“It’s not.” Sam wasn’t about to explain that his amusement stemmed from the uncomfortable awareness that he was no better than Kevin when it came to women. In fact, he hadn’t been able to manage anything close to a long-term relationship, nor would he want to.
“How will I know what happens?” Kevin asked, as Sam shepherded him through the front hallway and opened the front door.
“You’ll find out eventually.” Sam saw no need to tell him that he was going to call Lucy that night.
“I’d rather know up front. Text me when you go out with her.”
Leaning one shoulder on the doorjamb, Sam gave him a mocking glance. “No texts, no e-mails, no PowerPoint presentation. I’ll take your ex out, Pearson. But when I do, and what happens afterward, is my business.”
Nine
In the morning, Lucy checked her voice mail and listened to a message that Sam Nolan had left the previous evening.
“The condo’s still available. It’s got a great view of the port, and it’s only a two- minute walk from Artist’s Point. Give me a call if you want to check it out.”
It took almost until lunchtime for Lucy to work up the nerve to call him back. She had never been inclined to dither over what she wanted. But ever since the breakup with Kevin, she was questioning things she didn’t usually question … especially herself.
Over the past two years she had become entirely too wrapped up in her relationship with Kevin. She had let friendships drift, and she had set aside her own opinions and desires. Was it possible that she’d tried to make up for that by nagging and controlling Kevin? She wasn’t sure how to set herself on the right course, how to find herself again. But one thing was clear: There was no point in fooling around with Sam Nolan, who was a dead-end street where serious relationships were concerned.
“Does every relationship have to be serious?” Justine had asked, when Lucy had said as much the previous night.
“Why bother if it’s not going to go anywhere?”
“I’ve learned some great things from relationships that didn’t go anywhere. What’s more important, the destination or the journey?”
“I know I’m supposed to say the journey,” Lucy said glumly. “But right about now, I’m ready for the destination.”
Justine had laughed. “Think of Sam as one of those roadside attractions that turns out to be unexpectedly fun,” she said.
Lucy had given her a skeptical glance. “Like the world’s largest ball of twine? Or Carhenge?”
Although the questions had been sarcastic, Justine responded with unbounded enthusiasm. “
“I hate fun twirly thrill rides,” Lucy said. “You feel like you’re going somewhere, but when it’s over, you find yourself in the same place you started. Not to mention dizzy and sick to your stomach.”
At Lucy’s invitation, Sam dropped by her glass studio in the afternoon. He was dressed in worn jeans and a black polo shirt, his eyes a startling turquoise against his tan. As she welcomed him inside, a jumpy feeling awakened in the pit of her stomach.
“Nice place,” Sam commented, glancing at their surroundings.
“It used to be a garage, but the owner converted it,” Lucy said. She showed him her soldering and light tables, and stacks of trays filled with cut glass that was ready to be built into windows. One section of shelves was laden with cans of waterproofing compound and whiting powder, along with disciplined rows of tools and brushes. The largest section of the studio, however, was taken up with floor-to-ceiling vertical racks of glass. “I collect every kind of glass I find,” Lucy said. “Sometimes I’ll salvage some antique glass that I might be able to use in historic restoration projects.”
“What is this?” Sam went to a treasure trove of blue-green glass misted with silver. “It’s beautiful.”
She joined him, reaching out to run her fingers over a sheet of glass. “Oh, that was the score of the
“What are you going to do with it?” Sam asked, smiling at her enthusiasm.
“I don’t know yet. Something special. Look at how the color is flashed into the glass—all those blues and greens.” Before she thought better of it, she glanced up at him and added, “Like your eyes.”
His brows lifted.
“I wasn’t flirting,” Lucy said hastily.
“Too late. I already took it that way.” Sam wandered to the big electric kiln in the corner. “Some oven. How hot does it get?”
“It can go up to fifteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit. I use it to fuse or texture glass. Sometimes I’ll cast pieces of glass inside a mold.”
“No glassblowing, though?”
Lucy shook her head. “That would require the kind of substantial furnace that you would have to keep hot all the time. And although I did some glassblowing in the past, it’s not my forte. I like working on windows more than anything.”
“Why?”
“It’s … creating art with light. A way of sharing how you look at the world. Emotion made visible.”
Sam nodded toward a set of speakers on the worktable. “Do you usually play music while you work?”
“Most of the time. If I’m doing some intricate glass cutting, I need it to be quiet. But other times, I’ll put on whatever I’m in the mood for.”
Sam continued to explore, browsing among jars of colored glass canes and rods. “When did you first get interested in glass?”
“Second grade. My father took me to visit a glassblowing studio. From then on, I was obsessed. When I’m away from my work too long, I start to crave it. It’s sort of like meditation—it keeps me centered.”
Sam went to her table and looked down at a sketch she had made. “Is glass feminine or masculine?”
Lucy gave a surprised laugh, having never been asked such a question before. She considered it carefully. You had to let glass do what it would, partner it rather than control it, handle it with gentleness and strength. “Feminine,” she said. “What about wine? Is it feminine or masculine?”
“The French word for wine—
“I have problems letting everything go,” Lucy said with a self-deprecating laugh.
