Maureen laughed and rocked her foot back and forth. “Why do you need permission to have pleasure in your life?” she asked. “You hesitate when it comes to doing something for yourself. Always needing to justify your happiness, and part of me wants to blame Nora. But maybe it’s because no one’s ever told you, you don’t need a reason to feel good. You don’t need permission. Be happy for the fucking sake of being happy, Diane.”
Hm. Diane never analyzed herself that way before. Maybe Maureen had a point. She watched the skaters floating up and down the pipes, performing tricks and crisscrossing in the cement pools—determined and liberated expressions on each of their sweaty faces.
“Sex doesn’t need a three-year plan and a PowerPoint presentation before you hop into bed with someone,” Maureen added.
“Yes, I’m aware.” Diane snapped her eyes at her. “Thank you.”
“It’s okay to be attracted to someone younger than yourself,” Maureen said. She picked at her nails nonchalantly. “If that’s the issue. What is she, thirty? Thirty-two?”
“Thirty-five, I believe.”
“Pfft. Fifteen years is hardly the most scandalous age gap.”
Sighing, Diane kept her sights on the skateboarders and their tricks, through the wall of passing joggers and bicyclists. Why was this so difficult to admit? Diane wasn’t a prude. By any means. Maureen and Diane talked about sex enough in their long relationship, discussing Diane’s girlfriends and fleeting lovers she encountered before Nora came around. Aside from all that, Diane was comfortable with herself in the bedroom. Confident with her body. She knew how to articulate her wants. Ask for what she needed—beg for them when desired. But her irritation with Michelle couldn’t be that simple. Could it?
Had Diane denied herself pleasure for so long in her marriage, her divorce acted as a watershed of want, fueling all her recent frustrations?
Yes, Diane was attracted to Michelle. Unquestionably. But she didn’t have to acknowledge it, or stoke the fire it filled in her gut. Those feelings only made Vermont more complicated. Before Maureen hijacked her hiatus, and insisted she work closely with Michelle, Diane could’ve pushed her arousal aside and focused on her book. She could’ve stuck to her schedule and her side of the street, and went straight back to work. Diane shook her head with a bitter laugh. This was why she preferred plans. Plans were safe. Predictable. Straightforward and easy.
Manageable.
Everything Michelle St. Gelais wasn’t.
“Fine. I’ll admit, looking at her does things to me. But that doesn’t mean I entirely enjoy her,” Diane said, trying hard to maintain control of her emotions. “I know you didn’t see it today, but she’d been rude and cocky and snippy with me, off and on, since I’ve arrived. And yes, I’d rather not get any closer to her than I have to, but now, thanks to you, that’s not possible.”
“Diane,” Maureen said, she turned towards her with a serious expression, “yes, I’ll confess, perhaps, I pushed you to work with her for shits and giggles.”
Diane slapped her hands on her knees. “Oh, well, that’s lovely.”
“But,” Maureen said softly, placing her hand on Diane’s shoulder, “if you’re honestly not comfortable working with her on this, I’m sorry I put you in that position. There’re plenty of artists in Florida who could come up with something equally good for the restaurant. I honestly didn’t think you’d be that upset about working with her. I’m sorry.”
Diane sighed again and looked off across the lake. She watched the fading sunlight flickering on the water, while Maureen sat silently beside her. Diane tried to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling through her. Why was she making such a big deal out of it? Throwing a tantrum all day like an inconsolable toddler? She could handle this, and Maureen deserved better. Kelly Ann deserved the best design. And it was business. Only business. Even if Diane had to repeat that mantra on loop in her head the whole time, Diane would suck it up and tolerate Michelle’s close company for her two good friends.
“No, I’m sorry,” Diane said, sitting up straight. “It’s fine. I want to help. You’re right, I’m overreacting. I can be civil and on my best behavior, and it shouldn’t take long to come up with an idea together, anyway. I’ll make it work.”
“That’s my girl,” Maureen said. She pulled Diane closer and kissed her head. “Who knows, maybe a little conflict between you two might do your book good, also.”
“How exactly?”
“Every story needs a heaping of good sexual tension.”
Diane frowned. “For the characters, Maureen. Not the author.”
“Are you sure?”
“Come on,” Diane grumbled and stood, pulling Maureen off the bench. “Let’s go home before you spout out any more creative advice.”
“Fine.”
“We can pop open a vintage red, sit by the water,” Diane said, strolling south on the bike path. The sunset melted vibrant oranges and golds on the distant Adirondack peaks. “You can fill me in more regarding this restaurant design of yours.”
“I do like talking about myself and my brilliant ideas.” Maureen grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”
“I agree,” Diane said, hooking their arms together. “And a plan with wine is one I can wholeheartedly get behind.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A sharp northern breeze combed through the changing trees and tangled with the scent of browning leaves, withering sweetly on the grass. Summer was dying. Change crept closer. Diane hesitated at the end of the driveway, her heart beating feverishly. She eyed the hot glass studio ahead and her latest creation cradled in her hands. Cranberry-apple. The pie was still warm from the oven, with a golden, crimped crust and crushed walnuts scattered generously on the sugary, crumble topping. It was one of her best bakes yet. Thank goodness.
The lake house grew quiet after Maureen’s departure earlier in the week, and although it left Diane somewhat doleful and lonely, it also made her more eager than ever to continue writing. Missing her best friend was inevitable, but as Maureen reminded her, hugging her tightly in the airport terminal, they had things to accomplish—a stylish, Southern restaurant to furnish, and a debut bestseller to finish. Returning to her creative space on the back deck, adding pages to her book, Diane found her diligence returning as the days went along, hoping the confidence that tagged along with progress would indefinitely stick around in other ways, too. But writing turned fruitless, and her confidence faded, and Diane woke up more fidgety than ever that Friday morning.
Unable to produce any decent words, Diane shut her laptop and stormed into the kitchen. She needed to get the crust rolled out on the counter before her nerves crumbled. Peeling the skins carefully, Diane cut the granny smith apples into perfect, uniformed slices as she nursed her third cup of coffee, and attempted not to agonize over her meeting with Michelle—a feat Diane struggled with since last weekend’s farmers’ market. Usually making pies eased her nerves. Following a recipe, step-by-step, gave Diane structure. Guidance. Focus. Surely, getting her hands deep into dough would give her the sense of stability she desperately needed. But when the timer rang out, relief never came. The soothing aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg infused the kitchen, yet her nerves bubbled as hot and frantic as that tart apple filling.
Even after baking such a phenomenal pie, Diane couldn’t shake her apprehensiveness. Acknowledging her attraction to Michelle didn’t make today’s collaboration any easier. It didn’t lessen the way Michelle made her feel brazen, yet unsettlingly off-balance, any time she was around. But Diane could concentrate. She had to. She’d stick to business, create a design for Kelly Ann, and leave as quickly as possible. Plain. And. Simple.
So, with the sweet pie in her hands and a secure plan in place, Diane took a deep breath, pushed her canvas bag filled with supplies higher on her shoulder, and stepped swiftly across the street. The bell jingled happily above the shop entrance, and Diane pushed her way inside, drifting towards the counter and admiring the glass as she walked by.
“Hello,” Diane said, smiling at the familiar worker tending the register. A thick textbook consumed the countertop. She scanned the cover. “Critical Ethnography,” she read. “Some heavy reading you’ve got there.”
Breaking from their zealous notetaking, they looked up from their notebook and smiled. Their purple curls were gone, replaced by a short crop of hot pink hair with faded sides. They pushed their glasses up higher on their nose. “I’m an anthropology major,” they said. “Completing my coursework here is better than the campus library. A lot fewer distractions.”
Diane glanced to her right, rock music streaming from the studio. “You sure?”
“I’m used to their ruckus,” they laughed. “I’m Quinn, by the way. It’s nice to see you again. You’re Diane, right?”
Diane laughed. “I’m rather notorious around here, aren’t I?”
“Only for your pies.” Quinn smiled, leaning on their textbook and eyeing the dessert in Diane’s hands. “Making another delivery?”
“I am.” Diane sucked in a breath. “Among other things.”
“Maybe I’ll get a slice,” Quinn said. “Wrestling one away from those two was nearly impossible last time.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you.” Diane winked.
“Thanks.”
Diane titled forward and peeked through the door. “Is it okay if I head in?”
“Of course! Yeah. Go for it.”
“Good luck with your studies.”
“See ya.” Quinn waved.
Sliding into the studio, Diane walked steadily towards the small break area, placed the pie and her bag on the table, and turned her attention to the artists. Shawn and Michelle worked fast and steady, hopping quickly from their benches to the glory hole and back again, flashing their pieces and collecting more molten glass from the glowing furnace. They worked fervidly. Stretching. Snipping. Contorting. Pulling. Diane was mesmerized, watching as they shaped their pieces with swift, agile precision.
But Michelle.
Wow. Michelle was something else.
Diane couldn’t take her eyes away from her. How her body moved so fluently. Knowingly. Confidently. And her hands. Diane stepped closer and watched Michelle’s fingers as they rolled the blow pipe smoothly on the metal rails, back and forth, and back and forth, holding a consistent momentum, shaping, tooling and crafting her piece until she was satisfied, reheating it in a flash. It was a meticulous dance. Art in motion. There was no other way to describe it. Diane was captivated, enthralled by Michelle and the command of fire she clearly possessed.
Tapping their finished pieces free, Shawn and Michelle hurried them to the annealer to cool. They high-fived, and Michelle wiped her brow with her forearm as she turned, catching Diane’s eyes from across the studio. Michelle smiled. Diane’s stomach fluttered and she looked away briefly, before turning back and giving her a shy smile in return, padding heedfully across the studio floor.
“You made it,” Michelle said.
Diane nodded. “I have.”
Michelle fixed her ponytail and wiped a few loose strands of hair from her face. Diane watched as her slim, black tank top rose above the hem of her khaki work pants, revealing a glimpse of toned stomach muscle under her shirt. If that wasn’t enough, Diane couldn’t even attempt a glance at the sultry glow of her arms and how the glossy sweat emboldened the vibrant colors on her skin. Diane cleared her throat softly and looked at Shawn, giving him a nervous wave as he organized his tools.
Grabbed a fresh blow pipe from the bin, Michelle eyed Diane’s t-shirt and jeans. “I thought working so closely together might’ve finally scared you off.”
“No.” Diane shook her head. “No. Of—of course not. Why would you—”
“Good.” Michelle smirked, her dimples accentuating her amusement. “Come closer.”
“Are you sure this is a good time?” Diane asked, noting the delicate sheen of sweat along Michelle’s brow and inching forward. “I know this is the time we agreed on, but you looked rather busy just now.”
“No more than usual.” Michelle nodded her over. “Come here. Be my assistant.”
“Are you sure?” Diane asked.
“If you want to design glass,” Michelle said, “you should see how it’s made first.”
Diane stepped cautiously around the work bench, scanning the array of tools lined up on the side table. “What were you making?”
“Flared wine glasses.” Michelle slid the pipe in the furnace, tilting it up slightly and turning. “Lots of them. For a local vineyard and tasting bar opening up on the island. Stand over here,” she directed Diane towards the large metal table, “we’ll marver the first gather together.”
“All right,” Diane said breathlessly, an anxious excitement building inside her with the intense heat spilling across her skin. Michelle slid the pipe from the furnace, a globe of glass molded around the tip. “I don’t know what that means exactly.”
“Don’t worry,” Michelle said, meeting Diane’s eyes with a reassuring look. “I’ll guide you through it.”
Positioning herself behind Diane, Michelle handed her the pipe. Diane stared at the ball of glass burning a brilliant butterscotch yellow on the end.
“Hot and fast,” Michelle said, mouthing her low voice into Diane’s ear.
Diane flinched. A flood of goosebumps washed over her skin.
“I’m sorry?”
“Hot and fast. That’s the first thing to understand with glass blowing.” Michelle placed her warm, reassuring hands on Diane, guiding her towards the table and putting her hands and arms into the proper position. With the gather settled on the table, Michelle set Diane into motion, rolling the glass across the cool surface. “Work the glass hot and keep it moving. So here, tilt the pipe up slightly and roll the glass back and forth, smoothly and evenly across the marver.”
“Like this?” Diane asked.
“Perfect.”
Diane was happy for the distraction of hot glass in her hands, otherwise she’d be a pool of flustered woman on the floor. Had Michelle’s voice always been that smooth and thick? Seductive? Diane shook her head. She couldn’t focus on that now. Keeping her fingers moving, Diane rolled the molten glass along the metal surface, changing its shape with every spin, and locking her eyes on her work. Diane had to get this right.
“A little faster,” Michelle said. “You want a nice, uniform gather, before we add our bubble. Now, you’re going to put your mouth on the end, and blow slowly, keeping your hands turning the pipe. Got it?”
Diane nodded, putting herself into position and pushing her air into the pipe. She watched the end growing with her breath, a bubble swelling in the bright, hot center.
“Slow. Steady. A little softer.” Michelle spoke firmly. Her hands fell to Diane’s hips as she watched the progress over her shoulder. “Keep blowing. Turn, turn, turn. A little more, now I’m going to take it from you and shape the tip, so I can get it back into the hole quickly before it cools too much.”
Exchanging places, Michelle took control, marvering the end and reheating it in the glory hole. Michelle glanced back at Diane with a smile on her face.
“Not too shabby for a rookie.” Michelle winked.
Diane’s whole face split into a grin.
“You take direction very well,” Michelle added.
Diane blushed. “I was hoping I was rolling it decently enough.”
“You did good. So, you have any more hot air left in you for another go?” Michelle asked, sitting down at the bench. Rolling the pipe, she collected her tool and pinched a point at the end of the gather. “I need another inflation while I elongate the glass. Just like last time, Diane. Soft and steady. Ready?”
“Okay.” Diane crouched at the opposite end and readied her fingers on the pipe.
“Go.”
Diane blew. Like before, there was a resistance to her breath, and she wasn’t sure anything was happening at first. But the glass expanded. The bubble grew, and Michell
e stretched the glass, snipping and flattening the end.
“Perfect,” Michelle said. She picked up what looked like a pair of metal tongs and pinched the neck into shape. “You can stop. I’ll take it from here.”
For the next several minutes, Diane stood in awe and marveled at Michelle as she sculpted the drinking glass. The finesse of Michelle’s work, the craftsmanship—adding more gathers, the mereses, and the delicate, tear drop bubble, forming the stem—was nothing Diane witnessed before. A wine glass seemed simple in theory, but as she watched the fragile vessel come together, its formation was not only beautiful, but astonishingly complex—a combination, Diane discovered, that was much like the woman at the helm, creating the intricate piece herself.
“That was incredible,” Diane said when Michelle returned from the annealer, the new stemware safely cooling inside. Her eyes jumped over Michelle in delight. “Truly. I would never grow tired watching you.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Michelle grinned.
“And how fast and precise you work too.” Diane shook her head, following Michelle across the space. “Amazing.”
“I make it look easy.”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Shawn laughed as he approached, running his hands through his messy hair. His face was flushed, and his Boston College t-shirt was sweaty in places, evidence of his energetic work. Shawn draped his arm across Michelle’s shoulders and pointed. “There’s a whole bucket of broken glass over there from this commission alone. How many wine glasses have you murdered with your butterfingers so far?”
“Excuse me?” Michelle said, pushing him away playfully.
He laughed and plopped down at the table. Diane joined him, eyeing the two with amusement.
“Remind me who’s leading the smash count this month?” Michelle asked, fetching their water bottles from the fridge. Handing one to Shawn, Michelle plopped down across from them at the table and took a long sip. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. Not me.”
“The road to perfection is paved in broken glass,” he retorted.
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