I’ve missed you. Would love to see you.

Come for lunch next week?

Relief flooded through me, and the corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. Freya had missed me, just as I’d hoped. She wanted to see me. I was back in.

I’d love that!!!

Three exclamation points was too much. I deleted two and hit send. Freya’s text had instantly dissipated my funk, and I couldn’t hide my delight.

The waitress dropped a menu on the table, then, but I didn’t need to look at it.

“I’ll have the Buddha bowl, please.”

“Sure, hon.”

I looked toward the bar. Maxime Beausoleil was gone.

Chapter 41

41

low

Freya wanted to do a live video in her pottery studio. “I want to show off my artistic, wholesome side,” she said. “I’ve had some nasty comments saying I’m too shallow and superficial to be a mother.”

It was a form of virtue signaling, but it was an effective one. Freya was always beautiful, but when she was at the wheel, her delicate hands creating art, she was magical. No one could watch her work without becoming mesmerized, almost hypnotized. And no one would say an unkind word when they saw her talent. I knew that Freya craved the acceptance and validation of strangers. Despite her many gifts, her life of privilege, she needed it.

My digital camera did not record video, so I’d have to use Freya’s iPhone. It was newer and better than my phone. But I brought my tripod for stability. And I’d cleaned out my bank account and ordered a portable studio lighting kit online to ensure the most flattering environment for the video. It came with two lights on stands that I could set up in the dim space. We were filming in the afternoon when the light was low. If I did my job right, I could get a sensual, Ghost kind of vibe.

As I drove to her house, I felt a giddy sense of anticipation. We would spend the day in the studio again, where our friendship had been born. That space would always hold a special place in my heart. Jamie had asked if I missed making pottery. I’d shrugged off the question, but I did. Photography was my creative outlet now, but it wasn’t tactile like pottery. I missed getting my hands dirty, missed the earthen smell of the clay. Unlike traditional film, digital photography meant no waiting, no surprise at the end. When I dipped a vase or a bowl in glaze, fired it in the kiln, I never quite knew what would come out. My mind flitted to my beloved pinch pots, their crushed bodies in the garbage bag, but I shook off the memory. I should never have made Freya so angry. I knew better now.