The Glassblower(152)

Peter could see from the stairs that the shards of a glass bowl lay scattered on the kitchen floor. What was odd was that Johanna wasn’t already busy sweeping them up.

She was at the table with her back to the door, sitting bolt upright.

He called “Good morning!” from the doorway just to be sure he didn’t startle her.

She didn’t turn around to face him, didn’t return his greeting, didn’t explain how the accident had happened.

Peter raised his eyebrows. Was this Johanna’s famous morning moodiness?

“Have you looked out the window up toward the meadows yet? The last of the trees have burst into flower, and there are white blossoms wherever you look. It almost looks as though it’s been snowing.”

 He sat down across from Johanna, resolved to ignore whatever was bothering her. But one look at her face was enough to shatter that resolve. It was white as chalk. Before he could even ask her what was wrong, she held a sheet of paper out to him. Her hands were trembling.

A letter. He recognized Ruth’s handwriting.

“I just can’t believe it,” Johanna said in a hollow voice. “It can’t be true, can it?”

He read it through three times, then put it aside. He was speechless.

“She can’t really mean it. She wants to give us a shock, that’s all,” Johanna said, blinking as though there were something in her eye. “It’s a stupid joke. She’ll be back this evening. Of course she will!”

Who was she trying to convince? Herself? Ruth wasn’t the kind of woman to play stupid tricks like that. Which was precisely what made the letter so unsettling.

He took Johanna’s hand. “I think we’ll have to get used to the idea that Ruth’s not coming back.”

“Why do you say that?” Johanna asked, withdrawing her hand reproachfully.

“Because that’s how it is,” he said gruffly.

“But she hardly knows this Steven!” she cried out in despair. “How can she follow a total stranger to the other side of the world? To an uncertain future? What if he tires of her tomorrow? And she has a child. And she’s married. It’s madness!”

“Well, I don’t know . . . is it? What does she really have to lose? Try to put yourself in her shoes.”

Johanna’s features hardened. “I can’t possibly know what goes on in her mind.”

Peter ignored her remark. “What kind of future would she have in Lauscha? She didn’t want to go back to Thomas, not for all the world; she made that clear enough. Was she going to live in this house forever?”

“Would that have been so bad? We’re here too, after all. We could have taken care of her and Wanda.”

“Think about it. Ruth would never have settled for that. She needs something else. More . . . how can I even put this? More sparkle in her life. And a man who tells her how beautiful she is, a man whose love she can bask in.” Peter didn’t feel entirely comfortable talking about such sensitive topics. Johanna’s mood seemed to brighten a bit, however.

“And you think this Steven’s the man? Don’t you think that he was . . . after something else?” There was still a trace of skepticism in her voice.

“He wouldn’t have to go to such lengths for that,” Peter said decisively, pointing to the letter.

“She never said a word, not the whole time. Did she think she couldn’t trust us?” Johanna’s upper lip was trembling now. “If only she had just told us what she and Steven were planning! After all, we won’t stand in her way.”

“Don’t cry now. That’s not what Ruth would want.” Peter shook her arm gently.

There were hot tears running down Johanna’s face. “I’ll miss her so much . . .” she sobbed.

“Come here,” he said, and opened his arms. She clung to him like a fledgling seeking the warmth of the nest.

For a while they just sat there, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her. He could feel her heartbeat and every breath she took. The hair at the nape of her neck was a little damp and clung to her skin. He blew softly onto it, and the strands lifted in the puff of air.

Peter felt a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard.

Damn it all, even if she stayed as stubborn as a mule to the end of her days, he would always love her.

Johanna broke free of his grasp a moment later. She rooted around in the pocket of her apron for a handkerchief, then blew her nose loudly. When she had put it back in her pocket, she looked at Peter, her eyes bright.

“Ruth’s beginning a new life in America. Marie has her art . . .” She reached for his hand.

Her fingers were still wet with tears when he took hold of them.