Page 37 of Rainshadow Road

At Lucy’s invitation, Sam dropped by her glass studio in the afternoon. He was dressed in worn jeans and a black polo shirt, his eyes a startling turquoise against his tan. As she welcomed him inside, a jumpy feeling awakened in the pit of her stomach.

“Nice place,” Sam commented, glancing at their surroundings.

“It used to be a garage, but the owner converted it,” Lucy said. She showed him her soldering and light tables, and stacks of trays filled with cut glass that was ready to be built into windows. One section of shelves was laden with cans of waterproofing compound and whiting powder, along with disciplined rows of tools and brushes. The largest section of the studio, however, was taken up with floor-to-ceiling vertical racks of glass. “I collect every kind of glass I find,” Lucy said. “Sometimes I’ll salvage some antique glass that I might be able to use in historic restoration projects.”

“What is this?” Sam went to a treasure trove of blue-green glass misted with silver. “It’s beautiful.”

She joined him, reaching out to run her fingers over a sheet of glass. “Oh, that was the score of theyear,let me tell you. It was going to be used for some massive public art installation in Tacoma, but the funding fell through, so all this gorgeous experimental glass was sitting in some guy’s barn for more than twenty years. Then he wanted to get rid of it, and a mutual friend told me about it. I got the whole lot for practically nothing.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Sam asked, smiling at her enthusiasm.

“I don’t know yet. Something special. Look at how the color is flashed into the glass—all those blues and greens.” Before she thought better of it, she glanced up at him and added, “Like your eyes.”

His brows lifted.

“I wasn’t flirting,” Lucy said hastily.

“Too late. I already took it that way.” Sam wandered to the big electric kiln in the corner. “Some oven. How hot does it get?”

“It can go up to fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I use it to fuse or texture glass. Sometimes I’ll cast pieces of glass inside a mold.”

“No glassblowing, though?”

Lucy shook her head. “That would require the kind of substantial furnace that you would have to keep hot all the time. And although I did some glassblowing in the past, it’s not my forte. I like working on windows more than anything.”

“Why?”

“It’s… creating art with light. A way of sharing how you look at the world. Emotion made visible.”

Sam nodded toward a set of speakers on the worktable. “Do you usually play music while you work?”

“Most of the time. If I’m doing some intricate glass cutting, I need it to be quiet. But other times, I’ll put on whatever I’m in the mood for.”

Sam continued to explore, browsing among jars of colored glass canes and rods. “When did you first get interested in glass?”

“Second grade. My father took me to visit a glassblowing studio. From then on, I was obsessed. When I’m away from my work too long, I start to crave it. It’s sort of like meditation—it keeps me centered.”

Sam went to her table and looked down at a sketch she had made. “Is glass feminine or masculine?”

Lucy gave a surprised laugh, having never been asked such a question before. She considered it carefully. You had to let glass do what it would, partner it rather than control it, handle it with gentleness and strength. “Feminine,” she said. “What about wine? Is it feminine or masculine?”

“The French word for wine—vin—is masculine. But to me, it depends on the wine. Of course”—Sam flashed a grin at her—“there are objections to using sexist language in the wine world. Like describing a Chardonnay as feminine if it’s light and delicate, or saying a big Cabernet is masculine. But sometimes there’s no other way to describe it.” He resumed his study of the sketch. “Do you ever have problems letting one of your pieces go?”

“I have problems letting everything go,” Lucy said with a self-deprecating laugh. “But I’m getting better at it.”

Eventually they left the studio and headed to the condo, walking along the streets of Friday Harbor. Old-fashioned ice-cream parlors and coffee shops were tucked between glossy art galleries and trendy restaurants. The occasional blast from an approaching ferry did nothing to disrupt the humid, lazy atmosphere. Rich smells of sunblock and fried seafood overlaid the mixture of seawater and marine diesel.

The condo was part of a multiuse development on West Street, with a terraced pedestrian walk down to Front Street. A rooftop deck and huge windows contributed to the sleek and modern design. Lucy didn’t even try to conceal her awe as they entered the residence. It was furnished with a few contemporary pieces, the rooms trimmed with natural wood and sky-and-earth colors.

“What do you think?” Sam asked, watching as Lucy tested the view from every window in the main room.

“I love it,” she said wistfully. “But there’s no way I can afford it.”

“How do you know? We haven’t talked numbers yet.”

“Because this is nicer than any apartment I’ve ever lived in, and I couldn’t even afford those places.”

“Mark’s pretty eager to get someone in here. And this place wouldn’t work for just anyone.”

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