flowing river unfolds before us. With shop-lined streets set against the backdrop of a spectacular view, it looks as though it’s been plucked off a postcard.
I slow the bike to the curb. “This is a pretty little spot. Whatcha say we have a look around?”
Leah fidgets on the seat. “If you say so. This is Wiscasset. My unchanged and very boring hometown. My mom still lives down that way, in the house I grew up in.” She points down a small side street.
“Let’s go.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”
“I’d love to see where you were raised.” My small smile builds.
After a tense silence, Leah’s posture sags. “Okay, won’t she be surprised. Fourth house on the left.” The nervous edge to her voice mixes with a touch of resignation.
Within minutes, we pull up in front of a small New England–style farmhouse dwarfed by the two primordial oaks flanking it. A porch wrapping the first story is lined with bold-red Adirondack chairs that stand out in contrast against crisp-white clapboards. From the mailbox post hangs a white sign with matching red lettering: MAINE WINTERS POTTERY.
“She’s probably in her studio,” Leah says, swinging her leg over the side, and removing the helmet.
“She’s an artist, too?”
“Yup. Like mother, like daughter.” Leah slips off the jacket and lays it over the seat. “I think it’s safer if this stays here. My mom doesn’t need to think I’m a pothead.”
I smile and push off the bike.
Leah takes my hand without hesitation as she leads me through the deep shade toward the back of the house. We cross the rolling lawn to a small barn positioned on the river’s edge. The glassy surface of the water reflects the building’s weathered gray shingles.
The interior of the barn is cool compared to the mid-afternoon heat. The smell of earth mingles with pine. A petite woman with short strawberry-blond curls sits hunched over a potter’s wheel. Her hands embrace and smooth a small spinning chunk of clay. Each touch changes the lump’s form, and a shape begins to emerge. Around the room’s perimeter are shelves stacked with brightly colored pots in different shapes and sizes.
Leah waits patiently for her mother while breezes blowing through the open door ruffle and play with her hair. Soon the wheel slows, and her mother leans back to examine her work.
“Mom.”
She looks up, and a stunned smile flashes across her narrow face. “Lee-lee, what are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming. Or did I forget?”
“Nope. It’s a surprise,” Leah says.
As her mother steps toward us, her gray eyes flick to me, and Leah releases my hand.
“This is Jack. Jack, my mom, Marlee.”
I bow.
“My, what manners.” She grins at her daughter then returns the smile to me. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
“And you, Marlee,” I say. “It’s clear where your daughter gets her love of the arts. Your workmanship is impeccable.”
“Thank you.” Marlee grins and looks at her daughter. “Manners and taste. He’s a keeper. I was just going to clean up and have lunch, or is it dinnertime? I never bother to keep track when I’m in the zone. Anyhow, hungry?” Without waiting for a reply, Marlee removes her apron, tosses it aside, and wipes her hands on a towel that was draped over her shoulder. She begins to hum as she heads out the door toward the house.
“You’re loading it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Leah murmurs.
“I want her to like me.”
“No worries there. You got her eating out of your hand.” Her smile looks a bit annoyed.
“Only one thing.”
Leah stops and looks at me. “What?”
“Does she cook like your brother?” I whisper.
She laughs. “Thank goodness, no.”
The interior of the quaint little farmhouse is not at all what I expected. One giant room takes up most of the first floor. Sunlight floods in through large windows that look out over the river, and each wall is painted a different color.
I slow the bike to the curb. “This is a pretty little spot. Whatcha say we have a look around?”
Leah fidgets on the seat. “If you say so. This is Wiscasset. My unchanged and very boring hometown. My mom still lives down that way, in the house I grew up in.” She points down a small side street.
“Let’s go.”
“I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”
“I’d love to see where you were raised.” My small smile builds.
After a tense silence, Leah’s posture sags. “Okay, won’t she be surprised. Fourth house on the left.” The nervous edge to her voice mixes with a touch of resignation.
Within minutes, we pull up in front of a small New England–style farmhouse dwarfed by the two primordial oaks flanking it. A porch wrapping the first story is lined with bold-red Adirondack chairs that stand out in contrast against crisp-white clapboards. From the mailbox post hangs a white sign with matching red lettering: MAINE WINTERS POTTERY.
“She’s probably in her studio,” Leah says, swinging her leg over the side, and removing the helmet.
“She’s an artist, too?”
“Yup. Like mother, like daughter.” Leah slips off the jacket and lays it over the seat. “I think it’s safer if this stays here. My mom doesn’t need to think I’m a pothead.”
I smile and push off the bike.
Leah takes my hand without hesitation as she leads me through the deep shade toward the back of the house. We cross the rolling lawn to a small barn positioned on the river’s edge. The glassy surface of the water reflects the building’s weathered gray shingles.
The interior of the barn is cool compared to the mid-afternoon heat. The smell of earth mingles with pine. A petite woman with short strawberry-blond curls sits hunched over a potter’s wheel. Her hands embrace and smooth a small spinning chunk of clay. Each touch changes the lump’s form, and a shape begins to emerge. Around the room’s perimeter are shelves stacked with brightly colored pots in different shapes and sizes.
Leah waits patiently for her mother while breezes blowing through the open door ruffle and play with her hair. Soon the wheel slows, and her mother leans back to examine her work.
“Mom.”
She looks up, and a stunned smile flashes across her narrow face. “Lee-lee, what are you doing here? You didn’t tell me you were coming. Or did I forget?”
“Nope. It’s a surprise,” Leah says.
As her mother steps toward us, her gray eyes flick to me, and Leah releases my hand.
“This is Jack. Jack, my mom, Marlee.”
I bow.
“My, what manners.” She grins at her daughter then returns the smile to me. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
“And you, Marlee,” I say. “It’s clear where your daughter gets her love of the arts. Your workmanship is impeccable.”
“Thank you.” Marlee grins and looks at her daughter. “Manners and taste. He’s a keeper. I was just going to clean up and have lunch, or is it dinnertime? I never bother to keep track when I’m in the zone. Anyhow, hungry?” Without waiting for a reply, Marlee removes her apron, tosses it aside, and wipes her hands on a towel that was draped over her shoulder. She begins to hum as she heads out the door toward the house.
“You’re loading it on a little thick, don’t you think?” Leah murmurs.
“I want her to like me.”
“No worries there. You got her eating out of your hand.” Her smile looks a bit annoyed.
“Only one thing.”
Leah stops and looks at me. “What?”
“Does she cook like your brother?” I whisper.
She laughs. “Thank goodness, no.”
The interior of the quaint little farmhouse is not at all what I expected. One giant room takes up most of the first floor. Sunlight floods in through large windows that look out over the river, and each wall is painted a different color.
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