Keys of Heaven by Adina Senft Read Free Book Online Page A

here. It’s one word in one sentence in one catalog. Are you going to hold up production over that?”
    “I don’t like misleading people.”
    “Who’s misleading? You were once Amish. That’s good enough for me—and good enough for the customers who will be buying your bowls.”
    “Just take out that one word. Maybe ‘Pennsylvania potter,’ or ‘Longtime potter,’ or—”
    “But Amish sells. That’s the marketing hook, my modest friend. We’re trying to differentiate ourselves from the noise out there. I can tell you this, Pottery Barn and Pier One don’t have real Amish potters making their pieces.”
    “Neither do you.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t tell me you’re going to do something drastic, like pull out of the deal over an adjective?”
    Henry’s stomach plunged, and he steadied himself with his back against the sturdy door. He could feel the warmth of the sun coming through the wood from the other side. “No, of course not. Not when I’ve already signed and sent back the contract and begun the order.”
    “Good. That’s good. Because I’ve got this check ready to send out and I’d hate to think you’d changed your mind.”
    Was Petersen threatening him? Who said anything about changing his mind? He needed that money to eat and buy clay.
    “So we’re good to go on this copy, then? Amish and all? Because I need to get this in before close today if you’re going to get the spread. Those spots in the catalog book up months in advance, and I’d hate to see you lose it because we gummed up the works over wordsmithing.”
    You say wordsmithing, I say truth.
    But what did it matter whether it was the truth or not? How much advertising was actually truth? It was a fact that the reviews of his own work back in Denver hadn’t held any truth, and that hadn’t stopped them from being published—or people from believing what they said.
    “Fine,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair and gazing at the green ware, which needed to be attended to. “Run with it, if you think it will do the job.”
    “That’s the spirit, Henry. That’s all it is, right? Copy doing a job. My job is to sell your pieces so you have a job making them. And what’s it going to hurt? You were once Amish, and you live on an Amish farm. Close enough for government work, eh?”
    “Sure,” he said.
    “Great. I’ll get this check in the mail today. Nice talking to you. You take care now.” And Dave hung up before Henry could even say good-bye in return.
    He pictured the other man in his suit and expensive tie, dashing off to take the check down to the mailroom himself, and then shook his head at the image. Pushing a shoulder off the door, he walked over to the drying boards and picked up where he’d left off, setting out today’s work so that the air could circulate around the pieces and dry them out.
    There was probably as much truth in the existence of that check as there was in his currently being Amish. Maybe Dave had just been blowing smoke, holding payment over his head so he’d agree with whatever the marketing guys wanted.
    Well, it wasn’t his catalog, and no one was going to drive out here to see if he was really Amish before they bought a batter bowl. Half those catalogs would probably go straight into the recycling bin anyhow.
    Meanwhile, he still had some work to do on the final glaze design, which he kept playing with, dissatisfied. He didn’t really have six bowls ready to ship. They were still at the green ware stage, waiting for the first of their two firings, while sketches lay all over his kitchen table, and a few attempts at molding organic forms sat here on the workbench in various stages of completion.
    After pulling plastic over the wedged clay waiting to go on the wheel, he washed his hands and forearms at the deep, two-bay porcelain sink and dried them on an old towel. Then he set off in the direction of Willow Creek along the path that Caleb had worn into the hill