what she wanted to do. Resume her sculpting.
She was fifty. But the mirror still showed smooth and only gently lined skin. Her hands were still slender. Her body was still curved. She was still strong enough to work the clay.
Emmaline hurried the last steps to the barnlike building that had been an artists' haven for decades. When she was a young woman her father had allowed her to study sculpture. Her dear, kind father who had wanted her dreams to take flight. He hadn't wanted her to be restrained by the reins society had placed around women.
Sometimes it was hard to believe that Bradford, the man who had swept into her life, so full of energy and excitement, could have taken her dreams and ripped them apart. All too soon in their life together the illusions of love had worn away.
Pushing through the heavy front door, Emmaline was hit with the rich smell of clay. The cavernous room was filled with people, a few using potter's wheels, their feet pumping the pedals in a smooth, mesmerizing motion. Others worked on varying stages of sculpting clay, some of it still in large blocks, barely touched, some already being tackled, their masters leaning over them in trance-like pursuit.
Everyone was trying to take the thoughts in their heads and translate them into the malleable earth they molded with their hands.
Emmaline remembered the feeling well, even after decades away from working the clay.
"Do you want something?"
Emmaline whirled around, her long skirts sweeping the dust-covered ground. She came face-to-face with a woman with long gray hair secured in a braid down her back. No demure bun or simple chignon, as any woman over the age of eighteen was expected to wear.
"Yes, I'm here to see Mr. Springfield."
The woman eyed her rudely. "His matron types don't usually come here. Send him a message, and if he wants to see you hell meet you at one of those fancy teahouses women like you frequent."
Stunned by the woman's instant and intense animosity, Emmaline was speechless for a moment and she nearly left. But then she remembered those long, sleepless hours.
"Mr. Springfield is expecting me."
"Here?" the woman scoffed.
"Yes, here." Courage she hadn't felt in years surged through her. "I am sure he is in his studio upstairs. I'll just go up there now."
The woman was clearly taken aback by Emmaline's knowledge of this place. But Emmaline didn't wait for her permission. She headed for the stairs.
As soon as she placed her hand on the banister, a door flung open.
"Emmaline!"
She craned her neck and found Andre Springfield at the top of the stairs. "Andre."
"I didn't believe you would really come."
"Well, believe it. I'm here."
The short, round man barreled down the stairs, grabbed her hand, and all but dragged her up to his study on the second floor. As soon as he slammed the door shut, he stood Emmaline in a shaft of light, took her hands, and held them out dramatically.
"Let me look at you!"
He danced her around in circles, and Emmaline couldn't help but laugh. In a matter of minutes she felt the years drop away. It was as if she had never left. He had less hair and she knew she no longer looked eighteen. But none of that mattered.
"Sit, sit! You must tell me all about what you've been doing these last many years." He directed her to a chair, then dashed back to the door, flung it open, and hollered out, "Collette, bring us some tea!"
He was still a whirlwind of energy, and Emmaline smiled to think that not everything had changed.
"Now tell me everything."
"Heavens, we would be here all day."
"Grand! I can't imagine anything I would like more than to spend time with you."
Emmaline lowered her head and glanced at her gloved hands. Andre reached out and nudged her chin. "What is this? Emmaline Abbot blushing?"
"Emmaline Hawthorne now."
"Yes, yes. How could I not know? Your husband is written about in every paper. He is either taking some poor politician to task or signing some new deal to make thousands
She was fifty. But the mirror still showed smooth and only gently lined skin. Her hands were still slender. Her body was still curved. She was still strong enough to work the clay.
Emmaline hurried the last steps to the barnlike building that had been an artists' haven for decades. When she was a young woman her father had allowed her to study sculpture. Her dear, kind father who had wanted her dreams to take flight. He hadn't wanted her to be restrained by the reins society had placed around women.
Sometimes it was hard to believe that Bradford, the man who had swept into her life, so full of energy and excitement, could have taken her dreams and ripped them apart. All too soon in their life together the illusions of love had worn away.
Pushing through the heavy front door, Emmaline was hit with the rich smell of clay. The cavernous room was filled with people, a few using potter's wheels, their feet pumping the pedals in a smooth, mesmerizing motion. Others worked on varying stages of sculpting clay, some of it still in large blocks, barely touched, some already being tackled, their masters leaning over them in trance-like pursuit.
Everyone was trying to take the thoughts in their heads and translate them into the malleable earth they molded with their hands.
Emmaline remembered the feeling well, even after decades away from working the clay.
"Do you want something?"
Emmaline whirled around, her long skirts sweeping the dust-covered ground. She came face-to-face with a woman with long gray hair secured in a braid down her back. No demure bun or simple chignon, as any woman over the age of eighteen was expected to wear.
"Yes, I'm here to see Mr. Springfield."
The woman eyed her rudely. "His matron types don't usually come here. Send him a message, and if he wants to see you hell meet you at one of those fancy teahouses women like you frequent."
Stunned by the woman's instant and intense animosity, Emmaline was speechless for a moment and she nearly left. But then she remembered those long, sleepless hours.
"Mr. Springfield is expecting me."
"Here?" the woman scoffed.
"Yes, here." Courage she hadn't felt in years surged through her. "I am sure he is in his studio upstairs. I'll just go up there now."
The woman was clearly taken aback by Emmaline's knowledge of this place. But Emmaline didn't wait for her permission. She headed for the stairs.
As soon as she placed her hand on the banister, a door flung open.
"Emmaline!"
She craned her neck and found Andre Springfield at the top of the stairs. "Andre."
"I didn't believe you would really come."
"Well, believe it. I'm here."
The short, round man barreled down the stairs, grabbed her hand, and all but dragged her up to his study on the second floor. As soon as he slammed the door shut, he stood Emmaline in a shaft of light, took her hands, and held them out dramatically.
"Let me look at you!"
He danced her around in circles, and Emmaline couldn't help but laugh. In a matter of minutes she felt the years drop away. It was as if she had never left. He had less hair and she knew she no longer looked eighteen. But none of that mattered.
"Sit, sit! You must tell me all about what you've been doing these last many years." He directed her to a chair, then dashed back to the door, flung it open, and hollered out, "Collette, bring us some tea!"
He was still a whirlwind of energy, and Emmaline smiled to think that not everything had changed.
"Now tell me everything."
"Heavens, we would be here all day."
"Grand! I can't imagine anything I would like more than to spend time with you."
Emmaline lowered her head and glanced at her gloved hands. Andre reached out and nudged her chin. "What is this? Emmaline Abbot blushing?"
"Emmaline Hawthorne now."
"Yes, yes. How could I not know? Your husband is written about in every paper. He is either taking some poor politician to task or signing some new deal to make thousands
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