A few artists worked on those two days, enabling them to tend to their shops. Jennine from Clay-More was one of them. It was alone time to make whatever she would put on display for the week. She would hold classes and give people an inside look at her workshop, but generally she was dressed to the nines, tens, and often over the top when the center was open to the public. Plus she had an apprentice who would throw clay on Friday and Saturday when the center was bustling. Ellie never quite made the connection between someone who posed as a mature glamour girl and making pottery. Once Ellie made a comment about it, and Jennine’s answer was, “I love to get my hands on things and mold them.” Over time, watching Jennine pounce on men, the answer made a lot of sense.

Ellie went into her office on the second floor, which overlooked the atrium. From there she could see the front entrance and the rear glass doors to the patio. The only thing that hindered her view was the interior landscaping, but that was a very small inconvenience. Very small.

She pulled out her Rolodex. Yes, Ellie still used the same spinning wheel that held years of contact cards. She once tried to transfer all the information into an Excel spreadsheet, but flipping through the cards was a lot easier and for some odd reason, more satisfying. With technology dictating our lives, we’ve lost the use of a lot of our senses. Smell, for example. You can’t smell anything over a phone or computer. Taste. Same thing. Touch? Keyboards or phone pads. Would anyone know how to use a pencil? she mused. Even our sense of hearing has been dampened by digital recordings and portable mediocre speakers. There is nothing like sitting in your home with a good sound system where you can hear all the parts. The violins, cellos, chimes, woodwinds. The fine points of music. Ellie sighed. They call it progress. I call it unfortunate. Unfortunate because people have become incapable of basic communication. Emojis, abbreviations. They don’t even speak on the phone. Just a bunch of diodes and keystrokes.

Ellie flipped to the letter B. Nathan Belmont. She picked up the landline and dialed his number.

“Stillwell Art Center?” Nathan was surprised to see the caller ID. “Is this thee, Ellie Stillwell?”

“Nathan Belmont. How are you?” Ellie’s smile could be heard through her voice.

“I’m doin’ great. And you? Everything all right?”

“I’m doing great myself, and yes, everything is fine. But I need a little help.”

“Shoot. What’s up?”

“I know you’ve been here a couple of times.”

“I have indeed. You created a masterpiece.”

“Thanks, Nate. I am in awe every time I walk in here. I can’t believe I’ve been able to pull it off!” Ellie chuckled.