Page 23 of Beneath Pearly Irish Skies
Angie’s nose scrunched. “If you’re not running the kiln until next month, we have a little more time. We only have two classes at night—yours and mine—and it’s fairly light out, which will cut down on electricity costs.”
“Jesus, maybe we should light candles,” Donal said, rubbing the back of his head. “No! That’s ridiculous. You run the power you need. I can talk to the utilities people and ask for extra time and maybe even some luck.”
“I thought you said there was no such thing,” Megan said.
“Luck in Irish means the thing yer man throws in that’s a little extra,” Carrick said. “Like a set of tires when you buy a car.”
Megan shook her head. “Who’s your man?”
Angie gave a weak chuckle. “It’s Irish for ‘some dude.’ I’m still trying to figure out when to use it in conversation. Anyway, I think we have enough until the end of the year. Classes stop mid-December.”
Megan gulped. “Four months.”
That didn’t seem like a lot of time to figure out their funding situation. Angie must be thinking the same thing because her sister was wringing her hands again.
“I’m going to apply to the Arts Council of Ireland for a grant,” Bets said with a grimace, “but my concerns are twofold. It might be a lengthy process, and any money that comes in will be managed by local authorities. Which is why we’re in this jam to begin with.”
“That doesn’t sound very encouraging,” Megan said tightly.
“From my experience,” Angie said, “arts councils usually want to see a place established for a while before they fork out cash. We shouldn’t count on it immediately.”
“Still, I say we try early,” Bets said. “I’ll need some help with the grant.”
“You have it,” Angie responded.
“What about a gallery showing?” Siobhan asked, resting her blue teacup on her leg. “Angie held a very successful one in August.”
“Except gallery showings should be money in an artist’s pocket. They’re meant to grow his or her name,” Carrick said, kicking out his feet. “Angie is just getting that back. Giving her proceeds away would undercut her success.”
Personally, Megan thought Angie was a better artist now than when she’d had some fame in her twenties. She agreed with Carrick—Angie’s art was too valuable to be auctioned off for the arts center. But maybeshecould help. “What about me?” she asked. “I’m not interested in growing my name.”
Angie swung her head in her direction. “Maybe you should be, Meg.”
Staying here in Ireland was more important right now. She needed this job. Besides, if she didn’t have access to the wheel and kiln, she wouldn’t have a way to practice her art. The equipment was too expensive and cumbersome for her to buy for herself. Painters had it better in that regard. “Maybe. But I don’t have a reputation in the ceramics world like you did in the art world. I need to build everything from scratch. Literally.”
She thought of Kade’s words.Things will take care of themselves.If she wanted to make a name for herself, it would have to happen gradually, piece by piece. And it would need to start somewhere outside of the classroom, even if it was at a fundraiser.
“What are you thinking, Meg?” Angie asked.
Her tongue grew thick in her mouth as everyone looked at her. She panicked. No one ever liked her ideas. No, that wasn’t true. Kade did. And Liam did as well. She was no longer scared little Megan who didn’t have a thought in her head. Or at least she didn’t want to be.
“Maybe we’re thinking too small,” she said, swallowing audibly. “I mean, it’s a community arts center. People here value that. They like to be together. Pop by for a chat. Be social at the pub. Why not create a fun event for the community? I can make items to sell, but it sounds like we need some serious cash, the kind a simple sale won’t bring in. What do the Irish like to do most?”
Bets leaned forward on the edge of her seat, and she wasn’t alone. Megan’s insides did a flip in response, and she found herself bursting with a new feeling. Pride.
Donal made a humming sound. “An event the community would pay serious money to attend? A horse race.”
“A horse race?” Megan squeaked. In a million years, she hadn’t expected that answer.
“It’s perfect,” Carrick said, slapping his knee. “It’s an old tradition in Ireland. People would pay to come to a kind of country fair where they could watch the race and be entertained.”
“What about kids?” Megan asked, clearing her throat. “I used to take Ollie to all sorts of festivals. Halloween was a big one. We’d go to a farm and have a hayride. Pick pumpkins. Maybe watch a carving contest. Have food. There might be drinks and a band for the adults. I mean, we’re surrounded by farms.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Megan,” Carrick said with a wink. “People would bring their kids along to see a horse race.”
“Believe me, they would.” Bets started tapping her feet on her faded Aubusson rug. “This could work!”
“How much did you pay for this kind of thing in the States?” Donal asked.
