Part 14 (1/2)

Most of the gla.s.s pieces had been cut already. Angel had only to shape the bunches of berries that hung lushly from the top of the window. The branches would be the lead beading itself. The leaves were cut from a piece of green m.u.f.f. The natural variations in the gla.s.s provided a subtlety of shading that recalled a living brush.

The veins on the leaves had been painted in. Angel would bake on the paint in the kiln, a process that permanently combined paint and gla.s.s. Although she could have achieved a similar effect by etching the leaf-lines onto flashed gla.s.s, she had chosen to use the varied texture and color shading of m.u.f.f instead.

Angel turned on the kiln, drew on supple suede gloves, and went back to the light table. She picked up a simple gla.s.s cutter. The hard steel wheel and its pencil-like holder fit readily against the calluses of her right hand.

She adjusted a piece of textured, raspberry-colored gla.s.s over the heavy paper pattern she had fastened onto the light table. The light s.h.i.+ning through the paper and gla.s.s clearly showed the black cutting lines she would follow. The wheel made a high humming sound as Angel drew the steel over gla.s.s, leaving behind a very fine trail of powdered gla.s.s.

As soon as the first major line had been drawn, Angel put down the cutter. Gently, firmly, she bent the gla.s.s until it separated at the fine line left by the wheel.

Despite its name, a gla.s.s cutter didnat really cut gla.s.s. It merely set up a weakness in the peculiar molecular structure of gla.s.s. In many ways gla.s.s responded more as a fluid than a solid. Like a fluid, gla.s.s ahealeda itself.

Unless Angel separated the gla.s.s within minutes of cutting, gla.s.s molecules would begin flowing back together. Then the break would be ragged and almost random rather than clean and precise. As Angel broke each piece of gla.s.s, she ran the fresh edges over each other, dulling them from razor to merely sharp.

The curves of the berries were too deep to cut all at once. After the initial shallow curves had been made, Angel picked up special pliers and nipped at the gla.s.s until the desired curves were achieved. It was work that demanded care and concentration. She welcomed both, drawing them around her like a balm, minutes flickering by, uncounted.

Beneath the concentration, the deepest levels of Angelas mind continued to seethe toward some kind of resolution, some balance that would eventually allow her to live more than a minute at a time.

Working with gla.s.s brought a kind of peace, a breathing s.p.a.ce, to Angel. It had helped her deal with all the small disappointments of her childhooda”and with the devastating death of her parents and Grant and his mother in the flaming wreck. It would help her deal with Hawk. Her work would let her live in each minute as it came, nothing beyond this minute, this instant of brilliant gla.s.s taking shape beneath her fingers.

Working in silence but for the tiny, high song of gla.s.s shearing away, Angel finished cutting the pieces for Mrs. Careyas gift. When the kiln was hot, the leaves went in. While they baked she continued cutting, working this time on the piece of pale m.u.f.f. It was a large piece, irregularly shaped yet oddly graceful. She cut with confidence, years of experience showing in each elegant stroke, each sure motion.

After a time, Angel slipped a piece of plywood over the translucent panel in the table. Then she went to the bead stretcher, a simple vise that held one end of a length of soft, H-shaped lead beading while she pulled on the other, taking out any kinks. She used the thinnest possible bead that was consistent with the structural integrity of the finished piece.

After the lead beading was pulled and a piece had been tamped into the rustic frame, she began to a.s.semble the gla.s.s, beginning in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame. Horseshoe nails held the gla.s.s in place until the next piece of bead was ready to be laid.

As Angel selected each piece of gla.s.s, she polished it until she could see nothing but the beauty of the gla.s.s itself. Piece after piece, color after color, a fragile jigsaw puzzle held together by black lead stretched into suppleness. The sounds of small nails being tacked down replaced the tiny cry of gla.s.s.

Angel worked through the darkest hours of the night, pausing only to wipe away the tears that came without warning, a transparent up-welling from a wound too fresh and deep to be quickly healed.

She noticed the tears only at a distance, a blurring of sight that prevented her from seeing clearly the jeweled shards of color slowly becoming whole beneath her hands. Fragments of the past forged into a new pattern, beauty where only breakage and loss had been, sanity rebuilt piece by piece.

Ebony night paled to pewter dawn. Crimson flushed the studio. Angel didnat notice the light any more than she noticed that her back muscles were burning and knotted or that the shoulders of her blouse were dark from the tears she had wiped away. She was focused wholly on the puzzle she had just completed.

She mixed the cement that would be the final touch, the last a.s.surance that the puzzle would not come undone in an hour or a year.

With a stiff brush, Angel worked the thick cement over both sides of the finished stained gla.s.s piece until there was no more s.p.a.ce between gla.s.s and beading and frame. She poured sawdust over the finished surfaces, absorbing the excess cement. Then, before the cement dried, she took a pointed wooden tool and began to go over each join of lead and gla.s.s, picking up extra cement, making sure that the lines of her creation would be as clean and elegant as the gla.s.s itself.

Crimson faded into the softer colors of day. Angel didnat notice. There was no sound but that of wood squeaking over gla.s.s until Derry came in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

aAngie? Whatas wrong? Why arenat you out fis.h.i.+ng?a

15.

Angel looked up, surprised to find that so many minutes had pa.s.sed.

It was morning.

A little of the tension in Angel eased. The first night was the hardest.

Blinking slowly, she focused for the first time in hours on something that was farther away than the surface of a worktable.

Derry came closer, swinging easily between the crutches.

aAngie? How long have you been working?a aA while,a Angel said evasively, returning her attention to the stained gla.s.s. aIam almost finished.a Actually she had been finished an hour ago. She was simply using the wooden sc.r.a.per to retrace the lines of what she had created. She enjoyed the colors and shapes, the wholeness where only dreams and lethal fragments of gla.s.s had been.

Derry frowned. aYou must have been at it all night.a She made a neutral sound.

aAngie?a She sighed and put the wooden sc.r.a.per aside, knowing she couldnat evade the issue of why she was home rather than out guiding Hawk.

aYes, I worked all night.a aYou havenat done that for a long time.a aYes.a aAngie,a Derry said softly, awhatas wrong? Is it because last night was the night of the wreck? Four years . . . a Angel hesitated. It would be easier to let Derry believe that she was mourning the past.

Easier, but hardly the whole truth.

aThatas part of it,a Angel said, looking up and meeting Derryas eyes for the first time. aBut most of it is that your Mr. Hawkins and I donat get along worth a d.a.m.n.a Blue eyes widened in surprise.

aWhat happened?a Then Derryas eyes narrowed. aHe didnat make a pa.s.s at you, did he?a Derryas voice was suddenly hard, much older.

Angelas mouth turned down at one corner, a sardonic echo of the man called Hawk.

aA pa.s.s?a she echoed. aNothing that personal. There isnat a personal bone in Hawkas body.a Angelas voice carried conviction, for she didnat feel that she was lying. A pa.s.s implied unwanted attentions. Hawkas touch hadnat been unwanted, not at first. Nor had there been anything personal between them, not in the deepest sense of the word.

They didnat know each other well enough to be personal. They had proved it when they had so badly misjudged one another.

Derry relaxed slowly. aThen what happened?a aWe donat speak the same language,a Angel said succinctly.

Puzzled, Derry waited.

Angel said no more.

aWhat do you mean?a Derry persisted.

aDoes the word misogynist ring any bells?a asked Angel, fiddling absently with the wooden sc.r.a.per.

aItas too early in the morning for dictionary games,a retorted Derry.

aMr. Miles Hawkins is a misogynist. He distrusts and hates women. I am a woman. Therefore, he distrusts and hates me. That,a Angel said quietly, looking up at Derry with dark green eyes, amakes it very uncomfortable for me to be around him. He feels just as unhappy to be around me.a There was shocked silence for a moment while Derry tried to imagine anyone hating and distrusting the pale, tired woman who stood before him, her eyes haunted by too many sad memories.

aI canat believe that,a Derry said.

aI can.a Angel set aside the sc.r.a.per with a weary gesture.

aCall Carlson on the radio phone,a she said. aWhen we ran into him at Brownas Bay, he offered to take Hawk fis.h.i.+ng.a aHe did? They must have gotten along great.a aWhy shouldnat they? Carlsonas all man.a Angel heard the bitterness in her own voice and fought a short, silent struggle for control of her emotions. She felt tears burning at the back of her eyes, tears filling her throat.

aIf not Carlson, some other man,a she said tightly, turning away from Derry.

Then Angel stopped turning so suddenly that her hair lifted, floated, and settled across her face in soft veils. Hawk was standing in the doorway between her studio and her bedroom. She hadnat heard him come in. He had made no more noise than a raptor soaring on transparent currents of wind.