“Don’t tell me that you liked her?”
I waved an imaginary cigarette and tried to imitate her voice. “You have to admit she was entertaining.”
“She is so full of herself. And she has that whole house to herself while my sister is raising five kids in two rooms. Not to mention all that equipment going to waste. It’s not fair!”
So I told her to go and use the studio. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I can’t think of anyone stranger than her,” she said. “Besides, I didn’t believe a single word she said.”
—
The next day was rainy and cool, which meant we were stuck inside. Filomena said, “I hope they won’t make us play charades all day.” She hated games.
At breakfast, Miss Case came to our table and handed Filomena a thick envelope. “This just arrived,” she said quietly. “I hope it’s not bad news.” We ran upstairs to open it in private, but the only thing inside was a pencil sketch of a bird.
“What is that supposed to be?” I asked.
“It’s a sketch of something I made yesterday when I was fooling around with a piece of clay. I meant to put it back in the barrel.”
“Did Leslie do it?”
Filomena pointed at the initials in the corner: R.M.
“Let’s go meet him,” I said. “We’re not going to do much in this weather and I promise to protect you from Leslie.”
The front door was closed but it opened the second I knocked, as if someone had been waiting for us.
He needed a shave, there was powdery white dust all over his clothes, and his hair was starting to go gray. But he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in person.
He shook Filomena’s hand and said, “You must be Filomena, daughter of light, virgin martyr, protector of all innocents.” He smiled a movie-star smile. “Don’t look so surprised. It was my grandmother’s name.”
He took my hand next. “You must be Addie. Leslie tells me you’re very deep, which means she didn’t let you get a word in edgewise so she has no idea who you are.”
He introduced himself as Bob Morelli and said Leslie had gone to town for burnt sienna and bread and would be back soon. “But come to the shed in the meantime; I want to show you something.”
The place had been aired out and every inch dusted and scrubbed. The tools were clean and laid out in a straight line, and a little sculpture of a bird—the one from the drawing—was on the window ledge, sitting on a nest made of fine clay threads.
Filomena picked it up. “No eggs?”
“You didn’t make a papa bird,” he said. “She’s waiting for him.”
She stared at him for a moment and shrugged.
“What’s that?” she asked and pointed to the wet burlap bag sitting on the pottery wheel. Morelli lifted it and said, “Just don’t tell me a six-year-old could have made it.”
That’s exactly what I would have said. It was a bowl, I guess, smooth and round at the bottom but square and off-kilter on top.
He ran his thumb around the edge. “It’s supposed to look rustic. The Japanese don’t always insist on symmetry. Sometimes they fire things so they look scorched.”
Filomena seemed offended. “I am not familiar with Japanese art.”
“Yes you are! Some of Edith Green’s lines are very japonais. And they share a kind of serenity, I think.”
She said, “I think what we do is beautiful.”
“Of course it is,” he said. “Leslie doesn’t know her ass from her elbow when it comes to ceramics. She might turn out to be a decent painter someday—not great, but good. The kid’s only twenty, after all. How old are you, if I may ask?”
“You’re not supposed to ask,” she said and then she told him she was “going to be twenty-one.”