient art, and there are some estimates that the use of the potter’s wheel dates back to anywhere between 8000 and 1400 BCE. I love pottery because it’s beautiful and expressive, but useful too. It’s art with a purpose. But I think you’ll find as you wander around the fair that a lot of the art from the Appalachians is art with a purpose. Quilting is one example; making baskets is another.
“Today, I’m going to start with a lump of potter’s clay and take you through the process of forming a vase. I’ll be describing what I’m doing as I go. Feel free to shout out a question or two, but if I don’t respond right away, don’t be offended; I’m just concentrating too hard to formulate an answer. And don’t be shy about repeating your question later, okay?”
Amid nods