Wish - Page 6

I exhale slowly. “I’ll keep my word. And now I need to go work on my beaver. Wait. Let me rephrase that. The state animal of New York is the beaver, which I’ve been commissioned to create.”

She chuckles. “Well then, good luck with your beaver art and keep me posted on everything.”

“You, too. I want to come to the opening of the diner.”

“That’s months away! I’d better see you before then.”

I can’t make any promises. If I fulfill these orders, then I’ll keep my house, but I still have to make enough money to pay for food, gas, and electricity, which requires me to sell a few thousand bucks each month at the farmers’ market at the Empire State Plaza in downtown Albany. So far, I’ve been making about half that, selling what I can on Etsy to supplement my income. Honestly, every day I think about throwing in the towel, but something in my heart keeps me going when my head tells me I’m doomed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say with a sprig of determination. “And I promise to see you soon.” Because things are going to turn around for me. I have to believe that. All this hard work is going to pay off.

But what if it doesn’t? What if busting my ass isn’t enough? Then what?

Chapter Four

The next day, I deliver the lampshade to my new customer, Mr. Craig, who’s a professor at the university here in Albany. He lives in a gorgeous home in Prescott Woods, an upscale neighborhood. He mentioned that he throws parties sometimes, which is wonderful—more of a chance that his friends will see my art. Anyway, his face lit up when he saw his lampshade and all of the details I put into it—the tiny glass flowers with little green petals and the multicolored stars, all inlaid around orange and blue chunks of glass. I used a homemade clay and colored epoxy mixture to hold it all together and fill in the spaces. With the lamp on, his entire room looked like a sparkly Van Gogh dream.

I thank him a thousand times for the business, collect my check, and head home in Bessy to finish working on my merchandise for the market tomorrow. It’s almost spring now, and the gray skies are finally clearing up, making way for flowers to bloom and trees to regrow their leaves. Something about this time of year really energizes my creativity.

I pull up to my pale-gray, two-story house. It’s small, only two bedrooms, but it has charm and a nice-sized garage, which I’ve turned into my workshop. Honestly, I love the house and having my own little garden in back. If it weren’t for the fact that I picked out the place with Greg, I’d probably stay here forever. For the time being, I’ll settle for staying long enough to build a little equity and sell it. If I can keep up with the payments.

I go through my front door, put on the tea kettle, and pop a Lean Cuisine in the microwave. I’m not much of a cook. Even less so now that I live alone.

I go into the garage through the kitchen and flip on the bright halogen lights. I still haven’t unpacked all the glass from yesterday’s shopping expedition, and now it’s time to get to cracking.

It was my grandmother who taught me to work with broken glass. She showed me how to look at the color and curves of each piece and turn it into a beautiful story: A couple walking hand-in-hand on the beach with blue waves rolling off in the distance; dogs with fluffy brown coats lying next to a warm fire while chewing a bone; flowers, bees, sunrises, and squirrels wearing big hats. I saw dreams in that glass and fell in love with capturing them.

I still haven’t recovered from clearing out her house back in Aurora, Colorado—just across town from where my mom still lives. Every inch of my grandma’s home was filled with magical, anything-is-possible memories, and each room was packed with endless crafting supplies—newspapers, glass, tin cans, beads, yarn, and fabric. With nowhere to put it all, and us needing to sell the house to pay the taxes, my mom had been ready to hand it all over to the junkyard haulers, but I begged to keep it. She let me keep whatever I could fit inside her gardening shed. I kept the glass. I think Grandma would’ve been happy, knowing I used it all up to start my own business and try to make my own dreams into a reality.

I start unpacking the black and yellow glass and spot something colorful on the side of the bag. “Oh, I forgot about you.” I pull out that unusual bottle and inspect it under my industrial lighting. It’s really gorgeous. And now I see that the object inside is a piece of rolled-up paper.

Tags: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Romance
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