Page 23 of This Life and All the Rest
Vases, bowls, mugs, a wine decanter, something that looks like a lantern.
Some pieces have been painted and are waiting for glaze, some have been fired only once. I pick up one of the vases to admire it. It’s absolutely beautiful. I want to flip it upside down to look for the initials of the person who made it, but I can’t. Can’t or won’t, I’m not sure.
Macon did say he still worked with clay.
This could be his.
Something here could have been made by him.
I’m working up the courage to turn the vase over when the door behind me opens, startling me, and I almost drop the vase.
“Can I help you?” a woman says as I whip around to face her. She eyes me suspiciously. “There aren’t any more pottery classes today.”
I put the vase down softly and step away. The woman looks to be about my age. Early twenties, probably. And she’s pretty. Very pretty. Even in faded jeans and a blue shirt with VOLUNTEER printed across the front, she looks like she could be in a magazine. Her makeup is flawlessly applied, her caramel hair curled into perfect beach waves down her back. I give her a small smile.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I was just looking around. I was looking for James.”
The woman raises an eyebrow.
“James?”
“James Billings. The owner? I used to volunteer here. I wanted to say hello.”
“Oh,” she says, cocking her head to the side. “James and his husband are in Massachusetts, now. He doesn’t own the rec center anymore.”
“Huh.” I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. She just flicks her eyes from me to the pieces of pottery and back. “These are gorgeous,” I say. “Who did you say teaches the pottery classes?”
“I didn’t.” Something in her tone makes me stand up taller. I narrow my eyes, telling her that I’m not one to sit back and take unwarranted bitchy attitudes from strangers. Not anymore. She’s going to get back exactly what she puts out. I hold her gaze and watch as she starts to back down.
“We have three instructors,” she finally says, and I take pride in the way I’ve unnerved her. “Payton, that’s me—” she points to herself—"then Adam. He does most evening classes.”
I hold my breath and wait for her to reveal the third instructor, letting it out slowly when the name she states isn’t Macon’s. I don’t even register what the name is, just that it’s not Macon Davis.
“—she does the afternoon and weekend classes with me.”
I smile to hide just how frazzled I feel and keep my voice even.
“Thank you. I guess I should be going, then.”
She moves out of the way and lets me pass, then trails me silently the entire walk to the front entrance. Just before I push through the doors to head out to the parking lot, her voice stops me.
“What did you say your name was?”
The question gives me chills. I turn around and flash her another smile. She’s studying me like one might study flesh-eating bacteria under a microscope. With wary interest, but not fondness.
“I didn’t,” I say sweetly, then I push through the doors and walk back to the grocery store.
NINE
It takesme an hour to complete the shopping because everything in the store has been moved around since I was last here.
It’s been four years, but it feels like an entirely different grocery store. I give up trying to snag things by memory and end up going up and down the aisles one by one, until I’ve gotten everything Andrea wrote down.
I load the bags into the car and make the quick drive back to the house. When I walk in the front door with the first load of bags, I notice the silence and decide not to announce my arrival just in case Evie is asleep.
I make two more trips to the car, then put away all the fridge and freezer items. Then I work to put away the rest of the stuff. Most of the cabinets are the same. Pantry items, canned foods, paper products.
I move through the kitchen on autopilot, remembering drawers and cabinets I haven’t opened in years. It’s the weirdest feeling of nostalgia, knowing exactly where the spaghetti noodles are kept.
