Free The Potter's Daughter (Literary Series) by Daniel Arthur Smith Page B

opened his hands to
her, “no I’m sorry honey.   I forget
myself sometimes.”
    “It’s ok,” Abby turned away from
Will and walked over to the open tea cupboard.
    “I forget myself too,” said Abby.
    Abby saw the empty can of coffee
and understood Will’s sudden inclination for tea.
    “You wanted a black tea?” asked
Abby.
    “Yea, the ‘Black Breakfast Tea’,
that’s the one I like,” said Will.
    Abby took out the honey and two tea
bags, one Earl Grey and one black tea, and placed them into two cups.   She then put the rest of the tea back
into the cupboard and closed the door.
    Abby realized that Will had not had
an afternoon caffeine fix and decided she should ease off, or at least be
subtle.   She was right to think both
were relieved to put yesterday’s incident behind them.   Still Abby ’s
back was to Will as she straightened the counter and sorted his dishes from
lunch.
    Will dropped one hand onto his
knee, put his back to the wall, and began tapping the table with the other as
he watched Abby straighten the counter.
    “So what did you think of that big
old monstrosity up the hill?” asked Will.
    “You should see the place.   Brian and Caroline really know a thing
or two and Mitch is doing a great job.   I think it’s going to be a real nice resort.   It’ll stir up a lot of business for the
village and lodge.”
    “Can’t say we don’t need it, lodge
almost went under again last year, new owners bailed, sold quick.   That house is still going to be an eye
sore though.   I grew up with that
thing looming over the lake, been empty most of my life, half my fathers
too.   Gives me the creeps,” said
Will, he shook his jowls, “Ahuhuhuh.”
    “Well, it’s not going to be empty
any more,” said Abby.
    “Still gives me the creeps.”
    “There were some old urns up
there,” said Abby, “a lot like ours but different somehow, nothing I’ve ever
seen you make or in the scrapbooks.”
    “They’re ours all right.   Your great grandfather made them custom.   Thick as hell so he could carve
down the ivy.”
    “I’ll have to tell Mitch he was
right.”
    “That’s how we ended up out here
you know.”
    “I thought we were on the lake
further back than that.”
    “The property was in the family
further back but we didn’t start hauling urns out of here until your
great-grandfather built the studio and wood kiln to make those urns in
particular.   His pottery studio had
been in Fremont.   This isn’t the
Bellen’s first,” said Will.   “Built
the business selling to all the rich people on the hill here, and in the city,
then other cities, and so on, and so on.”
    The flames licked the bottom of the
kettle which started whistling at first a low pitch and then higher.   Abby pulled the kettle off the burner
and poured hot water into the two waiting cups to steep the tea.
    “So those were the first urns?”
asked Abby.
    “Oh no.   He made urns back in Fremont, that’s how
he got the commission,” said Will, “but it was a small part of his
business.   He made a lot of salad
bowls and cups, practical things people could use.   My Dad said he had a good contract
making clay insulators when they ran the first electric from the dam through
Fremont, less then a penny a piece, but a fair amount of money at that time.   But the lake business changed
everything.”
    Abby faced Will, “I never knew.”
    “Yea, well, I guess I told your
brother.”
    Abby turned her back to Will again
and prodded the tea bags.   Michael
had been the protégé, the obligatory male apprentice in the Bellen line of clay
artisans that went back farther than Will’s grandfather, all the way back to
northern Italy as far as she knew, and Will would be the last in the
tradition.   That was made clear to
Abby when Will stood above Michaels casket.
    Not because Abby did not know her
way around the Bellen studio.   That
is where Abby and her brother spent their childhood.   Her earliest