Glass

SUZANNE  D
. WILLIAMS

Feel-Good Romance

©
2013
GLASS
by Suzanne D. Williams

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Scenes in this story may contain graphic and/or sexual situations not suitable for younger readers.

PROLOGUE

1992

He
’d surrounded himself with a wall of glass bottles, each a unique shape and color, in pristine condition, and all arranged by size and shade. But not ordinary bottles. Antique art glass, which if valued would be worth some quarter of a million dollars.

His collection made newcomers nervous because it looked like one false step would send it crashing down. However, he’d insured himself against that, both financially and physically. The wind
ows surrounding the collection were hurricane-proof glass, and the shelves which supported it all were made of a steel alloy used in the space program. Nothing about the structure was fragile or weak, but it appeared that way.

He’d done that on purpose.
Glass was misunderstood. It was delicate in its beauty, yes, but pliant, tactile, under heat. Properly worked, it could take on most any form, be useful in a myriad of ways from the aesthetic to the scientific. It was this property that had drawn him to it, that had made glass his life’s calling. His gift.

Bordered by vases and
bowls, globes and cylinders in multifarious hues, he fashioned a world visually friable, but underneath unshakable, unyielding, shatterproof.

CHAPTER 1

2012

The spray off the sides of the boat combined with the persistent drizzle to create doubt in Andre’s mind. Perhaps he should have waited until tomorrow. This weather promised
to not let up for hours, maybe days. But a client of this magnitude was hard to come by and the profit from the job she wanted him to do, potentially astronomical.

That she’d picked
him
out of all her other choices blew his mind. Yes, his work had been in the news as of late, but still, with her funds she could have hired someone from anywhere in the world. Instead, she’d chosen him, a newcomer on the glass scene, and commanded … there was no other word for it … commanded him to appear at first light.

He cast his gaze skyward as much as possible in the increasing wind.
What light had finally appeared did so only with the weakest effort. Diluted by the constant rain, it shone a dismal shade of gray, barely bright enough to warrant the effort of getting out of bed, much less dressing and taking a boat ride.

The boat was old, a classic wood-hulled yacht from the turn of the twentieth century, but one that obviously recei
ved a lot of care. The golden grain gleamed, and the inboard motor purred cleanly.

The boatman was also aged, but like the boat, well-dressed. Clean white slacks, crisp-pressed, set off a light blue button-up shirt hidden beneath a thick wool navy b
lazer. He’d only spoken once, and that was as Andre had climbed aboard.

“Andre Garner?” he’
d asked in a sonorous voice.

“Yes.”

“Welcome.” And that was it. A coffee-colored smile, a shift in position toward the wheel, and conversation was over. Not that there was need to say more. She’d said over the phone she’d send him, no matter what the weather.

T
he dampness of Andre’s clothing sent a shiver down his spine, and he buried his hands in the pockets of his brown leather coat, grateful for what little warmth it gave. He braced for the next hop across the choppy surf. A particularly high wave of water temporarily blinded him. The boatman seemed unperturbed, however, and kept a steady forward motion. He’d obviously done this many times before.

S
ight of land brought a rush of relief and at the same time, an eerie sensation. Jutting out from a tiny spit of land, the dock protruded through head-high cattails and cypress trees adorned with gray strands of Spanish moss. The wind scratched the trees’ naked limbs against a bleached sky in a drone of sound much like some spirit from another world.

The boatman paid this no mind, but hopped from the boat to the dock, throwing a line around a weathered post. He waited
for Andre to make his own way onto firmer footing and led him down a path worn smooth from years of foot traffic.

What little light provided on the
open water disappeared beneath the trees. Andre tucked his neck beneath his collar and trudged forward, only releasing his breath when the narrow, black space became an evenly trimmed field of green. He stopped briefly, a whistle of astonishment begging escape then scrambled to keep up. As old as the boatman was, he was quite spry.

Storie
s circulated about the house along with the rare aerial photograph, so he’d known it was big, and old, and exquisite, but seen in person it boggled the mind. The info he’d gathered placed it at three floors and eight thousand square feet, but that didn’t do it justice either. Towering over the slight rise of the landscape, its Victorian architecture sprawled in the midst of a flower garden better suited to summer.

Enormous bay windows looked out beneath a portico lined with dentil molding.
The upper floor sported a corner turret, a gable, and an elaborate cornice turned and twirled around every edge. The whole of it was painted a strange shade of green with the trim a darker hue of the same. This gave it the appearance it had risen from the land. Perhaps that was the desired effect.

Andre was huffing and puffing by the time the land leveled. Waved by the boatman toward a butter-yellow front door, he stepped ahead, stomping his shoes on the steps, and raised a curled f
ist over the surface. His knock was lost with the rise of the wind, but apparently not to whoever was inside because the door creaked and sucked inward moments later.

A maid i
n a black dress and white apron, sporting the expected white cap, reversed herself in the doorway. “Mr. Garner?” she asked. Stray gray curls lifted on her brow in the wind.

He nodded. No
one ever came here, or so rumors said. The location and the commute prevented visitors, as well as the peculiarity of the owner. Word had it she never left, never, not since her husband had died ten years ago under mysterious circumstances. She’d closeted herself since then, turning into a recluse who wandered the halls.

“Wait here,” the maid said.

Here
was a parlor lined with maroon wallpaper bedecked with ivory roses twined around and over one another. A fireplace sat at one end and before it an ornate settee.

All it lacks is a damsel in a silk gown.
Andre crossed the room and stood before an oil painting hung central to the mantel. The distinguished old gentleman in the image appeared to be in his mid-fifties. Thick gray whiskers curled down his temples, vanishing into the black collar of a burgundy waistcoat.

“
Granda was handsome. Don’t you think?”

The voice of someone so young shook Andre from his reverie. He turned on one heel and met
the gaze of a girl in her twenties. She fit in with the room, her bearing ramrod straight, her hands poised at her sides, unflinching.

“Your grandfather?” he asked.

She smiled, pulling pink lips taut, and inclined her head. “Great-grandfather.” At this, she glided his way. That was the only way he could describe it. She not so much walked as floated, a feather adrift on a lazy stream.

On closer inspe
ction she was extremely lovely, breathtaking even. Hair the color of cornsilk perfectly coiled into a bun at the nape of her neck. Not a strand was out of place, and not a flaw could be found in her skin.
Skin like glass.
She tilted her head, elongating a slender neck.

“Delbert Delacroix the third,” she said. “He was actually the middle son and shouldn’t have inherited the place, but his older brother, Ignatius, fell in love with a middle-eastern woman and their father, Delbert the second, disapproved.”

“Delbert, Ignatius, and who?” he asked, his curiosity aroused.

“Fredrick. Fredrick was the black sheep, dabbled in loose women and looser monies.”

“So you come from the best of the three.”
At least, he assumed so.

She laughed lightly. “
That’s still debatable. Granda was an oddity. On nights with a full moon, the servants said he’d go outdoors and howl like a dog. I like to think I come more from my grandmother’s side.” She extended her hand. “Cerise Delacroix, and because you are wondering, grandmother is on the patio ready to receive you.”

She made no move, and so neither did
he. He pulled his hands from his coat pockets and lifted hers to his lips with his right. She stared back, unblinking. “You have beautiful eyes, Mr. Garner.”

He released her fingers and smiled.
“My father’s eyes. My mother’s are nondescript brown.”

“Like mine.”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Not like yours at all.” He left her to wonder about that, and instead, posed a question. “What I’m wondering is why a young girl like you would secret herself away in this place, family obligations notwithstanding.”

She turned then and made her way back to the entrance, leaving him to follow. In the hallway, she paused. “There is no one else, and I like the solitude.”
She continued forward.

The hallway wound
ahead to a pair of doorways. The one on the left led into a dining room set with a massive table, big enough to feed twenty and a floor to ceiling buffet filled with fine china. The walls were hung with paper in hunter green stripes. The door on the right directed them through a breakfast area, past a small wooden bench, to another door leading out back.

Cerise
pushed it open, with one glance his way, and walked across a stone-flag patio to an iron table placed beneath a bare-limbed Crepe Myrtle. An elderly woman in a flowing blue gown looked up from perusal of a silver tray. The resemblance between her and the girl was startling. It was like looking at an age progression, one a younger version of the other.

“Grandmother, this is Mr. Garner, the glassmaker.”

The elderly woman’s eyes brightened and a twinkle arose. “Well,” she said, quite lively. “He’s a sight for sore eyes.”

Andre accepted the compliment with a nod.

The weather wasn’t any better than it had been, and in fact, was declining. Yet the old woman didn’t appear to notice. Her sleeves fluttered in the breeze, as did the skirt of the girl, which flipped upward to reveal the barest hint of fine lace.

The canvas of an overhead umbrella belled and released like a sail. The girl seated herself opposite the woman and removing a tea cup from the tray filled it w
ith golden liquid from a porcelain tea pot, then set it before him with a fine china sugar dish, its lid embellished with gold leaf.

“We have lemon,” she said, offering him a jar.

He eyed the tea cup. He’d not been asked if he’d drink, a courtesy maybe denied due to the weather and the plan of the meeting. He actually had nothing against tea, but its warmth was paltry in the rising cold.

“Mr. Garner,” the old woman said,
interrupting his thoughts. “Before we get to why you’re here, I have to say, I knew your father.”

Everything about this visit
had surprised him – the rough boat ride, the immensity of the house, the beautiful young girl, and now, breakfast on the patio – so the revelation she
knew
his father came as icing on the cake.

“That isn’t why I asked for you,” she said. Her voice was quite strong for her age, a voice demanding respect, but then she’d sounded that way on the phone. “It swayed me a bit, perhaps, but ultimately it was your work I was most interested in. That said
, I’ll share how I knew him.”

Leaves torn from a nearby live oak sailed diagonally to a place on the silver tray. The old woman picked them off and tossed them to the ground, and a Scripture rose in his head.
And the wind and the seas obeyed him.
Apt, given her commandeering personality.

“
Levi was a friend of Cerise’s father. They attended college together, same fraternity even. He used to come here with the boys for weekends in the summer.”

The little Andre knew of his dad included what college he’d attended but not much more. His friends, what he’d done there, and how he’d spent his time was all a mystery. His mother never talked of it, nor how the two of them had met, though he’d gleaned from his uncle, his mother’s younger brother, some of the basic facts.

“He was a handsome boy,” the old woman continued. “I can see he passed that down to his son.”

Anothe
r compliment. The third today. He couldn’t help but feel they were buttering him up for the kill somehow.

“But you are here about the glass,” she said. “I have been thinking on it and have decided it cannot be viewed today.” She flicked a wrist at the sky. “Not until this weather clears, so I’m afraid you’ll have to stay overnight.”

Stay overnight? Andre gave a cough. “Mrs. Delacroix, I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared. I have clients …”

The welcome she’d given him moments ago faded. “I
am
your client. I am willing to pay you a year’s earnings for this.”

A year?
Stunned, his words failed. A minute passed in silence before he gathered himself. “That is most generous, but …”

“No buts. Either you agree t
o it and dedicate your time to the task, or you go back to your life.”

Back to his life
. A chill crept up his spine, one not related to the weather. What damage would refusing her do? He’d come all this way knowing things would be weird. Those in the know had warned him it would eat into his schedule. They’d also told him not to say
no
.

“Very
well,” he said, his hands tied. “I must notify …”

Again, she cut him off. “It’s been handled. Now, Cerise will show you to your room.”

Dismissed, he rose and followed the girl dutifully into the house, but a burn in his gut forced bile up his throat. He gulped and swallowed his anger, climbing the wide, curved staircase to a suite of rooms in a hallway to the right.

The
bedroom she led him to was, in short, magnificent. A brocade canopy bed with thick gold hangings sat center on the far wall with two small round tables placed on either side. A fire was spread in the grate and a selection of men’s outfits hung in an armoire in the corner. She’d planned this, the old crone. He sucked in a breath.

“Mr. Garner,” Cerise said.