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Why?
Because of me?
Did that mean she’d been trying to distract herself with work like I’d been trying to distract myself with the gym and busy projects at the club?
So maybe she wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted me to think she was after all.
“Well, that’s good, though. Keep those rabid fans of yours happy, at least.”
Rabid fans?
I mean, yeah, I figured she had some customers, but I didn’t think she had some sort of crazy fanbase.
“Yeah. They have eaten up everything here already,” Morgaine said, smiling, clearly proud of her success. You know, as she should be. “I know I don’t usually use up so much kiln space…”
“Oh, hush. It’s your money, honey. And it has been slow around here right now. The first summer camp program wrapped up last week. We start the next one in another few days. So I am pretty much all yours until then. I only get the occasional mom and kid in here lately.
“I keep hoping clay crafts will pick up like painting all of a sudden did.”
“Well, they got success because they included alcohol,” Morgaine said, shrugging.
“Clay and Cabernet,” Marnie said, smiling.
“Now you’re onto something,” Morgaine agreed as she followed the older woman toward the back of the store, chatting about Marnie’s plans for the future, leaving me in the main area of the studio.
It wasn’t a huge space, but Marnie had made use of every square inch.
Long tables took up the center of the room, six in all, room enough for her summer camps. The walls were lined with sturdy shelves that held already-made clay figures. To paint, I figured.
Toward the front of the room were ten clay wheels with chairs next to them.
There was a wash station right beside the main desk and a giant storage unit holding more paint colors than I knew existed.
I walked over toward the front desk, seeing a bulletin board posted there with a bunch of flyers and business cards.
And that was where I saw one that immediately jumped out at me.
Morgaine_Le_Clay.
A play on the King Arthur Morgaine le Fey story, I imagined.
Curious, I reached for my phone, plugging the name of her business into the search engine, and being brought right to her Instagram page. Where she had more than fifteen-thousand followers. And hundreds and hundreds of comments on each post, begging her to do more collections so they could get a cup or tray or mug.
She was good, too.
She had that sort of minimalist, boho, cottage-core shit that was so popular nowadays. But the thing was, her shit suited her actual minimalist, boho, cottage-core life.
She didn’t post often, and even less often about new collections. Her posts about new mugs and other projects were sandwiched between artistic shots of parts of her garden or her herbal collection or even her tinctures from inside her house.
Even those posts had tons of comments.
Omg. Is that a chicken I see in the corner? Show us the chickens!
I would love to know more about tinctures! Do you share about any of that stuff anywhere else?
Wow! If you ever need a roommate… or a house cleaner…or pet…I can bark.
From the looks of things, if she wanted it, she could have a real community for herself.
I couldn’t help but wonder as I heard the laughter of the two women in the back and their happy, animated voices, if Morgaine didn’t necessarily isolate herself because she wanted to be isolated, but because of her side-hustle, about worrying if other people found out about it, if they would think differently about her because of it.
I mean, clearly, she did like people. Some people. Her kind of people. Marnie. And Nyx. And the women she helped.
Maybe she just didn’t let herself want to have more connection, more community.
“No, those are going to sell like hotcakes,” Marnie said, drawing my attention back to them as they made their way back up toward me. “Who’s that? Hot date?” Marnie asked as I slid my phone away.
“I got the two of you,” I said to the hot date comment, watching as Morgaine’s cheeks went a little pink. Marnie let out a charming, cackling laugh at that.
“So, Crow. Has the genius that is this woman showed you how to do any clay projects?” she asked.
“I don’t think he would be—“
“My grandma did some clay shit when I was a kid,” I cut her off. “I remember liking it.”
“Well, that sounds like he is an eager student to me,” Marnie said, eyes alight with mischief. Because she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I’m sure he has things he needs to—“
“Not a damn thing in my schedule,” I said, shooting her a smirk as I waved back toward the wheels. “I’m all yours,” I said, watching as the spark flashed in her eyes before she managed to school her features into uninterested lines.
