“Is it distracting working here?” he asked. “Being visible from the street?”
“I can usually block out distractions.” She glanced around the storefront studio she’d worked in for the past year. “When people see me working, they don’t just drop in.”
“I can leave.”
“I didn’t mean you.”
“Well, I know how it is to be interrupted in the middle of a thought.”
“I haven’t had a whole lot of thoughts lately.” Her face went warm. Why the hell had she said that? “About work, I mean. I’m…I’ve had other things on my mind. Actually, I’ll be moving soon. I’m buying my grandmother’s cottage and there’s a porch in the back that will make a perfect studio. I can just stumble out of bed and start working.”
“Pretty convenient,” he said.
He looked genuinely interested, as though she’d actually said something, not babbled like an idiot. She folded her arms, unfolded them. Stuck an elbow on the worktable, propped her head in her hand and tried to look bored. Better than looking flustered and awkward. Coffee. Did she have any? No. He had an athlete’s body. Not an ounce of fat. Unlike her own fleshy roll constricted now by the waistband of her jeans. Her hand was going numb.
“Anyway,” he said, “you asked yesterday if I had any questions and now I realize I do.”
“Questions?”
“About the tile-making process.” He took a notebook from his pocket, flipped the through the pages. “How do you actually make tiles?”
She glanced at him briefly, long enough to tell her that he wasn’t really here to talk about tiles. Fine, if he wasn’t going to come clean, she’d make him pay the price. “The short answer is, you mix the clay, roll it out, mold it, fire it in one of those kilns over there, dry it for a few days, then glaze it several times and fire it again,” she said. “Painting them is another process.”
“So—”
“Exactly.” She launched into a detailed explanation of paint pigments, moved on to glazes and firing techniques and anything else she could think of to throw into the monologue. When she saw his eyes begin to glass over, she began a dissertation on paint pigments. “That’s a very short and simplistic answer,” she said some twenty minutes later, “and I’m sure you must have dozens of questions.”
“What I—”
“Did I mention that the tiles are mixed with two different kinds of clay?”
“Twice.”
Only a touch embarrassed, she plowed on, anyway. “But I probably didn’t explain that it’s the glazing that gives them the really brilliant colors. Glazing and firing and more glazing and the heat’s turned up and they develop this hard brilliance.”
“My daughter would find this interesting,” he said.
“Unlike her father?”
“On the contrary.” He had his back to the shop window, a hand casually resting on the edge of her worktable. “I’ve been following your advice and checking out the installations around town. Right outside my office, there’s a tiled mural of a girl riding a whale.”
“Designed after a 1950s-era postcard made to advertise the big tuna that used to be caught in Catalina,” Ava said in the tour-guide voice she used during the weekly art walks she conducted. “Three children commissioned it to celebrate the anniversary of their mother’s birth.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“You stopped taking notes about twenty minutes ago,” she said. “And interesting is one of those words people use when they can’t think of anything else to say.”
He looked at her for a full five seconds. “Interesting.”
HOURS LATER HER FACE STILL burned every time she replayed the exchange. Screw him, she finally decided. It wasn’t as if she didn’t already have enough on her mind. Like her father still giving her the runaround on the cottage. That night, she packed an overnight bag, put Henri in her Land Rover and drove across the island to Ingrid’s. The following morning, she called Sam on her cell phone. When he continued to waffle, she left Henri at Ingrid’s, drove back to Avalon and tried to work. Thursday night she checked into the Bay View Hotel. Friday morning she ran into her father when she stopped at Von’s to pick up food for Henri.
“About the cottage, Dad,” she began.
“We’ll go and have a look at it. Don’t even know if it’s safe for you to live there. Deck’s rotting, roof leaks.”
“I told you, I’ll get it fixed.”
“I want to see it first,” he said. “Come on. Jeep’s outside. Just have a couple of things to do and we’ll go look at the place.”
Two hours later they were barreling across the interior, Sam rambling on about a species of cactus he wanted to show her. “Never seen anything like it growing here before,” he said. “You’ll be amazed. Just can’t remember exactly where I saw it.”
Eventually he gave up searching and they headed back into town. The wind pressed her back into the seat as Sam whipped the Jeep around the curve of Pebbly Beach Road. Maybe Ingrid was right. Maybe the cottage wasn’t worth the headache of dealing with Sam. Maybe she should have Lil show her the place on Marilla. Sam was driving and gesticulating and rambling on about this and that. You don’t listen to Sam, she reflected. He’s background noise.
“The purpose of this little expedition,” she reminded him, “was to see the cottage. If we’re not going to do that, just let me off in town. I’ve got Henri locked up in the studio. I need to get back to feed him.”
“Aaah.” Sam waved her protest away. “That dog’s not going to starve. Do him good to lose a few pounds, anyway. Damn.” He looked across Ava at the blue waters of the bay. “I’d like to get another Catalina marathon organized next year. No reason why it couldn’t be done again. The English Channel at its narrowest point is the same width as the Catalina Channel. Twenty-two miles. I could see reinstating the George Young Spirit of Catalina Award. He’s the guy—”
“Who swam it in 1927,” Ava interrupted. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve told me that?”
“What was his time?”
“Fifteen hours and forty-six minutes.” She’d committed the facts to memory when she was about ten. “And in 1952 Florence Chadwick beat his time by nearly two hours. I need to get back, Dad. Forget about the cottage, okay? I’m not interested anymore—”
“Sure you are. You’ve always wanted that place. There’s a Dumpster around here somewhere.” He drove slowly, checking the side of the road. “I saw it this morning. Someone dumped a whole load of lumber. Just what I need for the deck.”
“So I can have the cottage?”
“Makes no sense, but if that’s what you want to do… Need to fix that deck, though.”
“I can buy the damn wood.”
“Why waste good money?” He brought the Jeep to a screeching halt in the middle of the street. “There it is. See the wood sticking out?”
“Dad, you can’t stop here,” Ava protested, but he was out of the