Page 58 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

The fun times just kept rolling, like the Irish hills outside Jamie’s cottage.

Sophie retied her scarf for the third time. Nothing was going right today. She’d stubbed her toe on the door as Jamie left this morning, having told her about the letter from the Irish Censorship Board. The pain had allowed her to howl how she was feeling on the inside.

They were going after a good man. It wasn’t fair!

After he’d left, she’d called Sandrine and asked if she could watch Greta a little earlier, needing some time to clear her head. She’d headed to her studio, her sanctuary, and blew glass—just for the heck of it.

While she hadn’t started with a shape in mind, the glass had slowly morphed into a tower of flames after she’d rolled it on the marver. Dipping the rounded glass in crushed orange and blue glass now that she knew what she wanted, she blew shape into it and finished the piece with her tongs, pulling the flames up into slivers. Upon finishing the piece, she placed it in the annealing oven to cool.

Breathing hard, she surveyed the final product. Fire. The expression of her inner desire. Her anger. She wanted to burn them all down for the attacks on her and Jamie.

He’d been so brave this morning, even though his heart was obviously hurting. She’d been so upset she’d smudged her mascara. Wetting the end of a tissue, she cleaned up her eyes. You could always see someone’s emotional state in their eyes. Hers right now were angry, spiked with the fire she’d brought forth in her art. Jamie’s had been as sad as a basset hound, and his reasoning had brought tears to her eyes earlier. He hadn’t wanted to tell her over their date.

He hadn’t wanted to spoil their first time together.

She eyed her outfit. Silk underwear, fleece-lined jean tights, and her red cashmere sweater. Thank God she’d listened to Sandrine’s suggestion and brought some warm clothes ahead of their shipment. Her socks were a bulky wool that barely fit under boots. How in the world were they going to have sex on a beach with this many clothes on? In this kind of weather? Sure, it wasn’t raining, but the wind was so crisp, she’d seen lambs hunched and shivering against the lee of an ash tree on the way home from the studio.

“Greta would like to stay over at our house tonight,” Sandrine said in French from the door. “Eoghan told her about the beauty of an Irish breakfast. She expressed excitement, which prompted an invitation to his—our—house. Is that all right?”

You read my mind, but then again, you always do.“That would be wonderful. I confess I’ve read about a full Irish, but I’ve never had one.”

“Perhaps someone might make you one tomorrow morning,” Sandrine responded with an innocent smile as Eoghan’s and her daughter’s laughter reached them.

“I’ll bet the chances are pretty good,” she answered, slicking lip gloss over her lips. “You’re an angel, Sandrine.”

“My wings are in the offing.” She came over and embraced Sophie warmly. “You two could use a break from the ugliness. Have you decided what you want to tell Greta?”

“She’s only six.” Sophie flung out her arm. “How am I supposed to explain to her that some people have decided my sculpture is indecent and pornographic before I’ve even made it? Oh, I’d better not start. Jamie purposefully told me about this new development with the censorship board earlier so I could try and shake it off.”

“Then you made a flame at the studio,” Sandrine finished. “Bring that fire to your date and channel it into passion. You’ve waited a long time for a man like him.”

Their eyes met. “Yes, I have.”

“We’re going now to give you some moments to yourself. I’ll send Greta in to say good night.”

“Do I need to pack her a bag?” She laughed at Sandrine’s expression. “Sorry. I forgot who I was dealing with for a moment. Thank you, Sandrine. For this. For everything.”

Sandrine folded her arms over her belly. “You know, when you were about Greta’s age, your mother also struggled with what to tell you about the controversy she and your father caused. Do you remember what I finally told you when you came home from school crying?”

She had come home crying on so many occasions after the cruel taunts she’d heard from classmates. “I don’t remember. It’s a blur.”

“I told you that your mother and father painted things that other people didn’t see as beautiful. That those people couldn’t see what your parents were trying to create as art. I told you it was like people not liking a particular color, which you couldn’t understand—”

“Because I liked all the colors.” She sat down on the bed. “I wanted to protect Greta from all this. Maybe I was wrong to add the pregnant goddess.”

“Do you really believe that?” Sandrine asked softly.

Gripping her knees, she shook her head. “No. But I’m starting to wonder if that sculpture is going to be worth all this trouble.”

“Your mother asked herself that too in difficult moments.”

“She did?”

“Of course,” she said emphatically. “She was at her lowest after they threw rotten eggs all over you. She was prepared to face the opposition, but she said you didn’t deserve it. Hearing you cry that night tore at her. She and your father fought about bringing you to their art shows after that. Your mother wanted to keep you home, but your father said you needed to learn how to handle it. Life couldn’t all be sweetness and light.”

That summed up her father in a nutshell, which was another reason they hadn’t reconciled before his death five years ago. “Daddy must be laughing from his grave then, because I’m right in the thick of it now. Are you going to tell me that controversy is the direct result of great art?”

Sandrine gave another of her soft smiles. “The only thing that matters in the end is what you think. I’ll send Greta in.”

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