Starting with her studio. Outside, the building looked like a World War II Quonset hut. Inside it was more industrial than artsy. Boiler room-level heat radiated from three furnaces, the “glory holes” where the two glass blowers who shared the studio with Amanda melted the glass they used. Opposite the furnaces was a bank of kilns used both by the glass blowers and Amanda. She used them to fuse and shape her kiln-formed glass. Her studio mates used them for a controlled cool-down of their blown-glass pieces.
Across the back of the building, where Amanda worked, were deep slots constructed of plywood where she stored her glass: table-top size sheets in a multitude of colors: ruby red and royal purple, citrus shades of lemon and orange, the greens of spring and Oz, and all the blues of the sea, the sky and Paul Newman’s eyes. Above the sheet glass were clear jars full of various sizes of colored granules along with tubes of something looking like multi-hued spaghetti. Frit and stringer, Amanda called them.
And Amanda — the beautiful young artist he remembered from the gallery where he’d first met her had greeted him dressed like she was ready to do construction. Her curls had been pulled back from her face, held in place by some kind of clips. She’d worn no make-up and a heavy, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her jeans had been splattered with something pink and her shoes looked heavy enough to survive hiking the Himalayas.
Nothing had changed from a year ago. Amanda was even dressed the same today.
“How come you get stuck with all Amanda’s packing and unpacking, Sam?” Leo Wilson, one of the glass blowers — and one of the friends who’d helped Amanda pack before her move to Seattle — asked as Sam made his way to the back of the building. “We have to do it. She’s our landlord. You’re a volunteer.” The semi-smirk on his face was evidence that he knew exactly why Sam kept volunteering.
“Big fan of glass art. Glad to have another talented artist back in town.”
“That explains this time … ” Leo began.
Amanda cut him off. “Leo, unless you want a rent increase, you better leave the help alone.” She reached up and kissed Sam on the cheek. “Thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it. I apologize for my mouthy studio mate.”
Surprised — and pleased — that she’d been so possessive, Sam circled her waist with an arm. “No problem. I want to make sure you’re good and settled so you don’t run off again. I hear there are good glass schools in North Carolina and New York.”
“Don’t forget Rhode Island, Australia, England and Italy,” she said with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile.
“Christ, I better get you moved back in ASAP so you’re not tempted. What can I do?”
Two hours later, the boxes she’d had shipped back from Seattle were unpacked, the contents put into their correct places, as were the dozens of sheets of glass Amanda had purchased from Bullseye Glass the day before. She was just about to take Sam out for coffee when his pager went off.
“Sorry, baby,” he said when he got off the phone. “I was supposed to have the afternoon off but … ” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe dinner tonight? About seven? Your place?”
“You’re on.” She kissed him again, this time on the mouth. “And thank you again. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I don’t intend to let you find out,” he said.
Ten minutes later, Amanda got a phone call that pulled her, too, out of the studio.