The American Lady(51)

“And what good will all that do? What does that have to do with me, with my life here?”

Wanda’s skepticism simply strengthened Marie’s resolve. Yes, she wanted to give Wanda something she could call her own—that was the least she could do for her niece.

“Look at it this way—Steven will always be your father. But today you’ve found you have another father as well!”

“That’s wonderful! If I’m such a lucky girl, why do I feel as though I’d just been run over by a streetcar?” Wanda made a face, but she smiled the ghost of a smile as well.

The two of them were soaked to the skin when they climbed back down the fire escape ladder a little later.



That night—after she had taken Wanda off to her room and sat by her bedside until she fell asleep—Marie picked up her sketchpad and got one of her drawing pencils from her luggage. She could have cried with relief at the feeling of holding the pencil again, the same dear old familiar feeling. How could she ever have forgotten this comfort! It felt so good to sit here with a fresh new sheet of paper in front of her.

She stayed up the rest of the night drawing. She started by sketching what seemed useless—ball gowns, the flower arrangements that had sat on every table—nothing that she could adapt for Christmas baubles. But Marie didn’t care. She felt her heart welling over with gratitude that her pencil was moving once more, gliding over the page as if of its own free will. She could still do it! She hadn’t lost her gift!

She drew and shaded, adjusted her lines, corrected the shapes. Suddenly she saw the New York skyline take shape before her eyes, dark and sharp-edged. Then streetlamps below, lights in the windows, a moon casting a cold light over the silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Day was beginning to break when Marie finally put down her pencil. There wasn’t a blank sheet left in the pad. She had leafed through the pages so often that they were soft and pliant now, and here and there the pencil had worn furrows in the paper or smudged it black. Now it was time to sort through what she’d drawn.

It was a miracle! Among the night’s sketches were at least ten images, maybe twelve, that would be perfect for a new line of baubles. They only needed a little work . . .

Then Marie’s smile faded. How could she be so happy when Wanda was doubtless in a flood of tears just a few doors down the hall?

But were joy and sorrow ever far apart? They were like day and night, light and shade . . .

The Night & Day Collection—if she ever managed to make anything from these sketches, then that was what she would call it. She would get to work on the fine detail first thing after a few hours of sleep. She wasn’t the least bit worried that she might fail. Now that she had made a fresh start, she could feel her creative powers bubbling away within her like lava in a volcano, pushing to the surface.

Marie leafed through the pad once more. She especially liked the scene depicting the skyscrapers and the night sky above. And the one where the moon hung low over the harbor front. The globes would have to be silvered inside first; then the outlines could be painted in white enamel and the shapes filled in with glitter dust . . . yes, that would be lovely!

Enamel paint and glitter . . . the thought was hardly formed when she realized what it meant. These Night & Day designs were a return to her roots, to the first globes she had ever painted eighteen years ago when she had begun to blow glass in secret. All she had back then was black and white paint, since her father had never needed anything else in his workshop. She had made her own glitter powder by begging some broken bits of glass off old Wilhelm Heimer, then taking them home and crushing them as fine as dust. She hadn’t had anything else to work with, and her first baubles had needed nothing else. The contrasts, the light and shade, did it all.

Marie felt that she saw some deeper message in this return to her roots. She had already decided to tell Wanda all about where she came from. Perhaps that was bringing her, too, back to where she had begun?





15

After the previous night’s storm, the morning was bright and clear. When Marie finally rose, drew aside the silk curtain, and looked out the window, the sunlight was so strong that it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked.

This was just the weather for a saint’s day!

She put on a dressing gown and went into the breakfast room. She was relieved to see that Ruth and Wanda were sitting at the table together. They were both pale—this was the first time since she’d arrived that Marie had seen Ruth without any makeup—and they both looked unhappy, but at least they were talking.

For a moment Marie was tempted to tell them about the miracle that had happened to her during the night. But she dropped the thought when Steven stood up and offered her a chair, his face somber.