Page 21 of The Distiller's Darling

Two hours later, she sat up and stretched, sending a small avalanche of clay dust tumbling to the floor. “Damn. Every time.”

“Art seems messy.” Iain was at the door again.

“It is,” she said ruefully. “There’s a ShopVac in the closet.”

“You ready for it? I can grab it.” He moved toward the closet in the corner opposite the bathroom.

“Sure. I need a break.” She’d finally gotten the curve of the biggest element shaped the way she wanted, but how to pull off the next part still eluded her.

He rummaged in the closet for a bit and then pulled the large, wheeled vacuum out. “Got a plug?”

“Right there.” She pointed.

He rolled the vacuum to her, then unwound the cord and plugged it in. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” She made quick work of vacuuming up the piles of dust, then ran the hose over her shirt a couple of times. “Done.”

“That how you do laundry?”

“What, they do it differently in Ireland?”

He laughed. “Talk about cultural differences.”

She unplugged the vacuum and put it away, then shooed him out of the studio and down the stairs.

“So, do you know what you’re making yet?” He followed her into the bedroom as she stripped off the dusty shirt and dropped it into her laundry basket.

“Sort of.” It wasn’t what she’d expected it to be, but if she could get the clay to reveal what she saw in her mind, it would be some of her best work. She went into the bathroom to brush additional dust out of her hair.

“I just don’t get how you see what’s inside the clay,” Iain said thoughtfully. He was perched on the edge of her bed, watching her through the open bathroom door.

She twisted her hair into a quick ponytail and shrugged. “Years of practice? Innate talent? Artistic genius? How do you know what a new whiskey is going to taste like?”

He looked at her and smirked. “I taste it.”

“Oh. Maybe that was the wrong metaphor.”

He laughed as she pulled a fresh tank top out of her dresser. “I get where you were going with it, though.”

“Did you get all your calls made?” she asked, gesturing for him to lead the way toward her home office.

“Most of them. I stole some of your printer paper to take notes.” He picked up a folded sheaf of paper and waved it at her. His handwriting was neat, she noticed. Lots of slashing angles, but very readable.

“There’s plenty of notepads,” she said mildly.

“Yes, but I didn’t want to disturb your sketches. Particularly not this one.” He held up the notepad closest to her computer and she winced. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Naomi, this is the perfect logo for my whiskey. I thought you weren’t working on it.”

“I’m not.”

He shook the paper at her like she was a puppy who’d done something naughty. “Then what is this?”

“I just jotted it down while I was thinking about something else.”

“Can I pay you for it?”

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