The Face of Deceit

by Ramona Richards

  Tyler moved quickly to block her way. “Let our guy finish his work. Then we can do the inventory.”

  Her voice was low and tight. “I need to see!”

  “Karen…”

  Mason stepped up and grabbed her arm. He faced Tyler. “Maybe…if we all went…just so she could look through the door.”

  The chief hesitated, then gave a curt nod at Karen. “But understand that you cannot go in.” He motioned to his officer. “Stay here. Don’t let anyone else come close.”

  The young man touched his hat in acknowledgment, then Tyler led them down and around to the back of the house, taking Karen’s other arm as they approached the studio door. Karen tugged forward, surging like a mother toward an endangered child. Mason’s grip tightened, his heart aching for her.

  “No, Karen,” Tyler warned again. “You can’t go in until we’re finished.”

  Her breath came in gulps. “Now I know what Jane meant about being violated.”

  “Easy, chère,” Mason whispered, desperately wishing he had other words of comfort. He didn’t peer inside the house, still focused on Karen.

  Tyler spoke softly to the officer. “Have you talked to the neighbors?”

  “Not yet,” he replied. “Next on the agenda.”

  “Finished inside?”

  “Not quite. It’ll be another ten minutes at least, and—” he glanced at Karen “—we’ll still need the inventory.”

  Karen shifted position between the two men and made a noise that was half whimper, half moan. Mason finally looked into the basement door, and his own breath locked in his throat.

  The destruction stunned him. The kilns had been tipped over, their firebricks smashed. Completed vases, plaques and bowls had been pulled from the shelves and shattered. The neatly organized baskets of supplies and tools had been ripped from their carefully labeled spots and tossed about the room. Hundreds of hours of work, countless dreams and thousands of dollars. Gone in a mindless rampage.

  A fierce rage suddenly knotted Mason’s stomach when he saw the wreckage. The words he’d spoken earlier, that had burst from him twice, came to his lips again but this time he swallowed them. It had been a phrase his father had often said about his adventurous, risk-taking mother: “Hide her and keep her.”

  They had jumped out in his native Cajun patois, and he’d been startled that Tyler had understood. Understood the words, but not the true meaning. Even as a child, Mason had known his father didn’t truly want to lock his mother up; instead, he wanted to hold her close, protect her.

  “That’s what we do…” his father had said “…we men. Protect our families, in the best way we know how.” A frustrating task in a wild country with a wife who liked to wander the swampland, gathering plants for her cooking, and traipse off with her girlfriends to Mardi Gras or a cruise or the occasional trip to Europe. Mason knew for a fact his parents had always been faithful to each other, if strangely mismatched. His father had been content with hearth and home, while Mason’s mother, whose pale, Southern-belle beauty contrasted starkly with his father’s dark features, had an unquenchable wanderlust—not for other men but for the horizon. She was always leaving. But she always came home.

  Mason had inherited both his father’s love of the hearth and his mother’s wanderlust, a warring combination that had led him to Mercer, but that had made his attraction to this house and this woman almost instantaneous—and disturbing. It was too soon; she was not his to protect. He had no right to the rage that boiled within. This was not his fight.

  Yet, somehow, it was. His eyes narrowed, his thoughts going back to the auction as he took a closer look at the demolished studio. Is this why I found this town, that auction, was the one to go up against Luke Knowles, the one the cops came to first…?

  Mason blinked hard. No, no, no, I will not read hidden meanings into coincidences.

  “No such thing, child. Coincidences are God’s sense of timing at work. You don’t expect it. He does.” His mother’s words flitted through his head like a persistent moth determined to get inside a lightbulb. No coincidence that a sick friend had given up a ride and hotel room to the young debutante longing to get to her first Mardi Gras. No coincidence that the Cajun boy who’d sworn he’d never attend one had found himself stranded for a week in New Orleans. No coincidence that he’d literally tripped over her in the hotel lobby as she’d checked in, crashing belle and baggage all over the floor, charming her with his chagrin and repeated apologies in Cajun-accented English. His dark, unruly curls and flashing black eyes helped a little, as well…

  Mason’s mother had never returned to her Birmingham home, transferring to Tulane to finish her business degree. She’d wed the Cajun and started a home business with a new baby on her hip. His mom had loved the story of her romance almost as much as she loved the man himself, and she’d repeated it often to her young son. She would know in her heart that Mason’s attraction to Mercer, New Hampshire, and the art of a young potter was no mere “coincidence.”

  Wish I could tell her. Mason ran his hand through his own curls. He wished he had her faith, her unwavering belief in God’s work in their lives. He still missed her. Missed them both.

  Mason snapped back to the present as Tyler let go of Karen’s arm, and she jerked from Mason’s grasp to dash into the house. Mason brushed around Tyler, following as if pulled in by her wake. He stopped dead inside the door, almost running over her. Despite her rush into the house, she stood solid, staring around the basement studio, breathing heavily.

  “I’m sorry,” Tyler said behind them.

  A soft moan sighed out of Karen, and Mason’s gaze jerked to her as her knees gave way. He scooped her up, holding her tightly against his chest as the instinctive Cajun phrase burst from him again.

  “Hide her and keep her.”

  Karen’s nose twitched as the itch awoke her. She opened her eyes, brushing her fingers over her face, blinking in the one sliver of light not blocked by her closed blinds. A shadowed figure in a chair next to the bed shifted, and her aunt Evie leaned forward. “You okay, girl?” Her quiet voice brought with it a lingering sense of Karen’s childhood. Safety, but with a touch of anxiety. As if she were okay, as long as she didn’t say the wrong thing.

  “I think—” Karen’s voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I think so.” She pushed herself up and looked around the darkened bedroom, embarrassment flooding her. “I fainted, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. You woke up briefly, then fell asleep. Like you were drugged.” Her aunt smiled. “Who’d blame you, with all this going on? Why didn’t you call us sooner?”

  Karen shook her head. “It’s happened so fast…” Her voice cracked as her eyes stung with tears. The rage and fear she’d felt downstairs roiled in her again. Her fingers clutched the blanket. “Who would want to hurt—” She stopped as Evie’s eyes widened with alarm. The last thing she wanted was Evie on the warpath with this. Evie didn’t need more ammunition to use in her criticism of Karen’s life. Karen took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “How did I get up here?”

  “That boy brought you up. That writer you told me about.”

  Karen’s mouth twisted into a wry smile at both the answer and how easily Evie had been distracted. “Mason isn’t a boy.”

  Evie snorted. “He’s barely more than a baby.” The older woman pushed out of the chair, towering over Karen’s bed. Her long, salt-and-pepper ponytail swung forward over one shoulder as she leaned over, reaching for Karen’s hand. “How do you really feel?”

  Karen sighed, sitting up straighter and drawing her knees under her. “To tell you the truth, a little overwhelmed.” Her eyes widened as her stomach gave a furious snarl. “What time is it?”

  Evie patted her leg. “Obviously time for this girl to eat. It’s well after noon. Why don’t you come back to the house with Jake and me?”

  “I really need to stay here, clean up downstairs.”

  Evie stiffened. “You want to stay here? After a breakin? You c
an’t be serious.”

  Pushing back the covers, Karen swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “Of course I am. This is my home.”

  “You fainted.”

  “I was stunned.”

  Evie stepped back out of her way. “You still need to eat. At least let us take you out. That boy can come.”

  “Mason.”

  “Mason can come, too.”

  Karen paused, a little dizzy. “I have food here.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone. Surely you don’t plan to have Mason stay over.”

  Karen felt like shaking off both her sleepiness and this conversation. “We’re just friends.” She looked around for her shoes, and chose a pair of slip-ons.

  “But—”

  “Let it alone, please.”

  Evie sighed. “You and Jake. No blood but equally stubborn under the skin.”

  Karen ran her fingers through her hair and gave her mascara a quick check in the mirror, smiling as she remembered the morning’s conversation. “You’re the one who always said persistence was the key to real success.”

  “In business. Not with family.”

  “Still, I learned from the best. I don’t think Shane learned it from Jake. It was either you or the Army, Evie. Take your pick, but I don’t think one tour of duty is long enough for him to have learned business from them.”

  Evie grinned at the mention of her son’s name, brightness showing in her eyes as her concern for her niece gave way to pride in her son. As always. “Did I tell you he sold the old Elkins place? Knew he would. All the other brokers around here kept saying it would never move, but he did it!”

  “A tourist with bed-and-breakfast dreams?”

  Evie barked a laugh. “Not exactly. Retired couple out of Boston. Name of Carver Billings, I think Shane said. He and his wife have fixed up old houses before, then sold them for quite a profit, and they think this one will be just as easy. Shane closed it as soon as he could. They moved in last weekend.”

  Karen paused, almost asking if Shane had fully disclosed the house’s history to the buyer. The Elkins place was notorious around Mercer: a derelict mansion near collapse, ignored by the locals due to a long history of calamities to the folks who owned it. She decided not to ask, knowing that the answer might lead her back into an even harder conversation about her cousin’s business ethics. “Bad luck,” Shane always said, “is not subject to full disclosure.” Of course, he never said that in front of Evie.

  She forced a smile. “Good for him.”

  Evie gave a little jig, revealing the grace of her dance training, slowed only slightly by her seventy-plus years. “Full price, too. They didn’t even try to negotiate.”

  “That’s great.” The last thing Karen wanted to talk about at this moment was her cousin’s successes. Evie had always held out Shane—the handsome, successful college graduate—as being everything Karen was not. Like some kind of soap opera cliché, Karen thought as she trotted down the stairs, halting as Mason, her uncle Jake and cousin Shane leaped to their feet. “Wow. Welcoming committee.”

  Mason moved first, crossing to the foot of the stairs. “You all right?”

  No, not really. But I need to do something without everyone looking over my shoulder. “I’m hungry. And I want my house back.”

  Mason’s eyebrows arched. Behind him, Jake grinned, his sunburned face creasing into a thousand crevices. He clapped Shane on the shoulder. “That’s our cue to grab the brooms.”

  “No.”

  They all froze. “You really want to do this alone?” Jake asked.

  Evie began a sputter of protest, but Karen held up her hand. “It’s my work. I need to take inventory for the police, to see exactly what was broken. I can’t do that with everyone here.” She stopped short of saying that the idea of Evie and Shane in her studio made her shudder. They’d made her feel like a second-class citizen as long as she’d lived with them. That was not going to be wiped away in one afternoon of sweeping. She simply didn’t want them here.

  Mason didn’t move, his eyes steady on Karen’s face. Shane, however, stepped forward and took one of her hands. He was trim and handsome as always, and his concerned blue eyes gleamed even brighter in a face and scalp evenly tanned by a local studio instead of the sun. Shane had been bald as long as she could remember, but he reveled in it, making him one of the more attractive men around. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  When she replied, her voice was quieter but just as determined. “I mean it. I want to eat something from my own kitchen, then just work with Mason to go through what’s left of down—” She stopped, realizing she’d just volunteered him for a job he might not relish. She turned to him. “If you want to. I mean, you don’t have to, I just thought—”

  “Yes.”

  That was it. Just “Yes,” with his gazed locked on her face. After a moment she nodded, then turned to Evie. “I’m glad you were here for me. But I really need to do this myself. I know what was down there—I’ll know what’s missing.”

  Evie put up a hand. “I’ve seen that mess. How could you possibly know what’s—”

  “Evie girl, let her alone.” Jake stepped forward, reached around Karen and took Evie’s arm. “This is between her and the clay.”

  Evie let out a sigh that was a pure picture of exasperation. “Potters! You make me crazy with this thing you have with the clay.”

  Jake’s low chuckle sounded kind, but his grip on Evie’s arm didn’t loosen. “It’s why we do it, sweetheart.” He led her out, while Shane squeezed Karen’s hand.

  “Call me if you need anything. I mean it. Anytime. And we’ll talk more later. We have a lot to catch up on.”

  “Of course.”

  She closed the door behind them, then turned to Mason. “I think we can—”

  “What thing with the clay?”

  Karen examined him, but he didn’t flinch or waver as her gaze went over him head to toe. He waited, as if understanding her need to decide whether he was serious or about to make fun of her. Yet his eyes held no humor, just curiosity, with his eyebrows arched, his mouth an even line. She remembered the intensity of his first questions about her art, the inquisitiveness that seemed to have no end.

  “Come with me.” She took his hand and led him down the spiral, stopping only for a second at the bottom as she switched on the lights. She took a deep breath and looked over the room one more time.

  The shattered porcelain pieces glimmered under the overhead lights. Her pottery was more than her livelihood; it was her heart. No matter what this…person…wanted, Karen could no more stop creating with clay than she could stop breathing. It was the one thing that her aunt Evie had never understood about her and Jake, no matter how much they’d tried to explain it. Evie’s was a world of common sense and practical business, and she never grasped why they had to get their hands in the clay, why it drove them…why some part of their soul would be wounded and crippled if they couldn’t.

  Karen stepped off the staircase, grimacing a bit at the crunch of shards under her shoes, but she didn’t stop, picking her way across the room to the tipped wheels. She set the largest one upright, checked it for damage, then made sure it was plugged into the wall. She picked a bat out of one pile and brushed it free of debris before setting it on the wheel’s turntable. Then she went to one of her tubs of clay and cut loose a chunk, plopping it with a solid thunk on the worktable. She motioned to Mason, who waited at the stairs. “Get over here and roll this into a ball.”

  He grinned and followed, brushing his hands on his jeans before attacking the clay. She found two stools and set one behind the wheel, the other in front. She went to the sink for water, poured some over the bat, then put the cup on the wheel’s tray. “Bring the clay over here.”

  He did, and she pointed at the stool behind the wheel. “Sit and get comfy.” He settled in, and she took the clay, plopping it firmly on the bat. She sat in front of him and pointed at a spot on his left thigh. “Brace your elbow there. The first
thing we do is center the clay. Brace your arm so that your left hand doesn’t move. Support the bottom of the clay with it. Then use your right hand to move the clay gently until it’s in the center of the bat. Wet your hands, and start the wheel. Slowly. You’ll know it’s centered when it loses its wobble.”

  She stepped back, watching. He moved clumsily at first, as if he wasn’t sure where to place his hands or how hard to push the clay. She giggled when he almost shoved it off the bat, then motioned for him to start over. “Slowly,” she repeated.

  Once the clay settled into the middle of the bat, she pointed to the cup of water. “Wet your hands and put a bit on the clay, but not too much. You don’t want it too moist. Fold your hands around it, then when you’re ready, use your thumb to open it up.” She watched, fighting her instinct to guide his hands with hers. But as with all her students, especially the younger ones, doing had more impact than showing.

  Mason caught his breath as the clay opened under his hand, almost as a flower opens its petals. She leaned closer, her voice low but intense. “Watch the clay. It’ll lead you. Listen to God guiding you. He knows what it should be. Trust your instincts. It’s less about what you want to make than what this piece of clay should be.”

  Karen leaned back then, watching with a teacher’s thrill as Mason’s eyes focused on the ball of earth in front of him, mesmerized by its spinning growth. The gentle motion of his breathing drew her attention, and she remembered suddenly the lightness in her head earlier that morning, the dizziness that had made her feel as if she were falling…then she had fallen, hard, against him. He’d caught her, lifted and carried her up two flights of stairs. His frame might be wiry, but there was a solid strength to his body as well as his mind. She closed her eyes as a tightness clutched her chest. She forced herself to breathe, and a silent prayer raced through her mind. Lord, not yet. We have too much to handle already. Please don’t let me feel this now!

  FIVE

  The clay spun beneath Mason’s hands, and Karen’s words resonated through his head. His gaze locked on the grayish, glistening ball in front of him. Slowly, he bent one finger more than the others, and the clay responded, changing shape as easily as a feather drifts.