The American Lady (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  “Then you came along. He had wanted a son more than anything, and when you turned out to be a girl Thomas just couldn’t forgive your mother. Some men are like that. He drank too much as well, and the marriage went downhill very quickly after that. And then, one night, there was Ruth—scared out of her wits and carrying her little girl and all her worldly goods, standing in front of our family home. Your mother is a very proud woman. She never told us what finally put an end to the marriage. She kept a firm lid on all her suffering. Then when Steven came into her life, he was the fairy-tale prince she’d always dreamt of. You were only a year old when he took the two of you off to America. He had forged papers for both of you, and Ruth was traveling as Baroness von Lausche. Two years later, Thomas Heimer finally agreed to a divorce.” Marie sighed.

  Wanda clamped her lips together and didn’t say a word. She seemed amazed, as though she couldn’t believe that what Marie was telling her had anything to do with her mother, the elegant New York society lady who was always so calm and collected.

  “Ruth made a mistake by never telling you about him. Thomas isn’t such a bad fellow, in his way,” Marie added. “He never married again, by the way.”

  Wanda looked at her foot as though she had no idea what it was doing in that puddle.

  “All these years . . .” she said. “I always wondered why I felt so out of place my whole life long! Now I know at last. They never wanted me here. I was always just in the way, spoiling their royal majesties’ fun with my presence.”

  “Wanda, that isn’t true! Ruth loves you more than her own life! When you were a baby, she always used to call you her own little princess.” Marie’s heart ached as she told Wanda how she and Johanna had always thought Ruth loved the little girl too much.

  “Once”—Marie laughed without thinking—“she saved up all her hard-earned money to have a photograph taken of you. And God knows that wasn’t something that just anyone did, back then! Believe me, no mother has ever been prouder of her baby than Ruth was. You meant the world to her. And nothing’s changed since then.”

  As she spoke, thunder roared overhead. Lightning lit up the shapes of the skyscrapers all around, which seemed to reach toward them like clutching fingers. Black clouds raced across the sky. All at once it was cold.

  Marie blinked as she felt a raindrop splash onto her dress. This was all she needed! With any luck, though, the storm would pass over quickly.

  “But why did she lie to me for eighteen years?” Wanda said. “Nothing means anything anymore; everything’s just a lie, even the least little thing she says! She’s always talking about my cousins Claire and Dorothy, Steven’s nieces, about how hard they work at school and how polite they are to their parents. But I’m not their cousin! I’m not related to them at all!” She sobbed from a mixture of despair and rage. “I was never elegant enough. She always says that I’m too lazy, too cheeky, too much I don’t know what. Why is she always trying to make me into somebody else? Do I remind her of my father—is that it?”

  Marie shook her head. “Your mother has entirely forgotten your father. I think she’s suppressed the memory so entirely that he never existed as far as she’s concerned—which is probably why she never told you about him. You aren’t the least bit like him, believe me. You are who you are!”

  “And who’s that, then?” her niece shot back. “All my life I’ve believed I’m American, and now I suddenly find out I was born in Germany. In the back of beyond, in the middle of the forest.”

  “Now don’t talk that way! You’re still Wanda; you’re an enchanting young lady with more charm than most other girls,” Marie cried out. Who am I, really? The question kept coming up—it seemed she couldn’t run away from it.

  Now the skies had really opened. But Marie couldn’t bring herself to suggest that they take cover somewhere. She wanted to finish the conversation up here, one way or another. As she huddled closer to the chimney, Wanda suddenly jumped to her feet and ran out into the middle of the roof.

  She spread out her arms and raised her face to the sky.

  “Maybe the best thing would be if I were struck by lightning right now! Then it would all be over!” She laughed hysterically as lightning flashed nearby. “Closer, please! One more try! Here I am!” She spun around wildly.

  A moment later, Marie had wrestled her to the ground.

  “Are you mad? You could have died!” She held her niece firmly in her arms, a trembling bundle of misery. “You’re out of your mind!”

  Wanda sobbed again. “Mother has Steven, Harold has his bank, Pandora has her dance, you have your glassblowing—everybody but me has something to live for! I’m nobody; I’m good for nothing. I feel as empty as a bird’s nest in December. Useless, worthless. I can’t go on like this.”

  Wanda’s despair shook Marie to the core, more strongly even than the storm that raged around them. The thunder growled and echoed back from the skyscrapers, the rain lashed across her back and her arms, but for the first time in ages she felt a deep gratitude well up within her. She had her gift. All at once it was easy to answer the question of who she was. She was a glassblower, and she always would be!

  “Everything will be all right, believe me. I’ll tell you all about Lauscha; I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I’ll tell you about your father; I’ll tell you about his brothers and about your grandfather. If you want I can describe every piece of glass they ever made, everything that came out of their workshop. You’ll know where your roots are, I promise you that.” Marie shook Wanda by the shoulders.

  “And what good will all that do? What does that have to do with me, with my life here?”

  Wanda’s skepticism simply strengthened Marie’s resolve. Yes, she wanted to give Wanda something she could call her own—that was the least she could do for her niece.

  “Look at it this way—Steven will always be your father. But today you’ve found you have another father as well!”

  “That’s wonderful! If I’m such a lucky girl, why do I feel as though I’d just been run over by a streetcar?” Wanda made a face, but she smiled the ghost of a smile as well.

  The two of them were soaked to the skin when they climbed back down the fire escape ladder a little later.

  That night—after she had taken Wanda off to her room and sat by her bedside until she fell asleep—Marie picked up her sketchpad and got one of her drawing pencils from her luggage. She could have cried with relief at the feeling of holding the pencil again, the same dear old familiar feeling. How could she ever have forgotten this comfort! It felt so good to sit here with a fresh new sheet of paper in front of her.

  She stayed up the rest of the night drawing. She started by sketching what seemed useless—ball gowns, the flower arrangements that had sat on every table—nothing that she could adapt for Christmas baubles. But Marie didn’t care. She felt her heart welling over with gratitude that her pencil was moving once more, gliding over the page as if of its own free will. She could still do it! She hadn’t lost her gift!

  She drew and shaded, adjusted her lines, corrected the shapes. Suddenly she saw the New York skyline take shape before her eyes, dark and sharp-edged. Then streetlamps below, lights in the windows, a moon casting a cold light over the silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Day was beginning to break when Marie finally put down her pencil. There wasn’t a blank sheet left in the pad. She had leafed through the pages so often that they were soft and pliant now, and here and there the pencil had worn furrows in the paper or smudged it black. Now it was time to sort through what she’d drawn.

  It was a miracle! Among the night’s sketches were at least ten images, maybe twelve, that would be perfect for a new line of baubles. They only needed a little work . . .

  Then Marie’s smile faded. How could she be so happy when Wanda was doubtless in a flood of tears just a few doors down the hall?

  But were joy
and sorrow ever far apart? They were like day and night, light and shade . . .

  The Night & Day Collection—if she ever managed to make anything from these sketches, then that was what she would call it. She would get to work on the fine detail first thing after a few hours of sleep. She wasn’t the least bit worried that she might fail. Now that she had made a fresh start, she could feel her creative powers bubbling away within her like lava in a volcano, pushing to the surface.

  Marie leafed through the pad once more. She especially liked the scene depicting the skyscrapers and the night sky above. And the one where the moon hung low over the harbor front. The globes would have to be silvered inside first; then the outlines could be painted in white enamel and the shapes filled in with glitter dust . . . yes, that would be lovely!

  Enamel paint and glitter . . . the thought was hardly formed when she realized what it meant. These Night & Day designs were a return to her roots, to the first globes she had ever painted eighteen years ago when she had begun to blow glass in secret. All she had back then was black and white paint, since her father had never needed anything else in his workshop. She had made her own glitter powder by begging some broken bits of glass off old Wilhelm Heimer, then taking them home and crushing them as fine as dust. She hadn’t had anything else to work with, and her first baubles had needed nothing else. The contrasts, the light and shade, did it all.

  Marie felt that she saw some deeper message in this return to her roots. She had already decided to tell Wanda all about where she came from. Perhaps that was bringing her, too, back to where she had begun?

  15

  After the previous night’s storm, the morning was bright and clear. When Marie finally rose, drew aside the silk curtain, and looked out the window, the sunlight was so strong that it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked.

  This was just the weather for a saint’s day!

  She put on a dressing gown and went into the breakfast room. She was relieved to see that Ruth and Wanda were sitting at the table together. They were both pale—this was the first time since she’d arrived that Marie had seen Ruth without any makeup—and they both looked unhappy, but at least they were talking.

  For a moment Marie was tempted to tell them about the miracle that had happened to her during the night. But she dropped the thought when Steven stood up and offered her a chair, his face somber.

  Of course there was only one topic of conversation. Wanda still couldn’t understand why her parents had never told her, in all these years. “Why? Why didn’t you . . . ? How could you have . . . ?”

  Ruth and Steven tried to explain, taking turns, patiently.

  Marie took another roll from the basket, more to have something to do than because she was really hungry.

  Ruth suddenly turned on her. “There you sit, gobbling down one roll after another as though nothing at all had happened!” Wanda was in tears, again. “Is it too much to ask that you join in the conversation?”

  Marie put down her roll and the honey spoon. “I’m so sorry. I really don’t know what to say. I . . .” Her eyes fell on the cabinet clock behind Steven. “Is it really so late?” She stood up sharply, her chair squeaking across the marble floor. She looked from face to face. “I truly am sorry . . . but if I don’t hurry, I’ll still be in my nightgown when Franco arrives!”

  “Oh yes, you run off and have fun!” Ruth yelled after her. “While you’re gone we can clear up the mess you’ve landed us in!”

  Marie could hardly wait to get out of the house. She could hardly wait to see Franco. She felt a pang of guilt as she brushed her hair and put on eyeliner. She even applied a little rouge—today was a special day, after all. She plaited her hair into one simple braid and then wound it about the crown of her head. Ruth would call it a frightfully old-fashioned hairstyle, but Marie felt like being a little old-fashioned today.

  She spent a little while choosing what to wear. There was only one color for a summer’s day like this—white! Pure, gleaming white. With plenty of ruffles and lace.

  When she crept out of the apartment like a thief at one o’clock and went down to the lobby to meet Franco, Marie felt just as romantic as she looked.

  “You look like a bride,” Franco whispered when he saw her. “No, even more beautiful than that,” he said in the very next breath. “Like the Virgin Mary!”

  More Mary than Virgin, she wanted to say, but she bit back the remark. Franco didn’t like it when women made off-color jokes.

  “Thank you so much for the wonderful tiara. It’s far too lavish, though, you really shouldn’t have,” she said instead.

  Franco pulled her close. “Too lavish? What else should I buy to grace the head of a queen?”

  He kissed her, and she felt weak at the knees. She clung closer to him. How much could she love this man?

  From the moment they met, Franco only needed to touch her, and she felt wonderful. He smelled so good, her handsome Italian! Marie found herself wondering again and again what it would be like to lie in his arms. Naked, passionate. Drat it all, she didn’t want him thinking of her as a virgin! She wanted to make love to him with every fiber of her being. The only question was how she could talk him into it. She wasn’t like Sherlain; she couldn’t just drag a man off to bed when she liked the look of him. She couldn’t tell him how much she yearned for him—couldn’t even hint at it. How was she supposed to put it into words? Oh, if only she weren’t so clumsy at these games, if only she knew the rules that men and women played by.

  She could only hope that Franco would make the first move, and soon.

  Little Italy was festooned with decorations that day, as though the neighborhood wanted to outshine the old homeland across the Atlantic. Mile upon mile of bunting was strung across the streets and thousands of tiny colorful flags fluttered in the breeze. Musicians stood at every street corner, practicing for their moment in the grand parade. Crowds gathered all along Mulberry Street to watch. Excited children wriggled through the barriers that kept spectators on the sidewalk and ran out into the street, and their mothers ran after them to fetch them back. Mamma mia, it didn’t bear thinking about if their bambini ran under the wheels of one of the parade floats!

  For a while Marie and Franco let the crowd carry them along, flitting from one distraction to another like butterflies. But the cheering and the throngs all around her began to get on Marie’s nerves and soon she felt her temples throbbing painfully. If only she’d gotten more than a couple of hours’ sleep! She didn’t want to be here in the crowd—she wanted to be alone with Franco, to tell him all about last night, about her hours with the sketchpad.

  They eventually sat down for a late lunch at one of the restaurants. Franco ordered a huge dish of spaghetti with meatballs and wine from one of his family estates. Now that they were out of the glaring sun, Marie’s headache subsided and she felt a little better. She raised her glass to Franco and looked into his eyes.

  People kept coming over to the table, locals who knew Franco and were curious about his beautiful companion. Marie smiled and shook hands every time. Everybody was so polite, almost reverential, that Marie wanted to return their friendly gestures. And so, to Franco’s astonishment and the delight of the other guests, she sprinkled a few Italian phrases into her remarks in English.

  “How on earth do you know my language? And why have you never let on before now? Do you have another admirer hidden away somewhere?” Franco asked jealously.

  “Well if I did, I certainly wouldn’t tell you!” Marie replied teasingly. Then she laughed and told him how the Italian migrant laborers had come to Lauscha twenty years ago to help build the railroad. “Two young fellows stayed behind and married village girls. Lugiana is the daughter of one of those families, and she comes by twice a week to help us with the housekeeping.” She shrugged. “Over the years I’ve picked up a word or two from her. But to tell the truth, I didn’t want to make a foo
l of myself speaking broken Italian to you.”

  “I’d hardly call it broken—you speak it very well!” Franco seemed offended that she had kept this a secret from him until now.

  “The signorina is not just beautiful but clever as well! A woman like that is rarer than a Lombard truffle,” said Stefano, the restaurant owner. He looked at Franco with respect. “May I pour the lady another glass?”

  Marie shook her head. “Two glasses is enough, thank you. I know that I shouldn’t refuse de Lucca wine, but I don’t want to end up tipsy.” She already felt a little light-headed. But before she could mention this to Franco, the next visitor came to the table. He was the owner of another nearby restaurant, and unlike the rest of the well-wishers he was rather reserved as he spoke to Franco in a low voice. Marie expected Franco to tell her what the man was saying, as he had with all the others, but she waited in vain.

  She frowned. She had never seen Franco’s eyes glow with that strange, cold light before.

  “Is there anyone in this neighborhood who you don’t know?” she asked, almost in annoyance, once the man had gone. She suddenly felt nauseous from the smell of cigarette smoke, garlic, and cooking odors.

  Franco frowned. “It’s more the other way around. The people here know me, or they know my father. I have trouble putting a name to every face.”

  He was still talking, but suddenly Marie couldn’t hear his words. She felt ill. She swallowed hard.