Page 81 of Bargaining

You and me both.I rolled my eyes. “Stop laughing, or you’re on your own.”

She zipped a finger across her lips. “I’ll stop.”

Charlotte drifted to the sink and admired the shelves crammed with pots of different shapes and sizes. Rosa hovered around, watching us. Three would be a crowd. I wanted Charlotte all to myself.

I kept my voice low so Charlotte wouldn’t hear. “My wife knows how to do this. You can leave us.”

Rosa’s eyebrow hitched a fraction. “You booked a private lesson.”

“Right, and I’ll pay double if it’s even more private.”

She shot me a disapproving sidelong glance. “I’m afraid I can’t leave you unsupervised.”

“Did I say double? I meant to say triple.”

A small knowing smile curved her lips. “Very good, signore. I’ll leave you in peace.”

We sat on rickety wooden stools next to each other. Charlotte shaped a tall, smooth cylinder beneath her palms. I had a rotating heap of mud, wet clay all over myself, and absolutely no idea what I was doing. Clay clung to my palms and hid under my fingernails. I flexed my hands, wishing they weren’t so filthy, frustrated that I couldn’t just relax and go with it.

“How does yours look like that? This is impossible,” I said.

She glanced at my gray lump of shame and smiled like a benevolent primary school teacher admiring a dried pasta creation. “You’re doing great. It just takes practice.”

Her fingers glided inside the spinning cylinder on her wheel, shaping. The gentle rotation hummed around us.

She lifted her gaze from the pot to me. “Tell me about your mother.”

Jesus. Now? Where had that come from? My throat tightened. Those weren’t memories I wanted to dredge up. Not here. This was supposed to be a fun day.

Her eyes were on me, patient and expectant. “You don’t have to talk about her. Not if you don’t want to.”

I shifted on the stool and it creaked on the stone floor. An ache pierced my ribs. I never talked about these things, but opening up to Charlotte about my family had felt like a relief before. I’d kept so much from her when we were kids. She deserved more.

I cleared my throat. “She was a musician. A flutist. My father said he fell in love with her when he saw her in an orchestra in Prague. He brought her to London. I think she must have been happy at some point, because I remember her singing in the kitchen.”

Charlotte’s smile was charmed. “A musician? How lovely. That must be where you get your love of music from.”

“Maybe. She was many wonderful things until my father destroyed her with his criticism, his neglect, and his womanizing. When she lost Penny, it sent her into a spiral. Rather than take care of her, my father left her alone with three kids. She was working hard in rehab. She would have been able to turn things around.”

Charlotte’s voice was soft. She stopped her wheel and reached for me. Her clay-covered hand hovered over my arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Bitterness twisted like barbed wire inside of me. “Don’t feel sorry for me. Pity my father. I’m going to make him pay.”

“You know the best way to get revenge? Find your peace. Your father’s punishment is that he has to be him. You can make a choice to be nothing like him.”

“I’m not a good person like you.”

“You can be anything you want to be. You can let all of this anger inside go if you want to.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“No, it’s definitely not easy.” She threw another glance at my pile of mud and gave me a faint smile. “Don’t stop your wheel. Here. Let me help you.” She got up, grabbed her stool, and sat behind me. Wrapping her arms around my middle, she took my hands and put them on the clay.

“Like this.”

She interlaced her fingers with mine, smooth and wet. “Think of it like a negotiation. You must learn when to apply pressure and when to ease off. Let the clay lead you. If it goes wrong, you start again. It doesn’t matter. At this stage, it’s nothing but potential. Just like you.”

“Me?”