“Mima, don’t pressure her!” Libby shouted from behind the closed bathroom door.
Under the woman’s intense gaze, Reagan couldn’t think of a single excuse. How could she decline without sounding like she didn’t value family? She embraced her fate. Whether Libby was ready or not, her grandmother couldn’t be avoided after such a direct contact.
“Of course,” she smiled. “I would love to. Thank you for thinking of me. Please let me know what I can bring.”
Reagan chose to read the nearly imperceptible nod she o ered in return as approval.
C H A P T E R 1 8
REAGAN WAS elbow deep in cool, liquid clay and a thousand miles away, replaying the moment on Libby’s bathroom floor, when Freddie’s voice shattered her muddled thoughts.
“I don’t like this slip casing thing,” he announced, holding up a mutilated object that should’ve been a lantern.
“I can’t figure out how long to leave it in before pouring it out of the mold. Too quick and it’s thin,” he explained looking at the disastrous result in his hand. “But if it’s too long, Bonnie said it won’t come out of the kiln right because the walls will be too thick.”
“I know,” she agreed, understanding his frustration. “It’s an art in and of itself. Just keep working at it, and if you don’t like it, you never have to do it again.”
Freddie returned to his molds but didn’t drop the scowl. A few minutes later, she put them all out of their misery.
“Okay, class. I think that’s a hard N.O. on casting in molds,”
she announced with a chuckle. “How about next week we do some hand building?”
Between murmurs of displeasure, a few students took great joy in dumping their tedious and boring lanterns into the clay recycling bin. The mischievous grins were better than the frowns she’d seen for the last hour.
Moments after her last student left, Reagan started the dreaded task of returning the discarded and hardened pieces back to liquid form. When the door creaked open, she didn’t look up. Her younger students invariably left something behind every class.
“Do you not lock this thing?” Libby’s soft voice bounced against the cement walls and forced Reagan’s attention toward the melodic sound.
“I don’t often have unexpected visitors,” she replied before depositing the bucket full of clay in the sink.
Libby, dressed in a pristine white pantsuit and blue silk blouse, crossed the studio to where Reagan stood at the sink.
“I hope unexpected is not the same as unwanted.”
Reagan rinsed her hands clean before shutting o the water. “Never unwanted,” she confessed, searching her face.
“Are you feeling a little better?”
“Yeah.” She cleared her throat and looked away, “I texted and called to let you know, but I guessed you might have been busy with your potting.”
“Good guess,” she replied with a smirk.
“I’m really sorry I lost my entire mind today. I’m so mortified I stood outside your building for like fifteen minutes before coming inside. If Freddie hadn’t spotted me and forced me to come inside or look like some kind of creep, I might still be sitting there.”
The vulnerability in Libby’s tone spurred her forward.
Without thinking about it, Reagan cupped her face and gently tilted it toward her. “Emotions, no matter how unruly and unexpected, are never anything to apologize for. Not with me. You have every right to feel whatever you’re feeling.
That doesn’t hurt anybody.”
“There you go . . .” Libby whispered. “Sounding like a woman I’d have to pay thousands of dollars to take me to the side of a mountain to teach me inner peace.”
Reagan chuckled, her chest filling like a helium balloon being inflated at a snail’s pace. “And you didn’t even have to pay me or go without running water for a week.”
Libby’s eyes brightened, making it just a little harder for Reagan to breathe. “I came to apologize for more than just my unhinged outburst. My grandmother—”
“Your grandmother was lovely,” Reagan interrupted, wanting to stay in the quiet moment lost in Libby’s soft face.