A Fatal Slip by Melissa Glazer Page B

try? You might surprise yourself and have fun.”
    “I doubt that,” she said.
    “Would you like me to pick out a piece for you to paint, or would you like to find something yourself?”
    She rolled her eyes at me, and her father either missed it or, more likely, chose to ignore it. If he could take it, so could I. As a joke, I picked up a bisque clown’s face, something I’d made a mistake ordering and wanted to get rid of. It turned out that clowns weren’t as universally beloved as I’d once thought, and I still had two faces lingering on my shelves like unwanted guests who refused to leave. “Would you like to do this one?”
    “Why not?” she said, barely looking at the face.
    I turned to her father and said, “I’ve got one more, if you’d like to do it together.”
    It was mean, but I really did want to get rid of those clowns, and he seemed past caring himself. “That’s fine.”
    I set them up at a station, then explained the process. “You apply the paint, I fire the pieces, then you can pick them up in a few days.”
    The father frowned. “She leaves tomorrow afternoon.”
    “It’s a real shame, isn’t it?” Sarah said.
    “I’ll do a firing tonight, so they’ll be ready by lunch tomorrow.” One of my kilns was nearly full, so I wasn’t pushing it by making the promise.
    “Perfect,” the man said.
    “Stellar,” the girl chimed in, sarcasm thick in her voice.
    I got out a wide range of colors for them, then busied myself dusting the shelves as they worked. The father chose white, red, yellow, and blue for his clown, while the daughter covered hers from fright wig to chin with black. It was going to be hideous when it was fired, but that was her problem, not mine. She did a few embellishments with other colors from the palettes, but I couldn’t get a close enough look to see what she’d done—quite frankly, I wasn’t really sure I wanted to anyway. The father put down his brush and said, “That was fun. Sarah, would you like to do something else while we’re here?”
    “The only thing I want to do is leave.”
    “Wait for me outside,” he snapped, apparently having had enough of her attitude.
    She sullenly walked out, and he reached for his wallet as he said, “I want to apologize for my daughter. She hasn’t taken the divorce well.”
    “The teenage years are the toughest,” I said. “She’ll grow out of it. Just give her some time.”
    “I’m not sure I have that much time,” he said as he overpaid me for the clowns.
    “That’s too much,” I protested, but he wouldn’t take his change.
    “I figure you earned the rest as a tip. I’ll be by tomorrow to pick them up. If I can get her out of bed in time for her flight back to Virginia, that is. Knowing her, she’ll be ready at dawn—she’s in a hurry to get back to her mother.”
    “Be patient,” I said. “That’s what she needs from you right now.”
    “You sound like you’ve had experience with teenagers,” he said with a sigh.
    “I went through it twice with my boys. They do grow out of it.”
    “I can’t tell you how much I hope you’re right. It’s what I’m living for,” he said.
    After they were gone, I added the clowns to one of the nearly full kilns and turned it on. Whether they’d ever be back to pick them up was another thing altogether, but I was going to keep my end of the bargain and have them waiting for them. Besides, I was curious to see what the girl had done to her clown face. The kiln would bring it out. That was the thing about firing: the heat intensified whatever it touched, bringing hidden elements to the surface. Sometimes I wished there was a way to do the same to people.
    I had a few more customers come in over the course of the morning, and when there was a lull, I decided I could afford to eat my brown-bag lunch outside. There was a bench in view of the shop, just on the other side of the road and next to Whispering Brook where I could get some needed fresh air and