Blue (For The Love of Purple #2) - Audrey Faye Page 0,2

smile from the woman with kind eyes framed by wild curls. She follows her friend over to the table of my most popular wares, set up near the door to invite folks in and keep them out of my hair.

Except I don’t want these visitors to leave me alone.

Portent. Strength. Cracks.

I don’t think any of them belong to the woman with kind eyes and wild curls. She has strength of her own, but she isn’t the source of what just blew in my door.

I study her friend’s back. Sturdy, comfortable clothes, the kind that someone puts on after an honest day’s work, and whimsical earrings peeking out from under a brimmed hat that looks like it came out of an old movie.

The clay whispers. The earrings are a gift from a cherished friend. The hat, a truth perched on uncertain foundations.

I stop my wheel entirely. I’ll try again when I’m not so thoroughly distracted. My fingers dip into my water bucket to rinse off the worst of the sludge. I don’t mind dirt on my hands, but some of my customers don’t know what it is to touch the earth in raw form and feel kinship.

These ones do, though. The woman with kind eyes and wild curls soothes the clay of my soul, even though her hands are clean, and her companion’s hands still bear some of the grime of her day’s work. Not visibly, but it’s there, all the same.

The clay whispers again. She likes to work with wood, to help it stand strong and breathe.

That could mean a lot of things, but clay doesn’t know a whole lot about human occupations. I clear my throat. “Let me know if I can help you.”

Kind eyes turn to survey me shrewdly. When she nods, I feel seen—and as if I’ve been granted probationary status. For what, I’m not yet sure.

I study the woman in the hat. She makes her way slowly past the table of items meant for tourist eyes. Comfortable offerings. A way to go home with a bit of Perception Bay in their trunk.

I make those pieces from clay that’s happy to be useful.

She doesn’t touch any of them.

A tall vase in a fiery red glaze catches her eye, but she doesn’t touch that, either. I’m not sure she should. I don’t sense fire in the grime on her hands. I sense care. Craftsmanship. A desire to endure.

I have clay like that. Pieces like that. I watch as she approaches a set of sturdy bowls, each perfectly sized to nest inside the larger ones. I can see her profile now, the lines of a face that knows how to focus and how to laugh—and that chooses to hide in shadow.

She runs her fingertips along the rim of the largest bowl.

Yes. She would find that clay comfortable.

Her feet shift, restless.

A small murmur of delight from the woman of kind eyes and wild curls. “Blue. Come see.”

I feel the name. Touch it. Welcome it into my space.

Blue turns to her friend, her lips quirking. “I am seeing. These are some nice bowls. Think Indigo would like them?”

A quick frown. “She has bowls. Those are yours.”

An eye roll.

An impatient frown.

A dance these two have done for most of their lives.

The clay supplies a name for the other. Violet.

I grin. Of course.

Violet gestures again, almost imperiously this time. “We can take them when we leave. You need to see these.”

My eyes don’t leave Blue as she strolls over to the table where Violet stands. It’s a casual walk, but her eyes are alert, wary and measuring.

Caution is perhaps warranted, but hers comes from cracks that run through the heart of one with a desire to endure.

I exhale slowly. I wasn’t expecting this today.

Blue stops in front of an old wooden table that holds a motley collection of pieces. Some are whimsical and some decidedly not. Some are small and others take up an impressive volume of space. Some are items of obvious beauty and others are works that might be deemed failures. I’ve never been able to enumerate the criteria for ending up on that table. I just know what belongs there.

Blue scans the hand-lettered sign that invites people to choose an item and take it home, no monetary strings attached. Not for sale. Take one if it’s meant to be yours.

It’s always interesting to see who focuses on the price—and who truly understands it.

Her eyebrows slide slowly upward.

Violet chuckles under her breath.

The clay chortles. These two will be fun.

I roll my