7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Clay
“Mama? It’s just me,” I said as I knocked and then pushed open the white, barn-style door. “I don’t wanna scare ya because I walked over instead of driving. I picked up your grocery order on the front porch and put everything away in the kitchen.”
I walked into my mother’s standalone pottery studio, a small building my father had built for her about thirty years ago.
The studio had been a birthday gift so she could have a year-round place to throw her pots.
Mama had everything she needed in that studio, and the yacht rock music blaring on the speakers made me smile.
It reminded me of her and Pop dancing in the kitchen of our family home while she made dinner.
“Oh, Clay, honey. How are you? How was your trip to Kansas City to meet with Steve? Are he and Melissa doin’ okay?”
Mama stopped the wheel where she was turning a huge bowl. She was very talented, and I could see why my father had fallen in love with her over a weekend. Her personality was evident in her smile. No wonder I fell for Hunter the minute I saw him. Instalove must run in the family DNA.
“I didn’t see Steve when I was in town. He called to tell me that Betsy passed away, and he and Mel were going to St. Louis to bury her.
I met with one of Steve’s associates this first time, and I believe he’s handling our financial plan.
The guy was really nice and gave me some things to think about.
We’re going to have a conference call after you and I come to some decisions. ”
Mama nodded. “Did you stop to see Hunter?”
God, she knew me too well. “I did. I’m not ready to stop talking to him yet, I guess. What’s going on around here?” I had to change the subject before the tears pricked my tired eyes and I broke down again. The tears had fallen nearly the whole eighty miles home.
“Millie Graves came by this morning.” Mama’s sour expression made me bite my lips.
Millie Graves owned a consignment shop in town that showcased local artists until she and Mama got into a fight about Millie liberating one of Mama’s vases to gift to a friend without paying for it.
That was the end of the relationship, and Mama hadn’t spoken to the woman in two years.
“We’re now frenemies,” Mama labeled them after the event.
It was really hard not to laugh at her disdain.
“And...”
“She wants me to take the leaf collection to her friend’s gallery in Kansas City. Millie says I could sell them at the Oktoberfest celebration at Crown Center where the gallery is located.
“Millie believes the collection will sell well because it’s fall themed. She made some crack about me needing the money since I’d stopped selling pieces at her shop.” Mama stood from the pottery wheel and went to the sink to clean the clay from her hands.
I stopped in front of the heavy metal shelves that held most of my mother’s creations: colorful vases, bowls, platters, pitchers, and various other sculpted pieces she’d made over the years.
Pop and I put the shelves together as the collection grew, but now they were chock full.
I’d never seen so many pieces on those shelves.
My mama, Pansy Acre-Fines, stopped selling her pre-made pieces after her run-in with Millie Graves. She still created beautiful pottery, but now she just stacked it on a shelf instead of offering it for sale.
“Okay, you don’t need the money. We’re solid financially.
So, what do you think? The leaf pieces really are beautiful.
It’s a shame not to offer them for sale unless you want to take them into your house, though I don’t know where you’d put them.
” I pointed to the wood and glass display case in the corner of the shed where she housed them.
They’d been there as long as I could remember, thanks to Pop.
Mama walked over to the case and put her arm around my waist. “This whole collection was inspired by your father, Clay. I can’t part with them.”
I knew the story like I knew the back of my hand. My father followed the clues he said Mother Nature gave him regarding harvesting and planting the crops—the changing of the leaves in the fall and the blooms in the spring.
He said the trees were the best indicator of the seasons, and when he was ready to harvest or plant, he’d bring a small branch from the huge red oak beside the house to show Mama, and later, me. The color of the leaves or the size of the growing blooms told him when it was time to harvest or plant.
Myself? I no longer took a branch from the tree. I watched it the way I’d been taught and saw what Pop had instilled in me to look for. That was how the land spoke to me.
“Okay, do you think the lady would let you display the blue collection?”
I pointed to the metal shelves that held the blue pieces Mama made last winter.
She said it reminded her of the winter night sky that my father used to love.
The two of them would build a fire in the outdoor firepit and look at the stars while bundled under a huge wool blanket on a glider.
It was their check-in time after how busy Pop had been during the harvest season and before spring planting.
I always thought it was sweet, and now, I wished Mama and I both had someone to stargaze with.
“She gave me the woman’s card and told me to call her, but going back and forth to take my pottery to Kansas City doesn’t sound like something I want to do. You’ve been running non-stop since the harvest started, and you can’t do it all by yourself, Clay. When will you harvest the sorghum?”
“When’s the Oktoberfest event? I haven’t gone out to the fields to check the plants since I got back, but we have a good-sized window.
If I’m just making a trip or two a week to take your pottery to the city, then I can harvest the sorghum around those trips.
If it rains like usual this fall, we have until late October for it to sufficiently dry. We’ll make it work, Mama.”
I kissed the top of her head and walked over to the kiln to feel whether it was still hot. Mama usually fired over night until the snowballs flew. We’d had some warm fall days, so I doubted she’d been firing during the day.
The squat, stainless-encased oven was cool to the touch so I lifted the lid to see the beautiful pots inside that Mama had painted with a stunning golden glaze that shined like the late summer sun. “You want me to unload these for you?” I glanced over my shoulder to see Mama’s soft smile.
“No, honey. I need to grind off the points from the stilts. I’ll do it later.” Mama sat down at the wheel again, scooping water from the bucket to sprinkle over the wilted clay bowl.
I knew she was done with the conversation at that point, so I walked over, kissed her cheek, and went out the door of the shop. I walked to Mama’s small house and checked that she was using the air conditioner because she had a propensity to turn it off, even when it was still hot in early fall.
The woman was stubborn as hell, but she’d gotten me through some of the roughest times of my life. I loved her with all my heart.
For two weeks, I took care of the hay and corn fields to prepare them for winter while I kept watching the sorghum. Much to my surprise, we didn’t have our usual rainy fall. The sorghum started to dry as it should, and I was set to start the harvest.
I was driving the ATV around the sorghum field to check the grains when my phone rang. I picked it up without glancing at the screen because I needed to speak to a few of my haulers who hadn’t confirmed their availability. “Hello?”
“Hello, Clay. How are you, son?” I glanced at the screen to see it was Steve Korr and anxiety flooded my body.
I turned off the motor and responded. “Hey, Steve. I’m sorry about Betsy. How are you and Mel?”
“Thank you, Clay. We’re good. Mom had been failing for quite a while, so it wasn’t really a surprise. How’d your meeting go with Justin Watkins?”
Steve sounded the same as always—not really interested in what was going on with me but trying because of my relationship with Hunter. I knew the loss of their son weighed heavily on Steve and Mel. It weighed heavy on me, too.
“It went well. He gave me some insightful suggestions regarding my investments, and he said we’d talk sometime this week after I made some decisions.
I’ve talked to Pansy about things, and I think we’re ready to discuss our financial future.
” Mama said I should do what I thought best, which wasn’t a surprise at all.
“That’s good, Clay. How is Pansy?”
“She’s got a shed full of pottery and a woman in Kansas City who might want to showcase her work to sell some of it. Pansy’s not sure what to do about it. I’m trying to talk her into it, but my mother has her own mind.” That was an understatement.
Steve chuckled. “Pansy is a unique woman. I hope she’ll consider it. We have a beautiful bowl you gave us the first Christmas you and—” He stopped talking, and I sucked in a harsh breath.
“Yes, I remember it.” I paused. “What can I do for you?” I didn’t mean to sound as if I was rushing him, but neither of us would fare well if he’d finished the sentence. Going down memory lane wasn’t what I wanted to do that afternoon.
“Well, uh, this is a little awkward. Did something happen between you and Justin Watkins? He gave me your file with notes, but he didn’t tell me why he wasn’t going to be handling your financial plan.” Steve sounded a little perturbed.
That was news to me. “No, uh, we got along well. He’s a nice guy. He had a lot of ideas I hadn’t considered, and I thought we parted ways on a friendly note. Did he say anything about it that sounded as if I’d left a bad impression?”
It didn’t seem like a good idea to mention how our breakfast ended with him racing out of the restaurant in a goddamn hurry after he tossed out an invitation to fuck. I still wasn’t sure what suddenly came over Justin that morning, but I was willing to let it go. I just needed him to talk to me.
Maybe Justin was embarrassed and wanted to avoid me? If so, that was really a shame.
I had his business card on my dresser, and I’d thought about calling him when I went to Kansas City in a few days to take some of Mama’s pottery to The Artists’ Corner.
“It’s your firm, Steve, and I trust you.
You can do whatever you want regarding my financial planning.
Mama and I don’t have a lot of extra money, but we’d like what we have to work for us.
Justin had good ideas, but if he doesn’t want to handle my account, I’ll work with Eve Murray.
She sat in on the planning meeting, so she probably knows what Justin envisioned for our portfolio. ”
Steve was silent for a moment. “Eve’s great, but I really thought you and Justin could work well together. Let me talk to him, Clay. One of us will get back to you this week. Tell Pansy that Melissa and I send our love.”
“Thanks, Steve. I will. Take care.” We hung up, and my chest felt hollow.
I was surprised that Justin didn’t want to work with me. Maybe it was more than embarrassment on his part? Maybe I said something that turned him off completely. I guessed I’d never know.
The idea of never seeing him again intensified the feeling of loss already coursing through my body. I’d walked that road before and didn’t like it at all.