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"I play the fiddle and sing," I said. "I don't like doing it in front of people until I'm sure I'm ready. I guess an artist doesn't like showing his work until he is confident it's ready."

His eyebrows lifted again. "That's right." He thought a moment. "Okay, I'll show you something I've nearly completed," he said. "Maybe I need a completely fresh pair of eyes looking at it. I'll let you look at it if you promise to be honest about what you think."

"I don't like to lie about my feelings," I said, my eyes now as firm and as hard as his.

"I bet you don't. Follow me." He started around the house. Cary looked as if he had seen a ghost-- shocked, surprised, still afraid. "You can bring him along," Kenneth added without turning back to us.

Between the house and the studio was a patch of beach grass, a bench, and a small, man-made pond in which minnows burst into frenzied swimming when our shadows touched the water. Kenneth opened his studio door and paused.

"Don't touch any of my tools," he warned. I nodded and so did Cary.

The studio was just a large room. On one side were tables and a kiln, and on the tables were his tools and materials. There was a beaten-up tweed settee to our immediate left with a driftwood table in front of it, on which were a large coffee mug and a plate, with a half-eaten muffin on it.

Kenneth's work in progress was to our right. It was a figure about five feet high of a woman whose arms were changing into wings just above the elbow. The face was interesting, her eyes turned upward and her mouth was open as if to express a great sigh. She was naked and it looked as if feathers were growing along her back, sides, and stomach.

"Well?" Kenneth said. "What do you think I'm trying to show?"

"Someone turning into an angel," I said.

He smiled warmly. "Exactly. I'm calling it Angel in Progress. I have a lot of detail work left to do yet."

"It's very exciting, especially the look in her face," I said. "It's as if she's . ."

"What?" He drew closer to me.

"Seeing heaven for the first time."

"Yes," he said, gazing at her. "She is."

"Do you always work in clay?" I asked.

"No. I've done stone, metal, and wood, but here I'm trying to capture and record a fleeting impression, much the way a painter does in a quick sketch. After I'm finished, I'll cast this in bronze."

"How do you do that?" I asked. He checked my expression to see if I really wanted to know. Satisfied, he gestured toward his tools and his kiln.

"In two stages. First, a negative mold is formed, and then a positive cast is made from the negative impression. Plaster is used for the negative mold and bronze for the positive. I call that the slave work, since all the artistic work is completed."

"You do all that by yourself?"

"Yes," he said with a short laugh. "So," he said, his eyes small again, "what do you know about sculpture?"

"Just what I learned in history about the Greeks. Gods and athletes were their favorite subjects," I recited. "I remember our teacher passed around a picture of the Three Goddesses."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's right."

"My best friend's parents have a small replica of Michelangelo's David in their house," I said. "But I've never been to a museum and the only galleries I've ever seen are the ones on the street here."

"Take her to Gordon's on Commercial," Kenneth told Cary. "You know where it is?" Cary nodded quickly. "I have some pieces there."

"I'd like to see them."

He nodded. "Well, you've restored my faith in the educational system. Have you ever tried to do anything with art--draw, paint?"

"Maybe you should," he said. Was he telling me I had inherited some of his talent? I glanced at Cary, who still looked timid and nervous. His eyes shifted from side to side, as if looking for escape routes.

"School's almost over for you, isn't it?" Kenneth asked.

"Yes, just a little more review, finals, and that's it for this year. I graduate next year. Cary graduates this year,"