Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Freya
S itting in front of a pottery wheel, Freya regretted agreeing to come to the class with Luke. He barely touched her with his bizarre promise not to touch another man’s woman.
It only annoyed her because there was no man, and until Luke stopped his tactile habits, she didn’t realise how much they hugged, held hands and draped over each other at any opportunity.
Freya looked to her right to see Luke had moulded his piece of clay into something beautiful. A tall, shapely jug that had no handle. He’d even put a dip in the edge for the water to flow out. Freya’s was still a lump of distorted mess in the middle of the turntable. Every time she started to peddle, the clay went out of control, and she stopped and watched Luke put the finishing grooves to the middle and top of his creation. Once he was done, he sat back with a pleased grin and wiped his hands on the white apron tied around his waist. Splatters of clay were over his blue t-shirt like a Jackson Pollock painting. It had sprayed along his neck and into his hair.
She was busy taking note of the corded muscles in his forearms when she heard someone clear their throat. Her head snapped up in the direction of the noise. She didn’t need to go far, as it was Luke wearing a wicked grin. His eyes were alight with something that caused her cheeks to burn.
Was she caught checking him out?
“What’s caught your attention, Peaches?” he asked.
“When did you learn to make pottery?”
“You like it?”
“It’s gorgeous, Luke. I think it would make a stunning pitcher or a vase for wildflowers.”
She watched as his face lit up at her praise, his eyes warming at her words. Surely he’d been praised before?
“I’m glad you like it. I’ve never tried pottery before. It’s awesome.”
“I can’t say the same.”
Luke looked down at Freya’s lump and chuckled.
“Do you want a hand?”
“I don’t know what I want to make,” Freya confessed, feeling defeated.
“What about a bowl for the pitcher to sit in?”
That was a great idea. She prepared the lump with water and reshaped it into a dome. Luke stood from his place and then dragged his stool to sit behind her. He sat close to her back, so close she could feel the heat from his body on her back. Luke scooted forward so his legs were on the outside of hers, his knees brushing her thighs. Then he rested his chin on her shoulder and rested his hands at her waist.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “Start peddling.”
She held back her shiver at his closeness. He’d acted so extreme to her having a fiancé. Now he was as close as a pillion rider on a motorcycle. Luke’s quiet encouragement fanned over her cheek. All she wanted to do was fall back against him and let him take over.
She had to remember she belonged to someone else.
“All right, put your hands on the clay. Get used to the texture.”
“What about my ring?”
“It’s just a ring. It’ll get dirty, and then you’ll clean it. Put your hands on the clay.”
Freya did as he asked.
“Make a fist with one hand and put the palm of your other on the side of the clay. You’re going to push down with your fist, making it a wider and shorter piece of clay.”
He was still talking quietly into her ear, resting his chin further over her shoulder, so his chest was now plastered to her back. Her body was rigid to concentrate on the clay in front of her. Gilbert Philbott had already demonstrated how to make the jug and the bowl. The other four people in the class were busy making their creations and paying no attention to Luke as he slipped an arm around her waist, flattening his hand on her belly. His other hand was resting on his leg, just in her peripheral vision.
“That’s great. Now slip your thumbs to the centre and push inside, making a well.”
“Okay,” Freya replied, blowing her stray hairs out of her face but not succeeding.
Luke brought his hands up, smoothed back her hair, and then retied her hair in the ponytail holder as she made a well.
“You’re doing so well. Now with one hand inside, use your fingers inside to press against the clay and then the knuckles of your other hand on the outside, and you’re going to pull up the sides as well as make it curve out.”
“It’s going to go horribly wrong, Luke.”
“It won’t. Just keep focussed. Look, let me show you.”
Luke took her one hand and spread her fingers so his were interlaced inside the moving pottery, then he pressed his knuckles next to hers and showed her the action. Finally, when she got the hang of it, he pulled his hands away, placed them on her thighs over her apron, and put his chin back on her shoulder.
“It’s looking good. Keep going with that action. Keep the clay at the bottom, so there is a heavy base, and then sculpt the sides, so they come out wide.”
“Are you sure this is your first time?”
“I may have done a bit of pottery before,” he confessed.
“Luke,” she snapped.
“Don’t blame me. You’d know I’d done pottery before if you’d paid attention to the letters I wrote to you. Focus, we don’t want it wobbly. You can tell me off for lying later. I’m sure lying isn’t something you’d ever do. So it’s not like the pot calling the kettle black.”
Freya kept quiet, concentrating on her fingers slipping against his. It was evident what Luke was referring to. How long until she had to admit there was no fiancé. She shifted on her stool. Luke must have thought she was trying to wriggle away because he pressed closer.
“Keeping fucking still,” he whispered in her ear. “You’re making me lose concentration.”
Freya’s concentration had flown out the window with Luke wrapped around her, doing all kinds of new things to her body. It looked like she was doing all the work to make the clay into a wide shallow dish, but she was along for the ride .
“You two make a great team. The pot looks fantastic,” Gilbert said as he passed.
“Thanks,” they both said.
“I contributed nothing to this enterprise, Luke.”
“Then you can pull your weight and charm Gilbert into telling us when he made the headstones and why he didn’t carve any names onto them.”
“Fine,” Freya said with a beaming smile.
Gilbert had turned their way again and frowned. Had he heard what Luke had asked Freya? She ignored the worry inching up her spine and dropped her head back to focus on the bowl. Luke lifted his hands, taking hers with him and sat up straight. One of his hands went back to her belly and rested there, keeping her in place. Did he think she was going to run off? The other rested on his leg, the clay already drying in patches on the back of his hand. Freya felt lost in what she could do. Now that she was aware of Luke rather than him simply existing, she was self-conscious about where to put her hands, body and mind.
“I’ll clean up here. You go do your thing with Mr Philbott,” Luke said.
Luke didn’t move a muscle, his palm flat against her stomach. He squeezed once and then stood, leaving her sitting. She felt the draught on her back as Luke moved away. Freya couldn’t explain her instant sadness that he was no longer cocooning her.
There was no time for her to dilly dally about Luke running hot and cold. She had a mission to complete. Freya walked over to where Mr Philbott was stacking utensils into a plastic bowl that looked set to go for washing. Then, straightening her apron without knowing what she would ask, she cleared her throat .
“Hi, Mr Philbott. I wonder if I can ask you a few questions?”
“Sure, Freya. What do you want to know?”
“Have you always made the headstones for the Turner family?”
“I’ve done a few, thankfully not many.”
“How many in total, would you say?”
“Now let’s see,” he said, tapping his finger from one hand onto his other hand.
He was muttering too low for her to hear the words he was saying. Finally, after a solid minute of counting and recounting, he looked up and made his declaration.
“Four.”
Freya wanted to burst out laughing. The man was in his seventies but sharp as a tack. Why it took him two minutes to come up with four was beyond her.
“I’m doing a project about his ancestors for Luke and his siblings. As a few families who served them attached to the Turner family for generations, I’d like to thread in their stories too. Can you tell me which of Luke’s family you made headstones for?”
“His dad. A sad time that was, I can tell you. Didn’t think I’d be making his father’s headstone in my lifetime. I thought my son would have that privilege. I did Luke’s grandfather and grandmother and Luke’s great-grandfather.”
“And are you the only business that makes and erects the headstones?”
“Yes, love. Miss Turner only uses our business as she knows we keep all the information confidential.”
Freya wondered if he was giving her a clue.
“One last question, and then I’ll let you get on with what you were doing. Which headstone did your father work on last?”
“I’m not sure, as I’d have to check the records. His memory is not what it used to be. He’s ninety-one now. He started as a stonemason as soon as he could at fourteen, which means he would have been working from 1946. Too late for Emma Turner. I know he worked on something for Miss Turner, but I can’t think who. I can check and come back to you.”
“That would be super helpful. Thank you, Mr Philbott. I’ll let you get on. I loved today’s lesson. I think I’m going to need a lot of practice. Luke helped me with most of it.”
“Ah, you two are a good pairing, always have been.”
Mr Philbott patted her arm and turned to work on the rest of the utensils. Strolling away, Gilbert Philbott had given her much to think about. There were no straight answers and more questions than before she started talking with him. Moving back to where Luke was packing up, she watched as he admired the bowl they’d made. He placed the jug he’d made over the bowl without touching it. He nodded and placed it back on the pedestal.
“Did you get any answers?” Luke asked when he noticed her standing and gazing.
“Kind of. We might need a debrief over a pint.”
“All right, sounds good. Let me have a quick word with Mr Philbott.”
“I’ll meet you outside.”
Luke nodded and left her to speak with Gilbert. She shouldered her handbag, left the classroom and walked down the corridor of the small barn that housed the pottery classes. She headed for the golf buggy and hopped in to wait for Luke.
A few minutes later, they were on the move, Luke driving even though it was her buggy. Luke was not to be driven. Anywhere. It had always been that way. Freya didn’t care. She liked to be driven.
He parked up at the alley next to Heidi’s old home, which was one door down from hers, and they kept walking past her front door and onto The Anchor.
Luke was quiet.
“Are you okay?” Freya asked.
“Sure. You?”
“Yeah,” she said.
She was, and she believed his answer too. They hadn’t spent a lot of time together over the last nine years, and she was still getting used to his bossy ways.