A Woman Without Lies (18 page)

Hawk’s mouth lifted in a small, cold curl. Angel underestimated him if she thought he didn’t understand. He understood very well. She was the same as the others. Nothing new after all.

And if the thought made him a little sick and very angry, that was his problem. He was old enough to know better. Old enough not to be taken in by a sweet-faced actress with sad green eyes.

The shaken pieces of Hawk’s certainty settled back into place, reassuring him.

Then the sound of the engines coming to life surprised Hawk all over again. He finished dressing quickly. Then he opened the cockpit door, stepped out, and confronted Angel.

“A little late for fishing, isn’t it?” Hawk asked sardonically, gesturing toward the stars visible through the portholes.

“Yes.”

Angel checked to see that the running lights were on before she threaded her way between the large and small boats anchored in the bay. Once she was free of the bay, she picked up speed, although she kept it below what she would have done in the daylight, well below what she wanted to do.

Fly. Flee. Vanish.

But those were emotions. The reality was more difficult. Angel had to make the trip to Campbell River, then to the house, then to her room.

The thought nearly overwhelmed Angel. Silently she fought the emotions that were tearing her apart.

One minute at a time. This minute.

Just this one.

“Cutting short our little trip?” asked Hawk.

“Yes.”

“What about Derry’s land sale?”

Hawk saw the instant of emotion flicker beneath the pale surface of Angel’s face. Having guessed correctly about her price made Hawk even more angry.

“What about all that you owe Derry?” Hawk asked.

“You’ll either buy Eagle Head or you won’t.”

“No guide, no deal, remember?”

“There are other guides,” said Angel.

Her lips changed suddenly, lifting at the corner in a sardonic curl that exactly echoed Hawk.

“Like Carlson,” she suggested.

Hawk’s eyes narrowed. He knew that if Angel told Carlson what had happened, the big Indian would do his best to give Hawk a personally guided tour of hell.

At the moment the thought of an explosive brawl tantalized Hawk, promising him an outlet for the unreasonable rage that still gripped him. His certainties had nearly been shattered by a woman.

Again.

“What are you going to tell Derry?” demanded Hawk.

“That we rub each other the wrong way.”

“I thought you liked the way I rubbed you,” Hawk said cruelly.

Angel looked at Hawk for a long moment. Humiliation and fury made her want to deny having enjoyed his touch. But she didn’t give in to the temptation. She had the rest of her life to live.

She didn’t want to live it as a liar as well as a slut.

“Everyone makes at least one bad mistake on the way to growing up,” Angel said quietly. “You were mine.”

Hawk’s eyes became almost black. He asked no more questions. He was discovering that Angel’s truths could be far more painful than other women’s lies.

And then he realized that she was doing it again, truth, not lies, shattering truth.

The rest of the trip to Campbell River was completed in silence, as was the ride to the Ramsey house. Derry was asleep when they arrived.

Grateful for that small comfort, Angel went quickly to the north wing, where her suite was. She neither looked at nor spoke to Hawk. He had ceased to exist for her. Nothing existed but a stained glass rose the color of blood. She held it in her mind the way a mountain peak holds light long after the rest of the world is in darkness.

Angel stripped off her clothes, dropping them in a trail that led to the shower. She stood under the hot spray for long minutes, washing herself and rinsing and washing again until her skin should have been painful to the touch.

She felt nothing, allowed nothing to reach her. She knew that the blessed numbness was only temporary. She knew that the time would come when she would have to sort out her emotions, sort out hope from truth, error from pain. A learning time.

But not yet. Just now it was enough that she get through this minute, and the next, and the next.

Angel didn’t get out of the shower until the supply of hot water was exhausted. Even then she lingered until the water became unpleasantly cold. She dried herself quickly, rubbing her hair until her fingers ached.

Only then did Angel realize that she was crying silently, had been crying since she closed the bedroom door behind her. She scrubbed her face viciously.

Tears came anyway, a silent, transparent upwelling of emotion that she could not control.

Abruptly Angel threw aside the towel. She dressed in her work clothes, jeans and a blue cotton shirt. Both were faded almost white. She pulled on moccasins, combed back her damp hair, and went through the connecting door to her studio.

The north wall of glass was as black as the center of Hawk’s eyes. For a moment Angel stood without moving, wondering if she had the strength to keep going.

You don’t live all your minutes at once,
Angel reminded herself silently.
You just live the one you’re in. You can make it through one minute.

You don’t have to be strong for that. Just one minute. One minute at a time.

The familiar litany helped to loosen the talons digging into Angel. Her hand went out slowly. Wall switches clicked and lights came on, bringing a hard white radiance in place of darkness.

She walked in, drawn to the silent colors of glass scattered about the room. No matter what happened she had this, a wealth of colors surrounding her, a constructive outlet for emotions that would otherwise destroy her.

One minute.

Just one.

Angel took a long, deep breath and went to one of the worktables lined up beneath the fluorescent lights. Two of the tables were normal except for the thick, short-piled carpet on their surface. The third table had a translucent top. Light radiated beneath the surface, illuminating the pattern and the pieces of glass laid out on top.

Angel went to the table where light glowed. The pattern she had been working on was deceptively simple—three jars of jelly that appeared to be sitting on a rustic window frame. Across the top of the window, like a jeweled fringe, were runners of blackberry and raspberry bushes heavy with fruit. The “window” itself was a very pale gold muff, a glass the exact color of late afternoon sunlight.

She could have used ordinary window glass, but she had not. She never used glass that had no color. Seeing splinters and shards of colorless glass glittering beneath hard white light brought back too many memories of the accident, of terrible pain, of death.

Most of the glass pieces had been cut already. Angel had only to shape the bunches of berries that hung lushly from the top of the window. The branches would be the lead beading itself. The leaves were cut from a piece of green muff. The natural variations in the glass provided a subtlety of shading that recalled a living brush.

The veins on the leaves had been painted in. Angel would bake on the paint in the kiln, a process that permanently combined paint and glass. Although she could have achieved a similar effect by etching the leaf-lines onto flashed glass, she had chosen to use the varied texture and color shading of muff instead.

Angel turned on the kiln, drew on supple suede gloves, and went back to the light table. She picked up a simple glass cutter. The hard steel wheel and its pencil-like holder fit readily against the calluses of her right hand.

She adjusted a piece of textured, raspberry-colored glass over the heavy paper pattern she had fastened onto the light table. The light shining through the paper and glass clearly showed the black cutting lines she would follow. The wheel made a high humming sound as Angel drew the steel over glass, leaving behind a very fine trail of powdered glass.

As soon as the first major line had been drawn, Angel put down the cutter. Gently, firmly, she bent the glass until it separated at the fine line left by the wheel.

Despite its name, a glass cutter didn’t really cut glass. It merely set up a weakness in the peculiar molecular structure of glass. In many ways glass responded more as a fluid than a solid. Like a fluid, glass “healed” itself.

Unless Angel separated the glass within minutes of cutting, glass molecules would begin flowing back together. Then the break would be ragged and almost random rather than clean and precise. As Angel broke each piece of glass, she ran the fresh edges over each other, dulling them from razor to merely sharp.

The curves of the berries were too deep to cut all at once. After the initial shallow curves had been made, Angel picked up special pliers and nipped at the glass until the desired curves were achieved. It was work that demanded care and concentration. She welcomed both, drawing them around her like a balm, minutes flickering by, uncounted.

Beneath the concentration, the deepest levels of Angel’s mind continued to seethe toward some kind of resolution, some balance that would eventually allow her to live more than a minute at a time.

Working with glass brought a kind of peace, a breathing space, to Angel. It had helped her deal with all the small disappointments of her childhood—and with the devastating death of her parents and Grant and his mother in the flaming wreck. It would help her deal with Hawk. Her work would let her live in each minute as it came, nothing beyond this minute, this instant of brilliant glass taking shape beneath her fingers.

Working in silence but for the tiny, high song of glass shearing away, Angel finished cutting the pieces for Mrs. Carey’s gift. When the kiln was hot, the leaves went in. While they baked she continued cutting, working this time on the piece of pale muff. It was a large piece, irregularly shaped yet oddly graceful. She cut with confidence, years of experience showing in each elegant stroke, each sure motion.

After a time, Angel slipped a piece of plywood over the translucent panel in the table. Then she went to the bead stretcher, a simple vise that held one end of a length of soft, H-shaped lead beading while she pulled on the other, taking out any kinks. She used the thinnest possible bead that was consistent with the structural integrity of the finished piece.

After the lead beading was pulled and a piece had been tamped into the rustic frame, she began to assemble the glass, beginning in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame. Horseshoe nails held the glass in place until the next piece of bead was ready to be laid.

As Angel selected each piece of glass, she polished it until she could see nothing but the beauty of the glass itself. Piece after piece, color after color, a fragile jigsaw puzzle held together by black lead stretched into suppleness. The sounds of small nails being tacked down replaced the tiny cry of glass.

Angel worked through the darkest hours of the night, pausing only to wipe away the tears that came without warning, a transparent up-welling from a wound too fresh and deep to be quickly healed.

She noticed the tears only at a distance, a blurring of sight that prevented her from seeing clearly the jeweled shards of color slowly becoming whole beneath her hands. Fragments of the past forged into a new pattern, beauty where only breakage and loss had been, sanity rebuilt piece by piece.

Ebony night paled to pewter dawn. Crimson flushed the studio. Angel didn’t notice the light any more than she noticed that her back muscles were burning and knotted or that the shoulders of her blouse were dark from the tears she had wiped away. She was focused wholly on the puzzle she had just completed.

She mixed the cement that would be the final touch, the last assurance that the puzzle would not come undone in an hour or a year.

With a stiff brush, Angel worked the thick cement over both sides of the finished stained glass piece until there was no more space between glass and beading and frame. She poured sawdust over the finished surfaces, absorbing the excess cement. Then, before the cement dried, she took a pointed wooden tool and began to go over each join of lead and glass, picking up extra cement, making sure that the lines of her creation would be as clean and elegant as the glass itself.

Crimson faded into the softer colors of day. Angel didn’t notice. There was no sound but that of wood squeaking over glass until Derry came in, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Angie? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you out fishing?”

Angel looked up, surprised to find that so many minutes had passed.

It was morning.

A little of the tension in Angel eased. The first night was the hardest.

Blinking slowly, she focused for the first time in hours on something that was farther away than the surface of a worktable.

Derry came closer, swinging easily between the crutches.

“Angie? How long have you been working?”

“A while,” Angel said evasively, returning her attention to the stained glass. “I’m almost finished.”

Actually she had been finished an hour ago. She was simply using the wooden scraper to retrace the lines of what she had created. She enjoyed the colors and shapes, the wholeness where only dreams and lethal fragments of glass had been.