Author's note:
Chapter 3 of 13. Thank you Tim413413 for selfless editing.
The Perfect Pieces - Chapter 03
" 'Steal Your Face!' " Amber announced happily, looking up at the round window near the apex of east side of the roof. She wasn't lying about liking the Grateful Dead. I had filled the window with a frivolous stained glass ode to The Dead. A purple and red skull with a lightning bolt across the top. It was from the mid-70s album that Amber so accurately named.
"It fits, doesn't it," I said with a proud smile. She nodded as she walked the rest of the way in. I had two sturdy 4x6 tables along one wall with lights hanging low over them. The other wall held metal shelves filled with supplies and my inventory of glass. There were two file cabinets that contained my design patterns and those I had purchased. In the center of the room was a large 8x8 table I used for final assembly. Most of my cutting and sanding was done on the tables along the wall.
"It fits you," she smiled, moving close to a mostly assembled panel in the middle of the room. It was a restoration job. She picked up the old photo of the original panel that had disappeared from an old house. The new owners wanted a replacement that matched the original. I had to guess at some of the colors since the photo had yellowed. "This is really good," she said, holding the photo next to the panel. My ego basked in her praise. It was always worth more than the dollars.
She walked around the room, looking at suncatchers and panels I had hanging on the walls. She stopped before one of my favorites. A medium-sized panel of a lighthouse sitting on the rocks in a storm. The clouds and water had taken me a long time to get right. I wasted so much glass trying to add a forcefulness to the curves. It was one of my pet projects and won't leave my sight until I'm dead.
"You are really good," Amber said, "I can almost feel the wind and rain." I wanted to jump up and down, but remained humbly quiet. Very few people have seen my workshop. A couple of customers who live within a half-days drive and an old friend I go fishing with once a year. He understands me like no one else could. Though Frank doesn't have the toned legs that Amber has, he knew my sordid past.
"Is everything for sale?" Amber asked.
"I only sell commissioned work," I replied, "the stuff you see hanging around is just for me. Well, except for the panel with the four ducks." I pointed at a panel hanging near the door, "It was never picked up." It was an ugly thing when outside of the country kitchen it was meant for. Four cartoon ducks marching in gray galoshes.
"Didn't they like it?"
"It was for an old couple," I said, "the wife died before it was finished, and he had no interest in it. I let him off the hook," I chuckled, "it's kind of ugly anyway."
"Poor ducks," Amber pouted. She moved on making little comments here and there. I had about fifty pieces hanging, and she didn't miss a one. A private showing. "Is it hard to do?" she asked as she looked at some of the small suncatchers. She was admiring one of the three dragonflies I had created. They had four psychedelic free-floating wings each.
"When I started it sure was," I replied, "now I get mired more in the art than the technique. A large window might give me some trouble, but it is mostly the design I struggle with."
"You're the first true artist I can say I know," Amber said, looking at me with her pretty smile. I gave her an exaggerated bow. My mouth wanted to go on and brag about my glass. I kept it shut and was surprised when it listened to me.
"How about some breakfast?" I offered.
"Okay, but I'm cooking," Amber demanded. I knew she felt she needed to contribute. I had no problem letting her. I was a weak cook. Cereal was the highlight of my mornings.
The french toast was good. Very good. We would have to go shopping to replace the bread we just finished, but it was worth it. Amber had mixed some vanilla in with the eggs and sprinkled cinnamon over the finished product. I didn't even know I had vanilla in the cupboard. Must have been one of my ex's purchases. The toast almost didn't need syrup. Almost, but any chance to add sugar was never lost on me.
"So, you were married once," Amber commented after we discussed the existence of the vanilla.
"Yes," I sighed. I didn't enjoy the rehashing one of my greatest failures. "Sandra and I had nothing in common except love in the beginning. Unfortunately, that faded quickly as our differences became known. We hung on for a few years, fighting the inevitable. That was our biggest mistake, holding out until we disliked being around each other. We can't even talk civilly anymore." I needed to apologize to Sandra. I added that to my list of life to-dos.
"She didn't like this place," Amber said. I found her assumption astute.
"It was hell on earth to her," I added with mirth. Sandra actually hated the isolation, not the house or grounds. She needed people, thousands of them around her at all times. She was a city girl. "I suspect your relationship was worse," I said, going off our previous conversation.
"Much worse," Amber replied. She didn't elaborate and I let it go. I could see the pain it caused her. Her face changed, became more sullen. I didn't like it so I changed the subject.
"You promised to show me Dido," I reminded her. Her smile returned. It pleased me more than it should.
"Computer?"
"In my office," I said, pointing to what should have been an extra bedroom. Not that it mattered with only one full bath. We left the dishes and fired up YouTube. Dido live at Brixton Academy. Soft music began on a purple-lit black stage, led by a keyboardist. A delicate voice emerged and a white light illuminated a cute woman with soft blonde hair. The song was in my memory from somewhere, but I had discounted it in the past. Probably never survived my station surfing. This time I listened to the words. Listened to it while watching Amber sway. It was a beautiful song about a stubborn unrequited love. I closed my eyes and let Dido's voice wash over me. I saw glass, perfect pieces of color flowing in my mind. Soft-textured, joined in such a way they blended wonderfully to form a naturescape. Words to shapes and shapes to colors.
"That is a very pretty song," I said. I had never used the word pretty to describe music before. I usually described songs by the emotion they invoked. I think Amber's presence changed that. I was seeing the music as well as feeling it.
"She writes most of her songs," Amber said. I let my stubbornness for classic rock artists fade. I let the value of the new music grow. I wondered how many other musicians I have been discounting. On screen it said that the song was recorded in 2004. I smiled, thinking it was already a classic for most teenagers. It was new to me. I was disappointed when the song ended. Always a sign of a good tune.
