by Karen M Cox
“Wow,” she mused. “You don’t do things the easy way, do you?”
He laughed without humor. “John told me he was seeing somebody, and I swear, Susan, at first I thought it was Laurel. It was like a gorilla was sitting on my chest.” He rubbed his hand across his front as if he still felt it.
“So . . . I’m in love with her. I never stopped loving her, I guess. Stupid, huh? She cut me loose years ago, and there I was, all last summer, still panting after her like a twenty-year-old kid. And after I tipped my hand and let her know how I felt, what did I do? I ran away — like an idiot.”
“Not one of your best moves, that’s for sure, but it is your usual MO. Run off before it gets too scary, upsetting, provoking — and not just with women, I have to say. I mean, isn’t that why you went to Nashville in the first place — to avoid dealing with Dad not paying for school? You could have stuck it out. There were ways you could have made it work.”
“Now you sound just like Laurel did back then.”
“I knew I liked her.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Can’t blame you though after the miserable excuse for a marriage we saw growing up, but James . . . Well, maybe I should stay out of it . . . ”
“No, tell me. I need advice. Hell, I’m begging for it. You and Gary were the only truly happy couple I knew before I met Eric and Millie.”
“Okay, but remember — you asked for it. You’re not happy now, right?”
“No.”
“You did what you always do, and you’re not happy.”
“That’s the long and short of it.”
“So do the opposite of what you usually do.”
“Huh?”
“Come back, James. Find her and work it out. Come home.”
“It might be too late.” He shook his head. “I really blew it in July, and I panicked. I never even saw her after that — not to talk or apologize or anything. All I wanted was to get back home, back to my familiar life, but once I got here, it was . . . ”
“What?”
“Empty, lonely. I’ve been alone a lot over the years, but since I left Nashville, I’ve never been really lonely. I thought I’d be better once I got home.”
“San Francisco isn’t your home. It’s just the place you live. We grow up thinking of home as a place, and all a sudden, if we’re lucky, we wake up and realize home is really a person.
“How do you think I could move all over the country, even all over the world, time and time again? It’s because all those places don’t mean much, James. What matters is Gary. He’s my anchor, my port.” She laughed. “Sorry — bad naval analogy.”
“Gary’s a lucky man.”
“You’re sweet. But you know as well as I do that, many times in life, you make your own luck. It wasn’t easy being apart, but I went with him when I could and endured when I couldn’t. We made it work.”
James smiled at Susan’s choice of words; it sounded like something he might say himself, but then he sobered. There were decisions to be made. It was another big Crossroads of life — with a capital C.
“So what do I do? How do I reach her? We have nothing in common anymore — maybe we never did. I live in the city; she lives on a mountain. I work with computers; she molds clay with her hands. I have this stupid shitload of money; she has barely enough to scrape by. She has this big family; I have you and Gary. She’s cautious; I take risks.”
“How long did it take to come up with that list of lame excuses, James?”
“Been reciting it daily since July,” he said.
“So try this list instead: you are both artists, you both love the Kentucky foothills and the lake, and you were each other’s first love. In many ways that matter, you are very much alike. And the ways that you’re different — that makes love exciting and eternally new.”
“Another man might suit her better — one who understands her more.”
“You want my honest opinion?”
“Yeah, I’m floundering here.”
“She doesn’t need a male version of herself. We all seek the other to complete ourselves. It just may be that you’re one of the only men who would suit her. You should at least give her the choice.”
“You know, it’s only a weird quirk of fate that John’s not seeing her. They’ve been spending all this time together, getting to know each other. If Heather hadn’t been right under his nose . . . and bored . . . ” he squirmed, as if something vile was crawling up his back. “How long will it be before some other guy sees the amazing woman John saw? Except the next guy might be interested for real.”
“So don’t waste any more time. As to how to reach her . . . I don’t know. The best advice I can give you is to say what’s in your heart, James, in whatever way you can wrest it from your jaded soul.”
He looked at his guitar, leaning against the bookshelf. His fingers itched to touch it, to play the melody that had been his constant companion for the last eight years.
Susan’s voice called him back to their conversation. “I know one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t win her if you’re out there in California.”
“Is this an attempt to get me closer to home?” he asked in a wry tone.
“It’s an attempt to get you closer to happiness. Fight for what you want, James. You did it with Nashville, with college, the company; this is very much the same.”
“Except she can say no — and that’s the end of it.”
“Yes, she has the final say over whether she loves you, but I’ll bet you have more persuasive power in this than you think. Even though she’s very private and tries to hide it, I’ve seen how she lights up when your name is mentioned. It stirs something deep inside her. I think you have an excellent shot.”
“Honestly?”
“Don’t you have to try?”
“I do. I know I do.”
“Oh, baby bro,” she sighed in empathy.
“I’ve decided. I’m going to Asheville.”
“I’m glad, James. She’s lovely. She’s worth it all.”
He grinned. “Yes, she is.” Now that he had a plan, he was full of energy. “I’ve got reservations to make. I’ll talk to you soon.” He paused. “Thanks, Susan.”
“You’re welcome. Safe travels.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
* * *
After James landed in Asheville, rented a car and dumped his things into a hotel room, he showered off the travel dirt and went in search of the gallery where Laurel had her show.
The craft fair was scattered throughout the downtown area, but he found a brochure with a listing of all the participants and saw her name. She was showing her work at the Phoenix Fire Art Gallery. According to the map, he was about two blocks away.
He wondered what she would say when he showed up unannounced. He had a way of doing that to her, he realized: coming back in the summer, the time he had tried to talk her into going to Nashville despite her reservations, and then there was that Christmas. He had shown up unexpectedly at her cabin all those years ago, and it had been the best three weeks of his life. This time, he was hopeful, but he didn’t know how she felt about him. The last time he’d seen her, he was forcing his tongue down her throat while she clutched the door frame to keep from being knocked over. Not exactly welcoming on her part, but then, it wasn’t the best of circumstances. Still, he wasn’t sorry for it. That kiss reminded him what real desire was — 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 ther
e 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 and murmurs of assent, she sat down at the wheel and turned it on. James watched in fascination as she opened the clay using slow and methodical movements to coax beauty from chaos. He was mesmerized by the way she bit her lip while forming the rim with expert fingers and by the gentle, rhythmic movement of her hands up and down the vase. To a man who treasured the long ago memory of her hands on his skin, it was almost erotic the way she pulled and shaped the clay, and he had to look away for a second, worried that his admiration would be obvious to anyone who looked at him. Sure enough, he almost immediately drew the attention of Cooper Edwards. The two men made eye contact, and to James’s alarm, Cooper made his way over to him.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Cooper murmured to him.
“Yes, it’s quite interesting,” James answered curtly, hoping the man would go away. He didn’t want this man anywhere near when Laurel saw him for the first time.
“Have you ever seen pottery being made before?”
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“Most people are surprised their first time. It seems so simple, but it requires a great deal of skill.”
James didn’t care for the patronizing tone, but he decided to feign ignorance for a while longer. “So she made all of these?” He gestured around the room.
“Yes, she has an incredible talent — a real artisan.”
James gave the man a pointed look. “I know. I’ve known that for quite a while.”
Cooper’s smile was triumphant. “I thought I recognized you. You’re a friend of hers, aren’t you? I haven’t had a chance to meet many of Laurel’s friends yet.” He held out his hand, which James reluctantly shook. “Cooper, Cooper Edwards. And who are you again? I know I’ve seen your face somewhere.”
“James Marshall,” he replied, his voice cold. “We met at Elliot’s marina last summer.”
“Ah, yes! James Marshall, the software gazillionaire. I’ve heard of you.” He wore an expression of mild amusement. “How do you know Laurel?”
“I’ve known her most of my life. Her brother-in-law, Stuart, is a childhood friend of mine.”
“That’s right, that’s right. I remember now; Walter told me about you. You’re the middle-class boy from Ohio who made it big in computers or some such thing. He told me you went out to California and struck it rich in Silicon Valley — a real modern day ‘Miner, Forty-niner.’”
“It was a little more involved than discovering gold nuggets lying in a river.” James said dryly. “A lot of people are surprised. It seems so simple, but it does require a great deal of skill.”
“Of course it does, of course it does,” he said, missing the irony in James’s reply and dismissing the conversation with a wave of his hand. “Well, James, it was good to see you again.”
James nodded, and Cooper made his way to another little group standing in the room. Laurel was winding up her talk, answering the questions of a woman with a little girl about eight years old standing beside her. Suddenly, the mother exclaimed, “No Sarah! Don’t touch, honey!” The girl had her hand out, reaching toward the wheel.
“Here,” Laurel replied, covering the little hand with her own. “It’s okay to touch — just ask me first so I can make sure you don’t get hurt.”
James watched, completely charmed, as she placed a scoop of clay on the wheel and turned it on low. She took the girl’s hand and gently guided her fingers over the clay, making a little depression in the top of it. “See? That’s how you start to make a bowl. Can you feel the bowl under your hand?” The girl gave a nervous little nod, and Laurel smiled in amusement. “I think maybe you just got a little more than you bargained for here, didn’t you?” The girl nodded again, and Laurel let her fingers go. She pulled her hand away and Laurel gave her a towel. “I was about your age the first time I saw someone make pottery. It was at a craft fair like this one.”
The mother beamed at Laurel. “Thank you for your tolerance. Sometimes she’s a little impulsive. She has autism, you see. I’m surprised she let you take her hand.”
“Oh, I hope I didn’t frighten her.” Laurel looked surprised, too, but aimed her kind smile down at the little face, still staring intently at the wheel. “Maybe you can learn to make pottery someday.” The girl looked at her but said nothing.
“Say thank you to Ms. Elliot, Sarah.”
“Thank you,” came the whispered reply.
&nbs
p; “It was good to meet you, Sarah.” The mother and daughter moved off.
Behind him, James heard a whispered voice. “She’s marvelous, Cooper. She has a real gift with people, and her work is very appealing.”
“Yes, I know.”
James rolled his eyes.
“She’s very pretty, too.”
“I know that as well.”
James could just picture his smug expression.
“Are you two . . . ? You know.”
“A gentleman never tells, Richard. All I will say is that I’m helping her out with her little project.”
“I think she might be your little project.”
“No comment.”
James was insulted on Laurel’s behalf. She was no one’s project. He knew, now that he had sold his company, what it was like to be valued for what you did rather than for who you were — and Laurel was so much more than a ‘project’ to feed an arrogant man’s ego. He moved off before he said something angry. He would be keeping an eye on Cooper Edwards, though.
Cooper went up and spoke to Laurel again. She answered him with a weary expression, and he reached up and brushed a smear of clay off her forehead where she had wiped her brow earlier in the demonstration. James seethed at the intimate and possessive gesture, and of course, she chose that very moment to make eye contact with him.
She startled in recognition, her eyes opening wide and the blue arrows there pierced him once again — shooting straight to a place deeper than his groin or his heart. It had to be his soul. He gave her a small, secret smile, and she returned it, adding a beguiling spark that propelled his feet toward her.
“Well, hello, Mountain Laurel.”
“Hi,” she breathed. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Just arrived today.”
“Oh.”
“Congratulations on the show. It seems to be going very well.”
“Yes,” Cooper cut in. “Very well, Jake.”
