Without doubt, they were more sensual than anything I’d done before.Sensual, sexual,erotic.Absurd as it seemed to refer to pottery in those terms, they were the ones that consistently came to mind.The joining of a handle to a pitcher, the curve of the neck of a decanter, the undulation of the sides of a decorative bowl—I stared long and hard.And much of the time I wondered whether I was seeing something in them that no one else would see.
It wasn’t only in my work that I was seeing things sensual, sexual and erotic.My nights were filled with them.I’d never had an X-rated dream in my life, yet suddenly they were coming in a steady procession.At least once, sometimes twice a night I awoke flushed and damp, with a tingling in my breasts and belly and a throbbing between my legs.
Once, the experience would have been embarrassing.Over and over, it was mortifying.I could only thank my lucky stars that there was no one in my bed to witness the folly.
Then again, I supposed that the folly wouldn’t be at all, if there was someone in my bed.
I was hungry, andhe’d done it.Hisface was the one atop the body that loomed over mine each night.Hismouth was the one that muffled my fevered cries.Hishands were the ones that brought me to sanity’s edge.
Still he didn’t call.
So I called my mother.It was on a Wednesday night, three weeks to the day since Peter had gone.
“Hi, Mom,” I breezed, as though my call were a regular thing.“How’s everything?”
“Jillian?Jillian?Is that you calling me, Jillian?”
There had never been, nor would there ever be anything wrong with my mother’s hearing.Nor was there anything wrong with mine.I could clearly hear the facetious tongue in her cheek.I let out a breath.“Yes, Mom.It’s me.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Are you well?”
“Very well.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must be calling about Peter.”
My mother had always been unusually perceptive.Growing up with her, I’d appreciated it at times—when I first got my period and was too embarrassed to tell her, for example, or several years later, when I refused to visit family friends whose oldest son had all but raped me the last time we’d visited.
Her perceptiveness had a down side, though.She could see through me easily, so early on, I’d stopped trying to hide my feelings.
But that wasn’t to say that I never tried again.
“No, Mom, I’m not calling about Peter.There’s nothing much to say about him.”
“Are you pleased with his work?”
“He seems to be on top of things,” I told her with what I thought was just the right amount of indifference.“The trial is set to start in threemonths.He has a lot of work to do between now and then.”
“If his reputation stands, he’ll do it.”
“I hope so.”In truth, I had no doubt about it, but feigning doubt helped my cause.“I worry a little that Cooper may be a small fish in a big pond.We may be in trouble if Peter has something else going on.”
“Of course he has other things going on.No lawyer can support himself on one case.”
“I know, but what if aspectacularcase came along.It would overshadow everything else.”
“Do you have reason to think that’s happened?”
I hesitated.“No.”
“But you’re wondering if I’ve heard anything.No, Jillian, to my knowledge he hasn’t fallen across anythingspectacularsince he agreed to represent your friend.”
