“I’m so glad you’re here,” Olivia says next to me and gives my reflection a wink.
With iced coffees in our hands, she leads me down the street toward the opposite end of downtown where I haven’t ventured yet. As we make our way down the busy streets, she bumps her shoulder into mine and asks, “So…how are things going with Ryland?”
“What do you mean?” I reply, acting dumb.
She lifts a brow, silently telling me she knows better.
“Okay, okay. I’m honestly not sure where we stand. The past few weeks, we’ve sort of gravitated slowly back to each other, sharing hugs and holding hands. That’s it, though. I’m scared to take it anywhere else seeing as I don’t live in Covewood anymore, you know. Even if we rekindled something, what could come of it when I’m back in Rockdale?” My fears are all laid out, and an unreadable expression passes overOlivia’s face for a split second, there and gone, before I can decipher it.
“Spit it out,” I say. It’s my turn to lift a brow at her.
“Well, what if you moved back here?”
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about staying a dozen times a day. It’s scary, thinking about giving up one life to gain another. However, the more time that passes with me being back in Covewood, the less I want to return to Rockdale. I haven’t allowed myself time to really sit down and think about it, though.
Before we dig into the issue at hand, Olivia waves her hand in a showy way toward a small storefront with large windows and a gorgeous mural painted on white brick, with a large sign that readsPotter’s Art Studio.
“Here we are!” Olivia announces.
The name triggers a memory. I know this place and that it’s owned by Cindy Potter, who was one of my Mamaw’s favorite students. Mamaw taught an art class at the local community college and had mentioned how proud of Cindy she was and that she loved this place. Before I know what I’m doing, a bell chimes above my head as I enter the studio with Olivia trailing close behind me.
The studio is bright with white walls filled to the brim with art and photographs. Wooden shelves line the walls, holding pieces of pottery. I notice a familiar photograph of blades of grass and yellow flowers surrounding the camera, looking up toward the sky. The photograph is one of mine. One I printed and gifted to Mamaw when I was in high school.
“Your grandmother insisted that I hang this photograph in the studio. I always loved the perspective you had in your photographs. How you see the world around you,” Cindy’s friendly voice echoes across the room as she makes her way toward us.
I feel the stinging of tears at the mention of Mamaw and fight against them. Once Cindy is in frontof us, she gives me a sympathetic smile and brings me in for a tight hug—one that I really need and appreciate. As we pull away, she blinks away her own tears.
“Johanna was incredible,” she states and looks around the space. “She was the one who pushed me to open this studio—a dream I told her about back in college. She even donated some money and artwork to get this place up and running. I—” her voice cracks, and it’s enough to break me and force the tears to stream down my face.
Being in this space makes me feel so close to her. The colors, the possibilities, how she helped Cindy’s dream come true… It makes me so proud to be Johanna Wiley’s granddaughter.
“I miss her,” Cindy admits and wipes her cheeks. She takes a deep breath and gives us a sad smile. “I’m still torn up about her passing. I know you are too. Gosh, I’m a mess. I’m sorry.”
“I am too. It’s okay.” I give her an encouraging smile, the best that I can. “She left behind a huge hole in this world after she passed. It’s not the same without her.”
Cindy nods her head, agreeing with me, and I feel Olivia’s hand slide into mine. She gives me a knowing smile and squeezes my fingers. My eyes wander around the room once more, and I’m drawn to the two large paintings on the far-left wall. One is an oil painting of daisies. The second is a watercolor of wildflowers.
“She always loved painting flowers,” I say, more as a whisper, but Cindy smiles in agreement.
“I refuse to sell these. I know that sounds bad for business, but I love having a piece of her here, you know?”
“I do.” I think of the sunroom at the farmhouse that has turned into a memorial room for Mamaw, the piece of art that will always stay unfinished sitting on the wooden easel. I plan to leave it right there as a reminder of her for as long as I need.
“She was always so proud of you. There was never a day in class that she didn’t mention you. She would share stories orshow a photograph you captured. She always kept some in frames along her bookshelf in her office.”
Fresh tears blur my vision. Mamaw always made sure that I knew how proud of me she was. But hearing someone else say it, after losing her, really touches my heart.
“Thank you,” I say softly, and we give each other another hug. “I needed this. Needed to see you and this amazing place. I’d love to come back soon,” I admit, my heart already beaming with the thought of spending more time in this happy little space. “I’ve always wanted to learn pottery,” I add, pointing toward the potter's wheels in the corner.
“You’re welcome anytime. Hey, actually, I have been wanting to host a class about photography for the community. I want to start hosting a free class once a month. If that’s something that would interest you while you’re here, maybe we could work on something together?” Cindy pulls out a card from her back pocket and hands it to me. Once it’s in my hand, I feel my spirit move.
It's as if Mamaw is standing right next to me, her hand in mine instead of Olivia’s, giving me a little nudge that saysstay. That I’m needed here. That I can find my place in Covewood again, answering all the questions I have been pondering for days now.
“I’ll be in touch,” I tell her before Olivia and I make our way back outside into the sunshine. I turn to look at the building once more, noticing theFor Rentsign in the building next to the studio, before following Olivia down the street.
We walk in silence as we make our way toward the stage. The scents from the coffee shop and freshly bloomed flowers that sit in pots along the street fill my nose. The wind blows softly against us, carrying with it fallen blooms from the nearby dogwood and redbud trees that line the sidewalk.
My name is tossed out in greeting with a wave, and I realize something. I knew Rockdale was missing something before, butI wasn't sure what. Now, I recognize it’s missing foundation—belonging, stories, and community.
