Snake in the Glass (8 page)

“I think it’s great to find a woman here. Are there a lot of women in the gemstone business? Do you find it makes your work more difficult?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. But I can’t imagine doing anything else. And you? I don’t recall hearing of many female glassblowers.”

“There aren’t,” I admitted. “Maybe twenty percent. But I love what I’m doing, and I love being my own boss.”

“There is that. Were you looking for anything?”

“Not at all. Just following Frank around. I’m learning a lot from him.”

“He is one of a kind, isn’t he?” Miranda smiled fondly at the two men, who were deep in discussion, and I noticed a few small packets of gems had emerged from pockets.

“He is that.”

“Are you two . . . ?”

It took me a moment to figure out what she was asking, then I laughed. “No, not at all. Although he and my, uh, friend seem to be leaning that way.”

“I’m glad. Frank’s a good man at heart, although he’s hard to pin down.”

“Do you travel to a lot of shows?” My question set us off on a long dialogue about the gem trade and the places it had taken her, and I had to admit I was fascinated. It sounded like a romantic lifestyle—but also a dirty, uncertain, wearing one. I preferred my own, I decided, although it was delightful to learn about something so different.

It must have been an hour later when Frank extricated himself from conversation with Stewart, and it occurred to me that I hadn’t noticed any customers approach in that time.

“Shall we tour out the rest?” Frank asked.

“Fine with me. Miranda, Stewart, it was great to meet you. I hope you have a chance to enjoy a bit of Tucson while you’re here.”

Miranda laughed. “Oh, you mean the world doesn’t end at the doors of this place? Thanks for the thought, Em. I’m glad we met too. It was good to see you again, Frank.”

As Frank and I meandered off toward another cluster of booths, I said, “I didn’t see much business going on.”

“It’s not all done by daylight. But Stewart and Miranda have done well for themselves.”

“So, are you friends? Colleagues? Competitors?”

“A bit of each. It’s a complicated business. Ah, here’s Virender!” And we were off again.

We made it back to the shop in good time, and Frank went on his way when Denis appeared again at four, ready to go. I got him started, then retreated to the shop where I could keep an eye on him. He spread out little piles of rough stones on the metal surface of a marver and then laid a notebook out. As I watched unobtrusively, he would measure out a group of stones into a crucible, stick it in the kiln, set a small electronic timer he had brought with him, and make a notation in his notebook. While I didn’t spend all my time watching, I had the impression that he was starting with short periods of exposure to the heat and gradually increasing it. Two hours later Denis was still in the studio, and he looked depressed. When I opened the door from the shop, he must have jumped a foot.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

He sighed. “Nothing yet. I’ve read up on most techniques, but I guess each type of stone is different. So far I’ve been trying out a fairly low temperature for different intervals. Next time I’ll have to crank it up and see if that makes a difference. Oh, did you want me to leave now?”

“Yes, I need to close up.” So I could get ready for my “date” with Matt.

“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Okay. Can I come back tomorrow?”

“Sure. We’re open all day. But this time call me first, okay?”

“Right,” he said in a distracted voice as he gathered his materials up.

I escorted him out the back door and locked it behind him. Before I shut down the studio, I made sure the little kiln was turned off. At least Denis was neat: he hadn’t left any mess behind him. Odd duck, he was, but maybe a lot of professors were lacking in social graces. Unpolished, as it were. Smiling at my own pathetic joke, I finished closing up and went upstairs to prepare myself for dinner with Matt.

Three dinners in a row with Matt—it was a record.
Maybe he really
had
missed me, although I’d been gone only ten days or so. Although maybe that first night home didn’t really count, considering that I had fallen asleep.

I had to admit I was uneasy about going to Matt’s house, but I told myself to get over it. I realized that it was stupid of me to insist that Matt and I get together only at my place. Matt deserved equal time, and he had been patient. After all, I believed in relationships of equals, didn’t I? So I’d suck it up and go. I hoped he was a better cook than I was. Or that his neighborhood had better takeout than mine.

Still, in some corner of my mind it was still Lorena’s house. Maybe I was projecting, based on my own experience: I had chosen and shaped my living space. It was
Mine
, with a capital M. My kingdom, my lair, my sanctuary. I had no reason to think that Lorena had looked at her house in that light; from what little Matt had said, she had seen it as a status symbol, albeit an inadequate one.

The Sam Hughes neighborhood was the kind of area that Tucson real estate agents love to gush over: “Most Desired Central Historic Neighborhood,” “A charming neighborhood of mature homes” with tree-lined streets—closed to through traffic, so they were quiet. First laid out in the 1920s, now it was on the National Register of Historic Places. It was convenient to downtown and the university. Some of the homes were pricey, others less so because they needed some serious work. I wasn’t sure how Matt fit in there.

I pulled up and parked, then studied the house. It was a relatively small bungalow, a few steps higher than the street, with a sloping graveled front yard. I couldn’t see the back because of the high wooden fence, although there were clearly some substantial trees there. The building was typical adobe with smallish windows; the entry porch had a terra-cotta tile roof. The house would have looked boxy and plain, but the whole was softened by the brilliant bougainvillea that screened the entry. I took a deep breath and got out of the car. Why should I be nervous?

Matt had apparently been waiting for me, because he opened the door before I could knock. “Em,” he said gravely.

“Matt,” I replied. Great—we knew each other’s names.

“Please, come in.” Matt stepped back to let me in.

I stepped into the small vestibule, with a niche in the wall straight ahead. If I knew my architecture, the living room would be on one side, the dining room opposite. It was surprisingly dark. Was Matt frugal about electricity?

Once I stepped into the living room on the left, I saw the reason: the place was filled with flickering light from more candles than I could count. And where there weren’t candles there were flowers. I turned to Matt and silently raised an eyebrow.

“I wanted this to be special,” he said, his expression anxious.

Oh, my. This was a side of Matt I had never seen. Romantic. Of course, I hadn’t precisely encouraged it either.

My prolonged silence must have disturbed him. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Em. I know you’re not into sentimental stuff, but I wanted to make this . . . memorable, I guess.”

I rallied my scattered wits and turned to him. “It’s lovely, Matt. Really. I just didn’t expect . . .” I swallowed.
Em, move on before you get mushy.
“Can I see the rest of the house?”

“Of course.” Matt smiled tentatively. “This is the living room. The dining room’s over there.”

“Show me,” I said, leading the way. More surprises in the small, square dining room: a beautifully set table, with more candles and flowers. “Oh, Matt . . .” I began helplessly. I really was touched at the effort he had put into this.

“Hey,” he said gently, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I shook my head vehemently. “No, I’m fine. It’s wonderful. I’m just kind of overwhelmed.” There were good smells issuing from the adjoining room. “Kitchen?”

“This way, what there is of it. Lorena . . .” He stopped abruptly.

“It’s okay, Matt. She lived here, she was part of your life. I can handle that. What did she think?”

“She thought the kitchen was too small and too old-fashioned. She was going to take out that back wall there and double the size.”

I looked around the admittedly tiny galley kitchen, its aging appliances lined up along the walls, its window overlooking the verdant backyard, half hidden in the dusk. “Looks good to me. It has all its working parts, right?”

“It does.” Matt led the way out the opposite end of the kitchen. “Bathroom’s here—just the one.”

I peered in: lots of Mexican tile, a skylight in the high ceiling, and a huge, glass-enclosed shower. “Nice.”

“And two bedrooms—I use one as an office. But I saved the best for last.” He put a hand on the small of my back and guided me to the double glass doors leading out to a small deck nestled in the L between the kitchen and the bedroom hallway.

I stepped out and heard the unexpected sound of running water. “What the heck?”

He pointed toward the back of the small lot. “There’s a small pond there, with a little waterfall.” He looked as pleased as a kid about it.

I made my way to the end of the deck and stepped onto the tiny lawn—real grass was a luxury in Tucson, but this patch could have taken up no more than twenty square feet. “It’s wonderful.” The trickling water drowned out what little sound of traffic drifted this far into the neighborhood. What a delightful kind of white noise.

“It came with the place—that was one of the reasons I really wanted this house. I’m glad you like it.”

Dangerous ground, Em.
In another universe, an ordinary female would be sketching out an entire future based on a comment like that.
Would you like to live here, my darling?
But Matt and I didn’t do anything by the book, and I wasn’t ready to go in that direction.

“I can see why you like it. It fits you—efficient but with some unexpected surprises. How about that dinner you promised?” Nothing like changing the subject.

“All set. Would you care for wine or a beer?”

Somehow beer didn’t seem to fit the mood. “Wine sounds nice.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and emerged a minute later with a chilled glass of white wine. “Here. Give me five and I’ll have everything on the table.”

I took my wine and drifted through the living room and dining room. The furniture was plain and sturdy, but I caught a hint of designer lines. What decoration there was, was spare and clean—masculine without being pathetic. It looked a whole lot better than my place, no question. And, I was happy to note, I didn’t see anything that could be remotely construed as a feminine touch. Unless the bedroom was filled with white ruffles. Somehow I doubted that.

Matt escorted me to my seat, held out the chair for me. I half-expected him to unfold my napkin (cloth, not paper!) and lay it on my lap. I looked at the plate in front of me. “This looks great. Did you make it?”

“Are you worried? Yes, I made it all with my own hands, and I’ve survived on my own cooking for a while. Just taste it, will you?”

I did. I tasted again, just in case I’d been wrong the first time. Damn, the man could cook! “It’s great. Remind me to come up with some more adjectives, will you? And you are full of surprises, Matt Lundgren.”

I smiled. He smiled. We ate. We finished a bottle of wine, and another one miraculously appeared. “I’m not sure I should drive home,” I said, after I’d lost count of glasses.

“Did you expect to?”

Well, no, I hadn’t. Not really. If I had found the house full of tasteful designer touches—in other words, still reeking of Lorena—maybe I would have turned tail and run. But the house was so Matt, I had to admit I felt at ease. “I wasn’t sure. But I am now.”

“So you’re staying?”

“I’d like that. Although I kind of feel like we should have some sort of ceremony, like an exorcism.”

“To banish Lorena forever?”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“I think I have an idea about that,” he said. He stood up and held out a hand, and I accepted it and followed him to the bedroom.

 

 

Sometime later, I lay in the unfamiliar dark, listen
ing to the trickle of water outside the screened window, and Matt’s steady breathing. I liked this house, I decided. It was Matt’s house, and Lorena had done no more than pass through it. The exorcism had been a resounding success, and, wonder of wonders, we hadn’t even been interrupted by some police crisis. Maybe this would all work out just fine, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke again about three in the morning and remembered the dogs. I sat up quietly. Good—there were no lingering effects of the wine. I could be home in ten minutes, through the deserted streets.

Matt reared his head. “Wha? Em?”

“Shh . . . Go back to sleep. I forgot about the dogs, and I don’t know that there’s anyone there to deal with them. I mean, maybe Frank is, but I’m not sure. . . .” I was dithering and I knew it, but I just couldn’t bring myself to stay all night. “But I’ll talk to you in the morning, okay?”

For a moment I thought he was going to protest or even pull me back into bed. But he didn’t, and I wasn’t sure if I was glad or disappointed. I thought for a moment of the effort he had put into the evening, to make it special. For me. In a way the idea scared me. I had worked hard to be independent, and I liked where I was in my life. I wasn’t sure where Matt fit in it, and I wasn’t sure what changes I was willing to make. This night had signaled some sort of shift in our relationship. I needed to think that over—alone.

I slipped on my clothes, tiptoed silently out of the room, and let myself out. When I got home, the dogs looked up once and went back to sleep, and I discovered that Frank had left a note. “Fed and walked dogs. See you in morning.” I heard the sound of light snoring from the guest bedroom.