Page 9 of Singled Out
I’d met Naomi about four years ago. I’d seen an ad for a pottery class on the town’s Tattler app, offered at a private studio on a small farmstead halfway between Dragonfly Lake and Runner. On a whim, the same way I did most things, I’d signed up. I’d come out of the class with my first lopsided, definitely one-of-a-kind mug.
After that, I’d taken Naomi’s oil painting class, then cycled through her other offerings—metalworking, mosaics, watercolors, jewelry, woodworking. If she taught it, I’d taken it.
I approached art the way I approached life, much to my dad’s annoyance—with the firm belief that variety was the spice of everything. I switched between the many mediums, unwilling to commit to just one.
Naomi and I had clicked during that first class in spite of our nine-year age difference. She’d been impossible not to like, exuding warmth and so much life. Her passion for art and her dedication to exposing the multitudes to it were awe-inspiring.
Within weeks, I’d felt as if we’d known each other for years. She’d been part older sister, part friend, part mentor, and then, when I’d been trying to find a way to move out of my dad’s house, she’d invited me to move into hers, charging me less rent than I’d pay anywhere else in Dragonfly Lake.
I put the bucket of plum glass back on its shelf, grabbed the next few sheets of glass, which happened to be a turquoise-and-white swirl, and pulled out the appropriate bucket. Back at the worktable, I flexed my hand—it was going to be sore for days after this—scored the first sheet, then set about crack, crack, cracking away again.
Naomi always said cutting glass was the worst part of mosaics, but I didn’t mind it at times like this, when I needed distraction and couldn’t settle down enough to commit to a particular project.
I sniffled as I remembered my dear red-haired friend bringing me more sheets and corresponding buckets when I got on a glass-breaking kick, saying the more I cut, the less she had to. Cutting glass was one of the only things I’d heard her complain about.
She’d been one of the good ones, for sure. One of the best.
She and her brother, Ian, had inherited this farm when her grandfather died a few years before I’d met her. Her brother, who I’d never met, worked for some international company and had zero interest in any of it, so Naomi had the run of the place. She’d never talked about Ian, and I’d suspected they weren’t close. That had been confirmed with an exclamation point when she died. Even now, nearly two months later, he’d never returned their aunt’s numerous phone calls about Naomi’s death, the funeral, or their shared property.
I found myself in a shaky position, where just about every aspect of my life except my job as a server—my home, the studio where I spent my spare time, my closest friendships—depended on a man to whom it was getting harder and harder to give the benefit of the doubt. What possible reason could he have for not responding to such devastating news?
Since farming wasn’t Naomi’s thing—and the surrounding land had gradually been sold off over the years, leaving her with thirty acres that were no longer worked—she’d created the art mecca of her dreams.
In addition to classes and her frequent projects to bring art to underfunded schools around the state, she’d opened the studio as a shared maker space for anyone who needed one, offering daily rates and monthly memberships. Her mission in life had been to make art available to everyone. She’d managed to expose hundreds of kids to art, maybe thousands. That involvement with schools had earned her the recognition of the Arts in Education Foundation.
The thought had my gut tightening. Saturday would be a tough evening.
When a woman from the foundation had asked me to accept the award for Naomi, I’d said yes without thought, honored to have a part in this final, much-deserved recognition of my dear friend. Now reality was settling in. I’d have to speak on behalf of Naomi and in tribute to her, and that was no small task. The woman had suggested no more than one or two minutes, so I didn’t need to write a long speech, but I definitely had to get my thoughts straight beforehand.
I still believed a date would be helpful so I wouldn’t be flying solo, wouldn’t be driving to and from by myself. Now that I’d had a few days to think about it, though, I wasn’t sure Max had been my best idea. On some level, he rattled me, and I wasn’t in the habit of letting men rattle me.
It was set though. I wasn’t going to chicken out now.
“Hey, Harper.”
I startled as Dakota came through the door behind me. I pushed the googles on top of my head and swiped at my cheeks again before turning around and forcing a smile. “Hey, you. I was wondering if you’d come out tonight.”
“Here’s me. I get to unload the kiln tonight.”
“Ooh, I can’t wait to see your pretties,” I said.
As we walked to the kiln room, she frowned. “You okay?”
I sniffled one more time. “I’m good. You got here just in time to save me from my thoughts.”
Dakota made a face. “Those can be nasty. I can see why you’re breaking glass.”
“Let’s unload your masterpieces,” I said, ecstatic to have a distraction. There was always an element of surprise when we unloaded the kiln. We never knew what the heat would do to each type of glaze and each piece of pottery.
She opened the kiln, which had been cooling for a couple of days now, and began taking the pieces out and setting them on the worktable.
“Beautiful. I love the way the colors bleed into each other,” I said.
“They came out even better than I hoped. Want one?”
“Maybe I’ll wait till you put them on your online store, and I’ll buy one.”
She grinned. “You know how much I suck at getting stuff online.”