“I fired some of your pieces,” Freya said to me. “Come by the studio later and you can glaze them. I’d love to hear about your first week on the job.”

After they left the store together, I returned to my dusting, picking up one of Freya’s bud vases. It was a simple design but deceivingly hard to produce. It had a narrow base, a tall sleek neck and a delicate opening like the petals of a flower. She’d used two glazes—one sage, one denim—to re-create the color of a stormy sea. It was exquisite. And then, somehow, it was on the floor, smashed into five clean pieces.

Oops.

13

jamie

Freya and I liked the restaurant in the Blue Heron hotel. It offered harbor views and a good-size menu, though the food never quite lived up to the scenery. On weekends, the eatery was packed with tourists, but the midweek-lunch trade was sparse. Only three other tables were occupied; Freya and I easily got our favorite spot by the window.

When we’d ordered salads and iced tea, I said, “I hope Low isn’t angry with me.”

“It’s my fault,” Freya said. “We’ve spent so much time together over the last few months, that she thinks we’re BFFs. I enjoy her, but she’s just a kid.”

“She’s barely said a word since she’s been working for me. I’m not sure how to make her feel more comfortable.”

“She’ll open up.”

Our drinks arrived.

“But you can tell her anything. She’s a great listener.”

Suddenly, there was a crash behind us, a plate and cutlery falling to the floor. I turned in my seat to see a child, about six months old, perched on its mother’s lap. The baby had a fuzzy blond head, a pale green onesie, and a wide toothless smile—evidence of its delight in the noise and mess it had created. The mother, in a loose-fitting dress and Birkenstocks, looked weary as the father, his long brown hair threaded with silver, bent to retrieve the carnage.

“Why do people think it’s okay to bring babies into restaurants?” Freya sniped. “If you’re going to procreate, you have to stay home. There should be a law.”

I turned back to her. “Cute kid, though.”

Freya looked over at the child. “It looks like it needs a bath. And some vaccines.”

To my embarrassment, my eyes moistened. I blinked frantically, but my companion noticed.

“What’s wrong? Was it the vaccine comment? Did I cross the line?”

I grabbed my napkin, dabbing at the tears that threatened to spill over. “It’s not that. I just . . . I just got my period.”

“I used to get really bad PMS when I was younger,” Freya said. “Have you tried going on the pill? It can ease the symptoms.”

“It’s not PMS.” I dropped the napkin from my face. “I was a bit late and I thought . . . I hoped . . .”

Freya leaned forward. “Are you trying to get pregnant?”