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Desert Fantasies(61)

By:Trish Morey


She wished she could capture that in her own work. Show the world there was more to the desert than endless acres of nothing. She began considering plans for such a collection. Maybe she’d try it after finishing her current project. Tomorrow was the day she tried the new technique. She had the shape in mind of the bowl she wanted to make. Now she had to see if she could pull it off. Colors would be tricky, but she wanted them to swirl in glass, ethereal, hinting and tantalizing.

She felt relaxed as the moment ticked by. It was pleasant in the warmth of the night, with the soft sound of the sea at her feet and the splashing in the distance. Would the man ever get tired?

Finally she heard him approach. Then he seemed to rise up out of the water when he stood in the gradual slope. She rose and stepped back as he went directly to where his robes lay and scooped them up.

“You still here?” he asked.

“As designated life guard. Enjoy your swim?”

“Yes, life giving after the heat of the desert.” He dried himself with the robes, then shrugged into them.

She turned. “Good night.”

“Thanks for keeping watch.”

“I don’t know that I would have been any help had you gotten into trouble,” she said, turning and half walking backward to continue along the shore.

“Shall I walk you home? It would be easy enough for me to do.” He stood where he was, not threatening.

“No.” She did draw the line there. She knew nothing about the man. It was one thing to run into a stranger on the beach, something else again to let him know where she lived—alone.

“I might be here tomorrow,” he said.

“I might be, as well,” she replied, then quickly walked away. She went farther down the beach and then cut into a neighbor’s yard. She didn’t want to telegraph her location. Hopefully he couldn’t see enough in the darkness to know which path she’d taken. She walked softly on the edge of the neighbor’s estate and soon reached the edge of the property she rented. Seconds later she was home.


Khalid watched until he could no longer see her. He had no idea who the woman was or why she was out after midnight on a deserted beach. He was dripping. Taking a last look at the sea, or the dark void where it was, with only a glimmer of reflected starlight here and there, he turned and went back to the house his grandmother had left him last summer. Her death had hit him hard. She’d been such a source of strength. She’d listened to his problems, always supportive of his solutions. And she had chided him often enough to get out into society. He drew the line there. Still, he cherished her wisdom and her sense of fun. He would always miss her.

He thought about the woman on the beach. He could only guess she wasn’t all that old from the sound of her voice. But aside from estimating her height to be about five feet two inches or so, he didn’t know a thing about her. The darkness had hidden more than it revealed. Was she old or young? Slender, he thought, but the dress she wore moved in the breeze, not revealing many details.

Which was probably a good thing. He had no business being interested in anyone. He knew the scars that ran down his side were hideous. More than one person had displayed shock and repulsion when seeing them. Like his fiancée. Damara had not been able to cope at all and had fled the first day the bandages had been removed and she’d seen him in the hospital after the fire.

His brother, Rashid, had told him more than once he was better off without her if she couldn’t stick after a tragedy. But it didn’t help the hole he’d felt had been shot through his heart when the woman he’d planned to marry had taken off like he was a horrible monster.

He’d seen similar reactions ever since. He knew he was better off working with men in environments too harsh for women to venture into. Those same men accepted him on his merits, not his looks.

He had his life just as he wanted it now. Except—he had to decide what to do with the house his grandmother left him. It had been a year. He had put off any decisions until the fresh ache of her dying had subsided. But a house should not sit empty.

He walked swiftly across the sand to the start of the wide path that led straight to the house. It was a home suited for families. Close to the beach, it was large with beautiful landscaping, a guesthouse and plenty of privacy. The lawns should have children running around as he and his brother had done. As his father and uncles had done.

The flowers should be plucked and displayed in the home. And the house itself should ring with love and laughter as it had when he and Rashid had been boys visiting their father’s parents.

But the house had been empty and silent for a year. And would remain that way unless he sold it. It would be hard to part with the house so cherished by him and his family. Especially with the memories of his beloved grandmother filling every room. But he had no need for it. His flat in Alkaahdar suited him. There when he needed it, waiting while he was away.

As he brushed against an overgrown shrub, his senses were assaulted by the scents of the garden. Star jasmine dominated the night. Other, more subtle fragrances sweetened the still air. So different from the dry, acrid air of the desert. Instantly he was transported back to when he and Rashid had run and played. His father had been alive then, and of course his grandmother. Who knew the odd quirks of fate, or that he’d end up forever on the outside looking in at happy couples and laughing families. That elusive happiness of families denied him.

Not that he had major regrets. He had done what he thought right. He had saved lives. A scar was a small price to pay.

He entered the house through the door he’d left open from the veranda. Bed sounded really good. He’d been traveling far too long. Once he awoke, he could see what needed to be done to get the house ready for sale.


Ella woke late the next morning. She’d had a hard time falling asleep after meeting the stranger on the beach. She lay in bed wondering who he was and why he’d been traveling so long. Most people stopped when they were tired. No matter, she would probably never see him again. Though, she thought as she rose, just maybe she’d take another walk after midnight tonight. He said he’d be there. Her interest was definitely sparked.

But that was later. Today, she wanted to try to make the new glass piece that had been taking shape in her mind for days.

After a quick breakfast at the nook in the kitchen, Ella went to her studio. As always when entering, she remembered the wonderful woman who had sponsored her chance at developing her skill as a glassblower and who had offered to help her sell her pieces when they were ready. She missed her. She pursued her passion two-fold now—for herself and for her benefactor.

In only moments, she was totally absorbed in the challenge of blending colors and shapes in the bowl she was creating.

It was only when her back screamed in pain that Ella arched it and glanced at the clock. It was late afternoon—she’d been working for seven hours straight. Examining the piece she’d produced, she nodded in satisfaction. It wasn’t brilliant by any means, but it had captured the ethereal feel she wanted. For a first attempt at this technique, it passed. A couple more stages to complete before the glass bowl was ready for a gallery or for sale. A good day’s work.

She rubbed her back and wished there was some way she could pace herself. But once caught up in the creative process, it was hard to stop. Especially with glass. Once it was at the molten stage, she had to work swiftly to form the pieces before it cooled. Now it needed to go into the annealer that would slowly cool it so no cracks formed. This was often the tricky part. Especially when she had used different glass and different color mediums that cooled at different rates.

It would end up as it ended up. She tried to keep to that philosophy so she didn’t angst over every piece.

Once the bowl was in the oven, she went back to her kitchen, prepared a light meal and carried it to the small terrace on the shady side of the house. The air was cooling down, but it was still almost uncomfortably warm. She nibbled her fruit as she gazed at the flowers that grew so profusely. Where else in the world would she be so comfortable while working on her art? This house was truly a refuge for her. The one place she felt safe and comfortable and almost happy. She’d made it a home for one.

Thinking about the flat she’d given up after Alexander’s death, she knew she had traded their happy home for her own. It had taken her a while to realize it, but now she felt a part of the estate. She knew every flower in the garden, every hidden nook that offered shade in the day. And she could walk the paths at night without a light. It was as if the cottage and estate had welcomed her with comforting arms and drawn her in.

So not like the home of her childhood, that was for sure. She shied away from thinking about the last months there. She would focus on the present—or even the future, but not the past.

Taking a deep breath, she held it for a moment, listening. Was that a car? She wasn’t expecting any friends. No one else knew where she was. Who would be coming to the empty estate? The gardener’s day was later in the week. For a moment she didn’t move. The car sounded as if it were going away. Soon the sound faded completely. Only then did Ella relax.

After she ate, she rose and walked around the cottage. Nothing seemed disturbed. How odd that the car sounded so near. Had the sound been amplified from the road, or had it been in the drive for some reason?