The Glassblower(21)

Marie held her paintbrush poised like a stylus over a slate. She didn’t know what to make of such talk. She felt queasy just listening to it. Surely nobody expected her to say anything? She decided the best thing would be to just carry on with her work, but she hesitated when she realized that there were only three painted vases on Eva’s side of the bench and seven on hers. Without even trying, she was working much faster than Eva.

Before she knew it, Heimer had picked up one of her vases and turned it round and round, frowning thoughtfully.

“I . . . I painted the flowers so that the petals are a little longer,” she said timidly.

Eva leaned over and picked up another vase. The smile was gone from her face now. “That’s not how I showed you to do it.” There was an edge to her voice, with no trace of the girlish charm from earlier.

Heimer put the vase back down in front of Marie.

“I can show her again . . .” Eva began, visibly put out, but Heimer raised a hand to silence her. He smiled. “That’s all right, little Evie! Every painter has her own style, and the customers know that too.” Heimer turned to leave and clapped a hand on each woman’s shoulder. “As long as you don’t start painting ladybugs instead of the flowers they ordered, I don’t mind a little artistic freedom from either of you.”

Marie exhaled, relieved. She had been holding her breath without knowing it. Artistic freedom . . . There was a humming in her ears. Eva was right: Wilhelm Heimer was an angel really, if a rather big-bellied one. Glad not to have been given a dressing-down on her first day, she picked up the next vase and began to paint.

Eva followed suit, but not without first shooting Marie a look that was much less friendly than before.





10

By the time the three sisters got home that evening, it was almost dark outside. Ruth felt faint at the thought of having to lay a fire at this hour. “There’s still a bit of bread. And the meat loaf that one of the neighbors brought . . . I don’t even remember who. We can eat it cold.” If one of her sisters wanted a hot meal, then she could fire up the oven herself.

The others just nodded. “As long as we each have a plate to ourselves . . .” Johanna said.

Ruth and Marie giggled.

“Can you believe such a thing? In one of the richest houses in the village?” Ruth shook her head as she pulled three plates from the cupboard and put three glasses on the table. “They must have enough money, so it can’t be about that, can it?” she said in bemusement.

Johanna shook her head. “I think old Edel just doesn’t make the effort. And the Heimers aren’t used to having it any different.” As she began to slice the bread, she remembered that Joost had always done that. She had to stop herself thinking such things. “Did you see her fingernails? Oof! And the potato salad platter was all sticky on the underside,” she added.

“That’s horrible! I didn’t even notice!” Ruth replied, putting a little meat loaf on everyone’s plate.

“I’m not the least bit surprised . . .” Johanna said, raising her eyebrows meaningfully. “You were only looking at one thing . . .”

Ruth frowned. “You busybody! I don’t know what you mean!”

“Who was talking just the other days about getting married? About having someone to look after her?” Johanna cocked her head. “If I recall correctly, it was you, wasn’t it?”

“And what if I did?” Ruth snapped at her. As always, nothing got past Johanna. “Thomas wouldn’t be the worst choice of husband, you have to admit that. It’s amazing as it is that only one of the three brothers is married.” She held her breath, annoyed at herself for wanting Johanna’s approval.

Her sister took a hearty bite of bread before speaking.

“I’ll grant you he’s not a grumble-guts like the other two,” she said, chewing. “And he certainly has a fine singing voice.” She shook her head. “But I have to say I’m surprised he still feels like singing with all that work to be done.”

“I like it that he sings a little song here and there. And I like the way everyone sings along,” Ruth said, almost defiantly. Then she laughed.

“I felt a bit silly at first. When was the last time we girls sang together? It must have been in school. And the others know all the words. But we’ll learn them too.”

Ruth waved a hand. “Tell me though: What do you think of Thomas?”

Johanna rolled her eyes. “What can I say? I hardly had time to look at him.”

“Well, don’t trouble yourself to look at him from now on,” Ruth said firmly. “I spotted him first. Those dark-green eyes of his . . . Have you ever seen a boy with such lovely eyes?” she said dreamily.