“The oldest is five now, and he’s a black bear like Danielle. The youngest’ll probably be a black bear or a polecat like her dad. She could be anything in the Carnivora order, though.”
“What the fuck is a polecat?”
“It’s like a weasel. Just don’t call him that when you meet. He’s apolecat. Got it?”
“Got it.” She winked.
“Toppings?”
“Oh, please.”
He slid the chopped veggies between them and went to town tossing his favorite flavors on chaotically. Fern had some secret design in mind and placed each cherry tomato, onion slice, and piece of pepper to plan. Sunflowers, he realized with a smile. This was why she was in charge of the detail work on the wedding favors—she had an eye for beauty.
He set the oven to preheat, set a timer on his phone, and they set out to the studio.
“Can I go barefoot?” Fern asked, pausing near the front door.
“I am.”
“Yeah, but don’t you have, like... tough outdoorsman’s feet or something?”
Chuckling and riding high from their fantastic conversation thus far, Elliott scooped her up, tossed her over his shoulder, and carried her kicking and laughing to the shed not twenty feet away.
He had his music set up to continue across the property, and Fern told him he was “fancy” when he set her down on the glossy concrete floor.
A quick tour was in order to show her his kilns, his products, and his works in progress. When he pointed out the station he’d prepped for her, she gushed over the platter, saying, “This is the most perfect canvas possible. Big and blank... I’m gonnaruin it.”
With his bear purring in his chest, Elliott said, “Spoken like a true artist. Do you know anything about underglaze?”
“No. No clue what that is. I havezeroart training.”
He also had no formal art training, but that didn’t mean they weren’t artists. Rolling his eyes, Elliott went on to explain bisque firing, underglaze, glaze—the whole shebang. The test plate was ready for her to paint, and he’d take care of the rest. When it was fired in a few days, she could check that her color palette matched her vision.
After getting her started, Fitz ran back inside to pop their pizzas in the oven for twenty minutes, then he joined her at his own station and got to work.
“What’re you making?” Fern asked a few minutes in as she dipped a small brush into the pale green underglaze. Her eyes focused on his hands as he pressed his thumb into a flat oval of clay and dragged it up the surface. Like magic, the clay curled around his finger, forming a natural-looking petal.
“Flowers.” Gesturing at the spread of cookie-cutter teardrops before him, he explained, “This is an anemone—or it will be. It’ll top one of the oil diffusers I’m making for the tables.”
“They’re beautiful. Will you still teach me to throw later? I came prepared.” She wiggled her short nails his way.
“Of course.”
“Good,” she said quickly, and Elliott busied himself with his petals so she wouldn’t see the heat rising to his cheeks.
They worked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and when he’d finished the Japanese anemone, he set it aside to dry and went to wash up.
“Are we done?”
“No, the—” His phone alarm played a jaunty tune, cutting him off mid-explanation.
“Food’s ready?” Fern cocked her head in question, tilting her cheek against her upturned brush. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Yep. Just needs a few minutes to cool down. You can keep at it, I’ll be right back.”
Nodding, she chewed her lip and considered her next design.
It was a challenge to walk away from her, but the desire to not burn the food—or his house down—lit a fire under Elliott. Leaving their pizzas cooling on the counter, he made sure everything was set in the fridge, dropped a few ice cubes into his bong, and returned to the shed.
