Page 2 of Beneath Pearly Irish Skies
More memories surfaced. She’d found herself in this same position, hunched over an uncentered lump of clay, the day he’d told her he was going on a mission, the first of many. Sleeping had become problematic. She’d still been teaching then, her class filled with intermediate students. Everyone knew how to center their clay. Everyone but her. So she’d turned to hand building ceramics to sell at arts and crafts fairs.
She hadn’t centered her clay after that, she recalled at last.Oh God!
“My whole life changed when I met Tyson,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was worried about him fighting overseas.”
It had rocked her center.
But so had knowing he wasn’t really happy being married to her or having Ollie. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have volunteered for those extra missions and stayed away from home so much. That, she feared, was on her.
She hadn’t been enough for him. In her heart, she felt she’d never been enough for anyone.
“It’s only natural you were worried about him.” Kade paused a moment. “But that’s not the reason you can’t center the clay now, is it?”
Her breath was stuck in her chest. “No, it’s not.”
“What do you really fear, Megan?”
Her laughter came out unbidden. “Do you have all day? Some days I think I’m more frightened than one of those hurt and scared horses you heal.”
The right corner of his mouth tipped up. “Don’t you remember what I told you about them? All that’s needed is consistent care, kindness, and time. The rest takes care of itself.”
“But I don’thavetime!” Her outburst echoed in the room. “I have a week. I don’t think I’ll be able to do it, Kade, and that scares me. Every time I get close, my disc starts to wobble.” She’d be a failure. Again.
“Wobbling discs, eh?” he said, rolling up his sleeves, showing his tanned forearms. “I imagine there’s a rhythm to it, right? Rather like riding a horse. You’ve learned to do that fine.”
He’d hoisted her onto a horse on a sunny summer morning only a few weeks ago, the same day he’d asked her to help him on his farm. That day had changed her world. She’d felt empowered and larger than life as they’d ridden through the fields with the wind at her back.
Her chest tightened again. Meeting Tyson had changed her world too, only it hadn’t made her feel empowered or larger than life. She’d felt afraid. Small. And wanting. Like she’d never catch up to his vision of what he wanted from her. She’d never told him that or anything else that wasn’t supportive, and sometimes she wondered what would have happened if she had.
Defeat was starting to cloak her, and she shook it off like a dog shaking off the rain. She didn’t want to go back to feeling that way. “So if clay is like horses, an encouraging yet unwavering hand is all I need, right?”
God, if only…
“Indeed, and people are no different,” he said in a tone resounding with certainty. “Now, let’s see if clay feels the same way.”
She blinked in surprise. “You want to help me?”
“Why not? We have over an hour before our next client comes for a pony ride.”
Our client.She still wasn’t used to Kade saying things like that, like she had a share in his business because she was volunteering her time, but it made her heart swell inside her chest. Those two words made her feel special. “Okay, but don’t laugh.”
He put a gentle hand on her arm. “Why would I laugh? Megan, I would never do that to you or anyone. Come now. Grab what you need and let’s try this.”
“You might get dirty.”
His rich laughter filled the ceramics studio, and a lock of brown hair fell over his wide forehead. “I work and live on a farm. I’m always dirty.”
“Good point.”
Yet he never seemed tolookdirty, whether he was wearing jeans or cargo pants with a T-shirt or windbreaker.
Her clothes were another matter. The ones she’d brought to Ireland weren’t faring well. She hadn’t envisioned she’d be working with clay again, let alone animals. Looking down at her lilac sweater and black pants, she saw they were covered in clay despite the tan apron she’d bought in town. At the farm, she usually wore a knee-length windbreaker or rain jacket to cover them as best she could, along with her new black wellies and a pair of jeans she’d succumbed to buying.
Her clothes were all wrong for what she was doing, as glaring as a red flashing light on a highway. The clothes she’d always worn—good girl clothes—didn’t feel right anymore. And her old pottery outfits of loose cotton pants with a plain or striped T-shirt from Talbots weren’t appealing either.
She heard Barry’s voice again.No center. No pot.
He’d shake his head if he could see her now.
