“Who’s she?” Zoë asked.
“The head of Pacific Mountain Capital … she invests in all these early-stage companies in hi-tech and clean-energy fields. She’s classy and loaded, and she couldn’t persuade Sam to get serious with her either.”
“It’s hard to imagine that kind of woman chasing after Sam Nolan,” Zoë said. “He had a lot of geekitude to overcome.”
“In defense of geeks,” Justine said, “they’re great in bed. They fantasize a lot, so they’re really creative. And they love to play with gadgets.” As the other two started laughing, Justine handed them glasses of wine. “Here. Whatever else you may say about Sam, he makes fantastic wine.”
“This is one of his?” Lucy asked, swirling the rich garnet vintage in her glass.
“It’s called ‘Keelhaul,’” Justine said. “A Shiraz-Cab.”
Lucy took a sip. The wine was amazingly smooth, the fruit strong but silky, the finish mocha-inflected. “This is good,” she said. “It would be worth going out with him to get bottles of this for free.”
“Did you give Sam your number?” Justine asked.
Lucy shook her head. “Kevin had just dumped me.”
“No problem. I can set you up with Sam now. As long as Zoë has no objections.”
“None,” Zoë said distinctly. “I’m not interested.”
Justine let out an exasperated laugh. “Your loss, Lucy’s gain.”
“I’m not interested either,” Lucy said. “It’s only been two months since my breakup. And the rule is that you have to wait for exactly half the time of the relationship … which for me would be about a year.”
“That’s not the rule,” Justine exclaimed. “You only have to wait one month for each year of the relationship.”
“I think all these rules are ridiculous,” Zoë said. “Lucy, you should let your instincts guide you. You’ll know when you’re ready again.”
“I don’t trust my instincts where men are concerned,” Lucy said. “It’s like this article I read the other day about the decline of the firefly population. One of the reasons they’re disappearing is because of modern artificial lighting. Fireflies can’t find the signals of their mates, because they’re so distracted by porch lights, streetlamps, illuminated sign letters…”
“Poor things,” Zoë said.
“Exactly,” Lucy said. “You think you’ve found the perfect mate and you head for him, blinking as fast as you can, and then you find out he’s a Bic lighter. I just can’t handle that again.”
Justine shook her head slowly as she looked at the two of them. “Life is a banquet, and you are both wandering around with chronic indigestion.”
* * *
After helping the Hoffmans to set up for the reading party, Lucy went up to her room. Sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop, she checked her e-mail, and found a message from a former professor and mentor, Dr. Alan Spellman. He had recently been appointed as the arts and industry coordinator at the world-renowned Mitchell Art Center in New York.
Dear Lucy,
Remember the Artist in Residence program I mentioned last time we talked? A full year, all expenses paid, working with artists from all around the world. You would be perfect for it. I believe you have a unique sense of glass as a medium, whereas too many modern artists overlook its illusory possibilities. This grant would give you the freedom to experiment in ways that would be difficult—if not impossible—for you in your current circumstances.
Let me know if you decide to give it a shot. The application form is attached. I’ve already put in a word for you, and they’re excited about the chance to make something happen.
Best,
Alan Spellman
The chance of a lifetime—a year in New York to study and experiment with glass.
Clicking on a link at the bottom of the e-mail, Lucy glanced over the application requirements—a one-page proposal, a cover letter, and twenty digital images of her work. For one tantalizing moment, she let herself think about it.
A new place … a new beginning.
But the likelihood of being chosen over all the other applicants was so slight that she wondered why she was even bothering.
Who are you, to think you have a chance at this? she asked herself.
But then another thought occurred to her … Who are you, to not at least try?
Seven
“I need to talk to you, Lucy,” her mother had said on the answering machine. “Call me when you get a minute in private. Please don’t put this off, it’s important.”