The next room was dry and warm — a large, lofty space with windows just under the ceiling and an Egyptian-style mural running around the top of tall four walls. Otherwise, it looked like a bakery. Several ovens stood around the room, and tables held trays of dun-colored tiles, like cookies waiting to be baked.

"These tiles are bone dry and ready for firing," said Joy. "the others are bisque, waiting to be glazed. They'll be used in the chapel that the Pennimans are donating to the university . . . And now you've seen the whole operation. We live in the loft over the clay room. I'd invite you up, only it's a mess. I'm a terrible housekeeper. You should be glad you didn't marry me, Jim." She squeezed Qwilleran's hand. "Shall we have a drink? I've got some bourbon, and we can drink in your apartment, if you don't mind. Is bourbon still your favorite?"

"I'm not drinking. I've signed off the hard stuff," he told her. "But you go and get your bottle, and I'll have a lemon and seltzer with you."

Qwilleran returned to Number Six and found the cats lounging on top of the bookcase. "Well, what do you think of her?" he asked them.

"Yow!" said Koko, squeezing his eyes shut.

When Joy arrived with her bourbon, she said, "You can make yourself very popular in this house by keeping a bottle handy. Mr. Maus doesn't approve of hard liquor — it paralyzes the taste buds — but most of us like to sneak a cocktail now and then."

"How does anyone live here and stay thin?"

"Mr. Maus says a true gourmet never stuffs himself."

Qwilleran poured the drinks. "You were a great cook, Joy. I still remember your homemade raisin bread with honey and lemon frosting."

"Potting is not far removed from baking," she said, curling up comfortably on the built-in bunk. "Wedging clay is like kneading dough. Applying a glaze is like frosting a cake."

"How did you happen to take up potting?"

Joy gazed wistfully into the past. "When I left Chicago so suddenly, Jim, it had nothing to do with you. I adored you — I really did. But I wasn't satisfied with my life. . . and I didn't know what I wanted."

"If you had only explained — "

"I didn't know how. It was easier just to . . . disappear. Besides, I was afraid you'd change my mind."

"Where did you go?"

"San Francisco. I worked in restaurants for a while and then supervised the kitchen on a large ranch. It was operated as a pottery school, and eventually they let me handle some clay. I learned fast, won prizes, and I've been potting ever since."

Qwilleran, relaxing in the big plaid arm chair, took time to light his pipe. "Is that how you met Dan?"

She nodded. "Dan said there was too much competition in California, so we moved to Florida, but I hated that state! I couldn't create. I felt a hundred years old in Florida, so we went back to the Coast until we got the offer to come here."

"No kids?"

Joy took a long, slow sip of her drink. "Dan didn't — that is, he wanted to be free to be poor. And I had my work, which was time-consuming and fulfilling. Did you ever marry, Jim?"

"I gave it a try. I've been divorced for several years."

"Tell me about her."

"She was an advertising woman — very successful."

"But what did she look like?"

"You." Qwilleran allowed himself to look at Joy fondly. "Why are we talking in the past tense? She's still alive — though not well and not happy."

"Are you happy, Jim?"

"I have good days and bad days."

"You look marvelous! You're the type that improves with age. And that mustache makes you look so romantic. Jim — I've never forgotten you — not for a single day." She slid off the bunk and sat on the arm of his chair, leaning toward him and letting her hair fall around them in a thick brown curtain. "You were my first," she whispered, close to his lips.

"And you were my first," he replied softly.

"Yow!" said an imperious voice from the top of the bookcase. A book crashed to the floor. Cats flew in all directions, and the spell was broken.

Joy sat up and sighed deeply. "Forgive me for that silly outburst at dinner tonight. I'm not like that — really I'm not. I'm beginning to hate myself."

"Everyone flies off the handle once in a while."

"Jim," she said abruptly. "I'm going to get a divorce."

"Joy, you shouldn't — I mean, you must think it through carefully. You know how impulsive you are."

"I've been thinking about it for a long time."

"What's the trouble between you and Dan? Or don't you want to talk about it?"

She glanced around the room, as if searching for the words. "I don't know. It's just because. . . well, I'm me and he's himself. I won't bore you with details. It may be selfish of me, but I know I could do better on my own. He's dragging me down, Jim."

"Is he jealous of your work?" Qwilleran was thinking of the six-hundred-piece table service.

"I'm sure of it, although I try to keep a low profile. Dan has never been really successful. I've had better reviews and bigger sales — and without even trying very hard." Joy hesitated. "No one knows it, but I have fantastic ideas for glazes that I've been holding back. They'd be a sensation, I guarantee."

"Why have you held them back?"

She shrugged. "Trying to play the good wife, trying not to surpass my husband. I know that's old-fashioned. The only way I can shake loose and be honest with myself as an artist is to get out of this marriage. I tell you, Jim, I'm wasting my life! You know how old I am. I'm beginning to want comforts. I'm tired of making my own clothes out of remnants and driving an ancient Renault without a heater. . . Well, it does have a heater, but there's this big hole in the floor — "

"You'd better get some legal advice," Qwilleran suggested. "Why don't you discuss it with Maus?"

"I did. His firm doesn't handle divorces — only very dignified corporate stuff — but he referred me to another attorney. And now I'm stymied."

"Why?"

She smiled her pathetic smile. "No money."

"The eternal problem," Qwilleran agreed.

"I had a little money of my own before we were married, but Dan has it tied up somehow. You know I was always bored with financial matters, so I didn't question him about it. Wasn't that dumb? I was too busy making pots. It's an obsession. I can't keep my hands out of clay." She pondered awhile and then added in a low voice, "But I know where I could raise some cash. . . with a little polite blackmail."

"Joy!" Qwilleran exploded. "I hope you're kidding."

"I'd be discreet," she said coolly. "I've found some documents in the attic of the pottery that would embarrass a few people. . . Don't look so horrified, Jim. There's nothing sinister about it — simply a business transaction."

"Don't you dare! You could get into serious trouble." Qwilleran stroked his mustache reflectively.

"What, uh . . . how much money would you need?"

"Probably — I don't know — maybe a thousand, to begin with. . . Oh, Jim, I've got to get out of this suffocating situation. Sometimes I just want to jump into that horrid river!"

Joy was still sitting on the arm of his chair, but she was straight-backed and tense now. The lamplight, hitting her face in a certain way, revealed wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. The sight of his childhood sweetheart with signs of age in her face filled Qwilleran with sadness and affection, and after a moment's silence he said, "I could lend you something."

Joy showed genuine surprise. "Would you really, Jim? I don't know what to say. It would save my life! I'd sign a note, of course."

"I don't have much savings," he said. "I've had some rough sledding in recent years, but I won a cash prize at the Fluxion in January, and I could let you have — about seven hundred and fifty."

"Oh, Jim! How can I thank you?" She swooped down to kiss him, then jumped up, grabbed Koko from his blue cushion, and whirled around the room with the surprised cat.