The Boston Girl(24)
“But it’s so perfect that you’re here now. Uncle Martin bought a potting wheel and a kiln a few months ago. He lost interest after ten minutes, as usual, but the whole kit and caboodle is sitting out back, and I hope you don’t mind, Filomena, dear, but would you give the studio a once-over? A friend is coming up this afternoon. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Robert Morelli? He works mostly in bronze, but he mucks around with clay, too.”
Filomena was on her feet. “I’d be glad to.”
“It’s out the side door through the kitchen, to the left,” Leslie said. “Do you want me to show you the way?”
“We’ll find it,” said Filomena. “Come on, Addie.”
When we got outside I said, “What a character.”
Filomena was furious. “She’s horrible. Did you hear how she talked about Miss Green? Who ever heard of Leslie Parker? And what a chatterbox. I thought she’d never shut up.”
The “studio” was nothing but a shed, a ten-foot-square wooden box so stuffy and dusty that we both sneezed when Filomena opened the door. She peeked into barrels of clay and looked over the tools and dried sponges. “Most of these have never been used.”
When she took the cover off the potter’s wheel, she gasped. “It’s brand-new.” She pushed the stone disk and it started spinning. “Miss Green hires men to work the wheels and the kiln; I’ve never even touched one of these before.”
Leslie poked her face through the door and asked, “What’s the verdict?”
Filomena said, “I’d kill for the chance to work here.”
“Exactly whom would you kill?” Leslie said. “Don’t answer that. Do you think the place is up to snuff?”
“It seems fine, but you should make sure the lids on those barrels are tight; it would be a shame for all that clay to go to waste.”
Leslie thanked Filomena and told her to use the place all she wanted. “Don’t be a stranger.”
When we were walking back to the lodge, I said, “Leslie really rubbed you the wrong way, didn’t she?”
“Don’t tell me that you liked her?”
I waved an imaginary cigarette and tried to imitate her voice. “You have to admit she was entertaining.”
“She is so full of herself. And she has that whole house to herself while my sister is raising five kids in two rooms. Not to mention all that equipment going to waste. It’s not fair!”
So I told her to go and use the studio. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I can’t think of anyone stranger than her,” she said. “Besides, I didn’t believe a single word she said.”
—
The next day was rainy and cool, which meant we were stuck inside. Filomena said, “I hope they won’t make us play charades all day.” She hated games.
At breakfast, Miss Case came to our table and handed Filomena a thick envelope. “This just arrived,” she said quietly. “I hope it’s not bad news.” We ran upstairs to open it in private, but the only thing inside was a pencil sketch of a bird.
“What is that supposed to be?” I asked.
“It’s a sketch of something I made yesterday when I was fooling around with a piece of clay. I meant to put it back in the barrel.”
“Did Leslie do it?”
Filomena pointed at the initials in the corner: R.M.
“Let’s go meet him,” I said. “We’re not going to do much in this weather and I promise to protect you from Leslie.”
The front door was closed but it opened the second I knocked, as if someone had been waiting for us.
He needed a shave, there was powdery white dust all over his clothes, and his hair was starting to go gray. But he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen in person.
He shook Filomena’s hand and said, “You must be Filomena, daughter of light, virgin martyr, protector of all innocents.” He smiled a movie-star smile. “Don’t look so surprised. It was my grandmother’s name.”
He took my hand next. “You must be Addie. Leslie tells me you’re very deep, which means she didn’t let you get a word in edgewise so she has no idea who you are.”
He introduced himself as Bob Morelli and said Leslie had gone to town for burnt sienna and bread and would be back soon. “But come to the shed in the meantime; I want to show you something.”
The place had been aired out and every inch dusted and scrubbed. The tools were clean and laid out in a straight line, and a little sculpture of a bird—the one from the drawing—was on the window ledge, sitting on a nest made of fine clay threads.
Filomena picked it up. “No eggs?”
“You didn’t make a papa bird,” he said. “She’s waiting for him.”
She stared at him for a moment and shrugged.
“What’s that?” she asked and pointed to the wet burlap bag sitting on the pottery wheel. Morelli lifted it and said, “Just don’t tell me a six-year-old could have made it.”
That’s exactly what I would have said. It was a bowl, I guess, smooth and round at the bottom but square and off-kilter on top.
He ran his thumb around the edge. “It’s supposed to look rustic. The Japanese don’t always insist on symmetry. Sometimes they fire things so they look scorched.”