Page 48 of Fire Dancer
“One…two…three!”
Pippa tapped, and,ping!The wineglass separated from the rest of the rod. I caught it — thank goodness — but disaster still lurked, because now I had to rush it across the hot shop to the annealer.
“Watch the bench,” Pippa warned, racing ahead to push things out of my way.
Why the shop hadn’t been designed with the annealer next to the workbench, I didn’t know. But I was definitely ready to suggest it.
The annealer looked like a giant cooler, where the temperature of worked glass was gradually reduced to prevent it from shattering. And that was just one way Pippa’s delicate work could break. My mental notepad was full of dire warnings, all bold and underlined.
The moment Pippa opened the door to the annealer, I lowered the glass gingerly, then stepped back so she could close the door. Whew. One piece down. How many more to go?
She high-fived me. “Good job.”
My inner beast wagged its tail joyously, less wolf than golden retriever at that moment.
She pulled two cold drinks from a tiny fridge, handed me one, and held the other against her forehead, rolling it slowlyback and forth. Her head was tipped back, her chin up, and her golden hair stirred in the breeze of the fan.
I gulped my drink, desperate to cool down in more ways than one.
“Did you make that?” I asked, motioning to a vase on a shelf.
“No, it walked in off the street.” She shot me a rueful look, then went on. “Yes, I made it. I made that, too. And that and that and that. Everything on those four shelves.”
I looked them over, struck by the colors, the delicacy, the smooth, light-catching shapes — everything from vases to flowers and vibrant hummingbirds. There was even a whimsical piece in the shape of a prickly pear cactus, but my favorite — so far — was a globe filled with fire.Glassfire.
“Wow. My mind is officially blown,” I murmured.
Pippa chuckled. “No pun intended, I hope.”
I gave her a look, then went back to admiring her projects.
All those years she’d devoted to making glass, I’d only ever pictured bowls and vases, because glass was just glass. But these were works of art, full of skill and passion, and every piece exuded movement and life.
I have an exhibit coming up on Friday…I remembered Pippa telling me with bright, hopeful eyes, way back when in Colorado.
A fire in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains had made me miss that one — her very first show. Yet another fire had made me miss the next one — her first solo show. And the next one, and the next one…
I raked through every corner of my memory, but I couldn’t unearth a single occasion I’d made the time to see Pippa’s work. And it really was work, not just a hobby or ananybody can do ithandicraft.
Another thing about her work struck me. Every piece was cheery, colorful, and upbeat. Not at all like real life.
But when I glanced out the shop window, the sun shone, and the red-tinted cliffs practically glowed. A young couple walked by, pushing a baby in a stroller. A singer-songwriter strummed her guitar on the corner, and a couple of people sang along.
I took a deep breath. My job might plunge me into the darkest, meanest pockets of society, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t pop up and see the bright side of things too.
A lump formed in my throat — for what I had become, and for what might have been.
Pippa glanced at the clock, re-clipped her hair, and strode over to the supply closet.
“Okay, next one…”
I straightened quickly, following her like a faithful mutt.
Faithful mate,my beast side whispered.
Half an hour later, Pippa was well into the next piece for her project.
She stuck out a hand. “Calipers.”