The Sweetness of Salt(44)

“It’s okay.” I turned back toward the bassinet, because her apologies made me feel embarrassed. There was no need for them, but she did not understand that.

“You want to hold her?” Sophie asked behind me.

“Can I?”

“Of course you can.” Sophie pulled the bassinet over until it was even with her side of the bed. She lifted Goober carefully with two hands and then placed them in the cradle of mine. I couldn’t believe how light she was. It was like holding a loaf of bread. Goober stirred a little as the transition was made, and scrunched up her nose, but then she settled back down again and the wrinkles disappeared from her face. Her skin was as smooth as a petal and deep pink. Tiny eyelashes stuck out like the edges of a feather, and her lips were shaped like a heart.

“Wow,” I whispered, looking back over at Sophie. “She really is adorable.”

But Sophie was looking past me, out the window, at something I could not see.





chapter


31


Sophie got a phone call around four o’clock that afternoon that made her face go pale. “What is it?” I asked. We were still painting and I had paint everywhere—in my hair, on my arms, even on my face.

She snapped her phone shut and shook her head. “Oh, nothing. Just some stupid stuff with the bank. I still have a bunch of papers to sign for the house.” Her eyes swept the room as if looking for something. “Listen, let’s stop for today, okay? I’m gonna have to go up to Rutland for a little bit. It’s only about twenty minutes away, and it shouldn’t take long. Will you be all right here without me?”

“Well, yeah. Of course. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

She shook her head again. “It’s nothing. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” She glanced out the window. “I’ve been using Jimmy’s truck when I need to go places, but it’d be great if I could just take the Bug now. You mind?”

“The keys are in my suitcase,” I said.

She roared out of the driveway, spewing dust and pebbles beneath her tires. I watched until the green car made a left at the light, and then I went back inside the house. I pulled off my dirty clothes and got into the shower. Sophie’s shampoo did nothing to erase the paint spatters from my hair. I leaned forward, examining the sullied strands in the mirror. It looked like I had a really terrible case of dandruff. Ugh. And my eyebrows were a mess, thick and stiff as barbed wire. I opened the mirror, poking around for a pair of tweezers. There was a tall bottle of pink Barbie shampoo, several packets of matches, a tube of toothpaste, and some dental floss. That was it. I shut the mirror. Of course Sophie didn’t pluck her eyebrows. She probably didn’t even own a tube of lipstick.

I leaned closer to the mirror again, examining the rest of my face. My skin looked a little more tan. My cheeks were fuller too, probably from all the pancakes I’d been eating at Perry’s. There were dark circles under my eyes—most likely from my lack of sleep the night before—and a few blackheads on my nose. Still, not terrible. Even with the barbed-wire eyebrows and paint-speckled hair.

I got into clean clothes and brushed my hair. A tiny pot of blackberry lip gloss was in the bottom of my suitcase. I slicked it over my lips and rubbed them together.

Good enough.

I headed out the door.



Everything seemed to slow down inside as I stood in front of the yellow house again—my heartbeat, the chattering inside my head, even the pulse in my wrists. My breathing became more measured, my anxiety a non-issue. The name of this street was Furnace Road, which puzzled me. If I’d had anything to say about it, I would have called it Shady Tree Lane. Or maybe Maple Leaf Drive. Something pretty and delicate. Something alive and beating.

Aiden was working behind his wheel when I walked up the lawn. His hat was down low over his eyes, and one Converse sneaker tapped out a beat as he swayed slightly with the spinning clay. He stopped when he saw me, and turned off the motor.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re becoming a regular.”

I winced, taking a step backward. “I shouldn’t…I mean…”

“Hey, relax,” Aiden said. “I was just making an observation. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He reached out suddenly and, with a swipe of his hand, crushed the small clay shape in front of him.

I gasped. “What did you do that for?”


“It’s no good,” Aiden said. “I didn’t get it centered right.”

I held out my hand. “Can I try?” Aiden looked up in surprise. “I mean, if it’s okay with you.”

“Have you ever worked on a pottery wheel before?” he asked.

“No.”

Aiden hesitated and then got up from his seat. “Okay.” He scraped the mound of clay off the wheel and kneaded it for a few minutes, then handed it to me. I held it in my hands, trying to get used to the feel of it against my skin. It was surprisingly dry—and heavy. Not very pliable either. I could feel the muscles in my forearms flexing as I squeezed it, the tips of my fingers pressing until they turned white. “That’s it,” Aiden said as I worked it back eventually into a mound. “Now put it on the wheel and see if you can get it centered.”

I nervously glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and sat down on the little stool. My feet touched a corner of the magazine pile and the wheel was at chest height, directly in front of me. I reached out and pressed the clay down on the wheel.