Dreamland(78)
Pulling out my phone, I saw the voicemail notification. “I didn’t check. And I’m sorry for not calling you. I just couldn’t.”
She ran a hand through her hair and nodded. In the silence that followed, I knew my words had hurt her.
I avoided her gaze, hating myself for yet another reason. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“It was either here or the hospital.” She shrugged. “The hospital was closer to the airport, but I don’t know your aunt’s last name, so I wasn’t sure I could even find you. So here I am. But I still can’t tell if coming was a good idea.” She hugged her arms to her body.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, moving closer and pulling her toward me. When I felt her body against my own, the emotions I’d been suppressing since my return suddenly engulfed me. I choked out a ragged sob as Morgan clutched me tight, whispering that everything would be okay. I’m not sure how long we stood that way, but in the comfort of her embrace, my tears finally subsided.
“I’m sorry,” I began, pulling back, only to have Morgan cut me off with a shake of her head.
“Don’t ever apologize for being a human being. Your aunt had a stroke—it’s got to be terrifying.” She stared up at me, searching my eyes. “You still love me, right?”
“More than anything.”
She rose to her toes and kissed me. Reading the lingering anxiety in my expression, she apparently decided to wait until I was ready to share any updates. Instead, she swept her arm toward the fields. “So, this is it, huh? The farm?”
“Yeah.” I smiled as I watched her study the surroundings with open curiosity.
“It doesn’t look like I imagined.”
“What did you imagine?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been to a farm, so I walked around a bit while I was waiting for you. I think I saw those prairie schooners you told me about.”
When she pointed, I followed her gaze. “That’s them,” I confirmed. “And behind them is the greenhouse. It’s where we start the tomatoes before they go in the field or where we grow them in the winter.”
“It looks huge.”
“And growing,” I added. “We keep having to expand it.”
“Is all of this yours and your aunt’s?” she asked, spinning around.
“Most of it.”
She nodded, remaining quiet. Then: “How is she?”
I described my latest visit with Aunt Angie and also the unknowns of her condition.
“Well, that’s positive overall, right?” she asked, squinting up at me. “That she’ll be released soon, even if she’s going to need help?”
“It is,” I conceded. “But there’s something I haven’t told you.”
She tilted her head, but her gaze didn’t stray from mine. “You mean about Paige.”
I nodded, wrestling with how to begin. Finally, I took her hand and led her to the barn. As we walked, I could sense Morgan’s curiosity, but I said nothing. Instead, I lifted the latch and opened the barn door, sunlight spilling across the concrete floor that I’d poured years earlier. I flipped an industrial switch, and the overhead lights came on with a buzz, so bright they almost hurt my eyes.
Half of the barn was used for storage of the kind of items I assumed most people kept in garden sheds—a wheelbarrow, lawnmower, buckets, garden implements, things like that. The other half was used by Paige as her work area. At first glance it appeared chaotic, but I’d seen her quickly find anything she needed. Her own opinion was that art studios should always be a bit cluttered.
A cluster of tables in the shape of a U constituted much of Paige’s actual workspace; behind them in the corner was another table. Plastic bins filled with small pieces of colored glass lined the shelves along the back wall. Dozens of larger pieces of glass were stacked upright like books; on other shelves were boxes containing lamp stands she ordered from an artisan in Virginia, who crafted them from original Tiffany designs. Two lampshades, both nearly finished, sat on the main table; one of the other tables was where she cut the glass. Wooden boxes atop a third table housed a mix of glass-cutting tools, markers, copper tape, flux, and solder, along with anything else she might possibly need, everything within easy reach.
I led Morgan that way, watching as her gaze flitted from one spot to the next, trying to figure out the workflow. Surveying the main table, I knew that even someone unfamiliar with the artisanal craft could see the quality of the workmanship on display. I watched as Morgan leaned closer, examining the lampshades, studying the intricate detail.
“Like I told you, she’s incredibly talented.” I pointed out the plastic molds that the lampshades were being constructed around. “Before she makes the lamp, she has to cast the mold perfectly, so that once the lampshade starts coming together, it retains the precise shape she wants.” Moving toward the adjoining worktable, I tapped one of the pieces of cut glass. “Usually, you’re allowed a tiny bit of leeway when you solder the pieces together, but because she treats the lamps as art—and because people pay top dollar for them—she’ll cut and recut the glass until it’s absolutely perfect. She does the same when she wraps the edges with copper tape, and then again when she solders. Take a look.”
On the table lay dozens of pieces of cut glass, some already finished with copper tape, on a cardboard schematic that showed the design and pattern. Morgan lined up a few pieces of the glass as though putting together a puzzle and smiled when she realized that each piece of glass fit precisely.