Page 28 of Beneath Pearly Irish Skies
Chapter Eight
Centering the clay and oneself is an ongoing process, Barry used to say.When life throws you a curveball, the clay shows you how far afield you are from your center.
She had another curveball now—the arts center’s financial difficulties—and the lump of uncentered clay trailing across her wheel was certainly a sign. She tried to look on the positive side. She’d centered it for a few beats, but when she’d tried to pull up the walls of the clay into a cylinder, the clay had buckled. Summation: she could center the clay but not hold it.
Even with a plan—forget that she was leading the organizing of the fair—she worried about the outcome. What if they didn’t make enough money? She’d be out of her job.
Who was she kidding? If she couldn’t center her clay and teach her first classin thirty minutes, it wasn’t going to matter. They’d fire her. Maybe not today. But a teacher who couldn’t center her clay or teach others how to do so was useless.
She didn’t want to be useless anymore.
Grabbing her plastic scraper, she cleaned the wet clay off her wheel, determined to start again.
“Hi, Mom!”
She looked up to see Ollie holding Angie’s hand. Her son had on the “farm clothes” Carrick had bought him—a green hoodie for Mayo’s Gaelic football team and brown cargo pants with navy wellies—while her sister wore jeans and a burgundy jacket dotted with iron-on flowers and paint splashes. Megan looked down at her plain russet apron covering tan pants and a navy blue sweater set and felt a little stab of something.
“Hey, Megan,” Angie said with a smile.
“Hey, you two,” she responded, smiling back.
Their clothes reflected their personalities as much as their art did. Angie’s roots were earthy and bohemian while Megan’s were the boring, lackluster kind. Angie drew landscapes and nudes in hot oranges and reds in her new series. Back when she could center her clay, Megan had crafted serviceable mugs and the like in cool blue tones.
God, she was tired of being so serviceable and cool. When she looked at Angie’s paintings these days, she wished she had the courage to be a little more daring. Like she felt when she rode a horse or wore the yellow T-shirt Liam had given her.
Maybe it was time to do more than hold Kade’s hand.
She inhaled sharply. Where had that thought come from? He hadn’t asked her out on a date yet. He knew she had a lot on her mind, what with the arts center and her upcoming classes, and she figured he was giving her space and time.
She realized she didn’t want it.Well, well, Megan Bennet. Maybe you’re more of a firebird than you thought?
“I thought you were going to help Carrick with the sheep,” she said, setting aside her plastic scraper.
Ollie made a dramatic showing of rolling his eyes. “We were, but he had to go help Mr. O’Dwyer with some crazy ram that got loose, so Aunt Angie thought we’d come here and tell you to break an arm.”
“It’s a leg, Ollie, but your mom knows you say it to wish someone luck.” Her sister glanced at the clay disaster and gave a valiant smile. “You’re going to do great, Meg.”
Her throat thickened. “Thanks, Angie. I’m a little off after our budget meeting.”
“Me too,” Angie said with a wry glance. “I had so much trouble painting this morning that I finally stopped fighting it and fingerpainted. It helped.”
Angie was struggling too? That made her feel less alone in her uncentered state. Tears filled her eyes, but she forced them back. This was no time for tears.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom,” Ollie said, racing over to kiss her cheek with a loud smack. “Uncle Carrick told me to tell you and Aunt Angie that every chance I get.”
That dear man.
Ollie put his finger to his small rosebud of a mouth. “He said you were having growing pains. Like when I grew an inch last year and my legs hurt. Are you getting taller? I thought adults stopped growing in high school. Wow, your hands are really dirty, Mom, and you made a huge mess. Youneverdo that.”
Kids were great for dispensing wisdom in one moment and sidetracking to something completely different the next. “Clay is a messy art,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Why haven’t you ever let me do this?” he asked, poking at her lump of clay and giggling when it stuck to his finger. “It looks fun.”
“It is fun when you and the clay are friends,” she said, wiping off his fingers with the old towel she kept near.
“Why aren’t you friends?” Ollie asked.
How was she supposed to explain this to an eight-year-old? “We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”
