The Glass House

by Nancy Lynn Jarvis

  Pat absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and, when she realized what she had done, chuckled out loud. Syda would be pleased to know that Pat was exhibiting behavior widely recognized as interest in and encouragement of the opposite sex.

  She turned to the final information request and dialed the number on its sticky note. A very different greeter answered.

  “You have reached the law office of Roger Drago and Associates. How may I direct your call?” a woman with a strong New Jersey accent asked.

  In her mind, Pat put the woman in a noir movie and saw the receptionist leaning back in her seat with the phone tucked under her chin while she inspected a fingernail that was losing its bright red polish at the tip. Pat knew Roger Drago was a one-man law firm and that his receptionist was his sister, but she played along.

  “Mr. Drago, please.”

  “Drago here.”

  “Hi, Roger, it’s Pat Pirard. I’ve finished researching that question you had for me.”

  “You’re a doll. Mind if I swing by a little before noon so we can yammer about it?”

  “That would be fine, Roger.”

  Pat smiled as she hung up. It seemed pretty clear to her that cake and attorneys singing was on her day’s schedule. With luck, her cake would be a lemon sponge with Meyer lemon curd filling and chocolate ganache frosting from The Buttery.

  Her day went by quickly and, as Pat predicted, ended with a parade of attorneys and their staff marching into the Law Library at 11:45 singing “Happy Birthday.” Mark Bellows motioned her out of her office into the much larger reception area while the song progressed, because there were too many well-wishers to fit in her office.

  Also, as she predicted, Dick Drinker carried a sheet cake frosted with chocolate ganache and prickled with thirty-five candles. He sat it on the reception counter and began lighting the candles. It took more than one match to get them all going, and for just a moment, that need made Pat feel like the first phase of her life, the one with youth and goals and the promise that anything was possible, was about to end. But the feeling passed and it wasn’t until Dick Drinker, president of the Library Board of Trustees, ushered her back into her office after everyone left that she discovered how right her hunch had been.

  “Thank you so much for the cake and organizing the happy birthday singing party. There were so many people; I’m overwhelmed. You were the one who did that, weren’t you?” Pat glowed with the honor she had just received and from eating a large piece of Buttery cake.

  “I was. Pat, we need to talk,” Dick started out simply enough.

  For someone she had just thanked for making her so happy, Pat thought Dick looked quite morose. She tilted her head just a bit and asked evenly, “What do we need to talk about, exactly?”

  “I think you should take a seat.” He motioned her to her chair and perched awkwardly on the edge of the county-issued metal table. He leaned toward her like a sage father about to have a heart-to-heart with his daughter.

  “You know how we all respect you and appreciate the work you do for us. You just saw how much we all love you, too, which makes this so much harder. The Law Library is funded from legal fees and donations from the legal community, and while I’m the president of the Library Board of Trustees, I have much less to say about how this place gets run than you might think.”

  Pat listened carefully. Dick wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know, and it was concerning that he seemed to need a preamble like he had just given for whatever it was he was about to say.

  “The thing is, court filing fees are down and there’s been a lot of pressure on the Law Library budget, and that’s not even counting the employee pension situation that’s barely begun to rear its ugly head. There have been calls to save money any way possible.”

  Pat spoke quickly to defend her beloved institution. “The Law Library is mandated. It can’t be cut.”

  “No, it can’t, but budgetary cuts are still required. The Board of Trustees decided the size of our Law Library doesn’t warrant a law librarian and an assistant law librarian.”

  Pat felt a momentary pity-pang for Jefferson until she realized where Dick’s speech was going.

  “Jefferson makes half of what you do, Pat, and while he won’t be as good as you are initially, maybe—probably—he’ll never be as good as you are—you’ve trained him well. He’ll suffice.”

  Pat understood how it must have felt to the French Revolutionaries who were deemed by the next wave to have been too lenient, and were shown to Madame la Guillotine for their sympathy.

  “You’re firing me?”

  “Not firing. Of course, not firing. Firing implies that you did something wrong. You’re being downsized.”

  “Semantics aside, I’m being let go?”

  “I’m afraid so. I did everything I could, but the Trustees’ vote was four to one. I did get you a good severance package: six weeks. And you have a week’s vacation remaining and sick days. I arranged that you could be sick for the next ten days and have your package start after that.”

  Pat swallowed repeatedly, trying not to be woozy. “You aren’t wrong about the sick days. Right now I feel quite ill.”

  Dick’s distress was genuine. “I’m so sorry, Pat.”

  Pat stiffened her back. “May I keep my key for a few days? I’ll get my things out by…” She had to stop speaking and compose herself. “I have to make arrangements for some help; I’ll get my things out by Wednesday.”

  “No, Pat. The least I can do is hire someone to get your desk and file cabinets moved. Shall I have them delivered to your house?”

  She nodded silently. Pat opened the desk drawer where she had put her briefcase and her purse. She detached her after-hours key from her key ring and handed it to Dick Drinker. “Don’t forget my painting. I’d take it now but it won’t fit in my car.”

  He walked her out. Pat startled one last time as the outside doors boomed and creaked open and closed, rendering her forever an outsider. She got into her car, closed the door, gave him a little wave, and waited until he had gone before she leaned her head against the steering wheel and sobbed.

  ※※※※※※※※※※※

  Saturday’s weather was as she hoped it would be in late May: sunny and not yet into the summer pattern that brought fog to Santa Cruz in June, July, and August. She had decided on a low-key themed backyard birthday party—which she had dubbed a Treinta y Cinco de Mayo party on her invitations—that began in the late afternoon.

  In keeping with her theme, guests would enjoy do-it-yourself tacos built using corn or flour tortillas. Tacos, with their varied fillings, were perfect foils for the gluten free, vegans, vegetarians, and carnivores among her friends. Pitchers of strawberry margaritas and Dos Equis beers were in the fridge chilling, and a multilayered, multicolored birthday cake was ready to be served.

  Pat had scored a piñata in Watsonville where they were always available if you went to the right Mexican supermercado, but so soon after Cinco de Mayo, she had many choices and picked a huge star with dangling point streamers. She had hired a small mariachi band to stop by around 5:30. They were to leave by 7:30 in consideration of her neighbors who might not appreciate such raucous music.

  Her planning skills were excellent so everything was under control and ready for her birthday party by midday. The only problem was Pat’s mood; it wasn’t as good as she expected, but then, she hadn’t expected to be fired the day before her big day.

  At 3:00 she was putting on fresh lipstick and checking her hair, trying to decide if the red hibiscus she stole from a table decoration would look better pinned above her right or left ear, and giving herself a pep talk via her Dalmatian who was sitting at attention watching her process. She spoke in the direction of her bathroom mirror, but her words and reflected gaze were directed toward her dog.

  “I have acting skills, you know. I minored in theater arts in college. I can smile all day long like I mean it. Besides, I probably won’t ha
ve to fake being cheery for long; I’ll probably forget all about yesterday once people start arriving. Don’t you think I’m right, Dot?”

  Dot seemed to smile back in concurrence—Dalmatians were noted for being some of the best smilers in the dog world—and Pat gained confidence from her pet’s agreement.

  She would have asked her cat’s opinion, too, but Wimsey had witnessed party prep, decided something that would interfere with his relaxed sunbathing was afoot, and abandoned Pat’s backyard for a sunny spot in the next-door neighbor’s yard where his cat buddy, Thomas, lived.

  Party prep was going perfectly until her office remains arrived at 3:15.

  “Where do you want this stuff?” mover number one asked when she answered his clamorous knock on her front door. “I figure you don’t want me leaving it on the sidewalk. Nice flower,” he nodded toward the hibiscus above her left ear.

  “Now? You’re bringing my furniture and Syda’s painting now?”

  “You’re very observant. Yes, it appears me and my helper are bringing your stuff now. Inside or outside?” he asked unsympathetically.

  “Inside. In the spare bedroom. I haven’t had a chance to organize it for the desk…”

  “Perfect. We’ll leave the desk just inside your spare bedroom door and you can play with your spatial arrangements at your leisure.”

  Mover number one turned his head away from Pat and yelled to his partner, “Yo, Jimmy, we got another big-desk-small-door situation here, so we gotta’ take out the drawers and turn it sideways.”

  Mover number two groaned and rolled his eyes as he started removing drawers.

  “Save the desk for last. Let’s bring in the classy rainbow filing cabinets and the big objet d’art first.”

  Pat tried to shut the spare bedroom door after the movers left, but the desk blocked the door enough that she couldn’t close it. She propped Syda’s Santa Cruz surfer painting in front of it and hoped anyone who noticed it would think it was all part of her party decorations and not ask her any questions about why her guest room was full to overflowing with office furniture.

  Her plan worked until Syda and Greg arrived and Syda caught a glimpse of her painting.

  “Hey, Birthday Girl, shouldn’t my painting be at the Law Library?”

  “Come have a margarita and ask me that question after the party’s over, okay?”

  Pat circulated and hosted and her guests had a good time, but she found herself acting the entire day. She was exhausted by the time the party ended. Greg was taking out the trash and Pat had run out of diversionary tactics by the time she and Syda were loading the dishwasher.

  “So, what’s the backstory with my painting?” Syda asked. “Are you tired of it? I know it’s not my best work, but I think it’s interesting. Why is it in your guest room? Spill.”

  “Because I’m thirty-five and unemployed.”

  “What do you mean, ‘unemployed’?”

  “Did you notice that my good friend, Dick Drinker, was conspicuously absent from the festivities today? I invited him and his wife, but I guess he couldn’t face me after firing me yesterday,” Pat said as she emptied the dregs of the pitcher of margaritas into a glass, downed it, and then tried to squeeze the now-empty container into the dishwasher.

  “He fired you?” Syda’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. “They love you at the Law Library. He can’t fire you.”

  “Dick Drinker used the politer term ‘downsized’ when he told me I was fired. I’ve got nine weeks to get myself a new source of income before I run out of money. Will you and Greg let me use your couch if I become homeless?”

  “Mi coucha es tu coucha,” Greg said as he returned from dump-run duty. “I missed the start. Why will you be couch surfing at our house?”

  “Pat’s been let go by the Law Library. Imagine!” Syda’s voice held outrage.

  “I hope you did something scandalous to get fired,” Greg laughed.

  “This is serious,” Syda oozed sympathy.

  “I got to be too expensive for them. The assistant law librarian has been elevated in title but not pay. I noticed Jefferson wasn’t here today, either. Cowards all,” Pat harrumphed.

  “I’m sure something will turn up,” Greg reassured. “You can apply in the Santa Cruz County Library system. They’ll have an opening, won’t they?”

  “I’m a law librarian. I do legal research. I work with law books and databases. I don’t know the first thing about bestsellers or children’s books, and I’m not sure I want to learn about them. I like solving puzzles and looking for esoteric answers.”

  “So what you’re saying is that you’re a snob librarian,” Greg teased.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him. What you need is to give yourself a few days off. You need a diversion, and I know just the thing. I’m starting a glass class on Tuesday. It’s taught by a world-renowned glass artist—a master peony designer—and even though the class is full, I’m sure I can call in a favor and get you into it. Leave everything to me,” Syda beamed. “You can’t turn me down. The class is my birthday present to you.”

  “Ahh, my wife is never happier than when she’s making plans for someone’s life, especially when that someone doesn’t need their life planned, but you know she’s going to hound you until you agree. And she’s right. Take a couple of days to clear your head before you start a job search. Nine weeks is a long time and, if need be, we have a very comfortable couch.”

  Like it or not, on Tuesday morning Pat found herself in Syda’s van on her way up Bonny Doon Road into the redwood forest.

  “This is going to be so much fun,” Syda gushed. “I’ve been looking for my medium and I think glass is going to be it. Who knows, maybe we’ll both excel at glass art, form a team and our own business, and become famous like Annieglass. She started out small and now she manufactures in Watsonville and ships worldwide. She employs a bunch of people; we could be CEOs, as well as artists.”

  Pat listened silently as Syda planned their future—there was no point in trying to interrupt her when she was rolling—and told her what her immediate future held.

  “The teacher is Garryn Monteith. He’s a creative genius. He has his own galley in New York, displays in museums, and sells to rich Arab families. We are so lucky, honored really, to have him here.”

  “Why is he here? If he’s so renowned, why does he want to teach a little class in Santa Cruz?”

  “That’s the best part about him. He likes to give back to the art community. He takes time out of his incredibly demanding schedule to come here a couple of times a year. He says he enjoys the one-on-one with students. And I’ve heard that he and Lillian Wentner, the woman who owns the glass studio where we’re going and who is pretty famous in her own right—she sells well in Carmel galleries—go way back. I think he does it as a favor for her. He splits his class fees with her so she makes some serious money hosting him.

  “He does lots of other things, too, but he’s famous for making these amazing wild peonies. Did you know wild peonies come in many colors, everything from lavender to white to yellow to pink? You get to pick the color you want to make. I’m going to use lavender glass. I love lavender, it’s so soothing and healing.”

  “Are you sure those qualities translate to glass? I thought it was the scent that was soothing.”

  “Well maybe, but I love the color, too. What color will you choose?”

  Pat shrugged. “Yellow?”

  “What’s the address for the Glass House?” Syda asked. “Oh, never mind. I see the welcome banner.” She turned her van into the driveway, through the prettily manicured surroundings, past the two-story farmhouse which was outlined with a huge bed of flowers, some real and some made out of glass propped up on various lengths of metal stems, to the back of the property where other cars were parked in front of a long wooden building with a high-pitched roof and an L-shaped extension.

  “We’re supposed to meet at the main house,” Syda said as she parked.

  Pat
trailed Syda to the house, where they found a door which was slightly ajar. Syda pushed it open and leaned her head forward to peer inside.

  “Don’t be shy, come on in,” a friendly masculine voice invited. “We have scones right out of the oven, and coffee.”

  Pat was greeted by a fabulous aroma. She recognized the scent of spices—cinnamon and a hint of cardamom—emanating from the linen-lined basket filled with perfectly browned scones, which were strong enough to compete with the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. The tall middle-aged man with a slightly receding hairline who had shouted out greetings stood behind the counter where the scones and coffee were.

  “Oooh,” Syda intoned as she rushed to take him up on his offer. Scone in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, she moved toward a group of women at the far side of the kitchen where a fireplace stood.

  Pat picked up a cup of coffee as she asked him, “Are you the creative genius my friend was telling me about on the ride here?”

  He produced a broad smile. “I did make the scones and coffee. Does that qualify me for that designation?”

  “The coffee does,” Pat replied after she took a sip.

  “I think your friend was talking about the guy in the knot of adoring females over there. He’s Garryn Monteith, visiting sensation.”

  “I’m Pat, not one of his acolytes.” She switched her coffee to her left hand and held out her freed right hand for a handshake.

  “I’m just Joe, Joe Wentner, chief cook and bottle washer at this event. I’m Lillian Wentner’s husband. I have no artistic talent, so I’ll be in charge of lunch.”

  “You bake and make the best coffee I’ve ever had. That’s having artistic talent, as far as I’m concerned. I hope your wife appreciates what you do.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead he raised his eyebrows, tilted his head, and raised his shoulders slightly in a gesture that said he wondered.

  The gaggle of women on the far side of the kitchen collectively took a step back to reveal a man at its center. He was of slightly less-than-average height, although he tried to appear taller by wearing a gelled, carefully coiffed, spiked hairdo. His looks were ordinary except for his smile, which showed a row of very even, glowingly white upper teeth as well as part of his lower teeth. It was a practiced smile, Pat thought, but one that had been practiced for so long that it had become internalized and no longer looked forced. His hand movement as he bade them follow him was slightly theatrical, as was his language and its delivery.