Desert Jewels & Rising Stars

by Sharon Kendrick

  “And how do we do that?”

  “Be neighborly, of course.” He walked beside her. “Surely you visited with my grandmother from time to time.”

  “Almost every day,” she said. “She was delightful. And very encouraging about my work. Did you know you have one of my early pieces in your house?”

  “What and where?”

  “The shallow vase in the foyer. It’s a starburst bowl. Your grandmother liked it and I gave it to her. I was thrilled when she displayed it in such a prominent place.”

  “Maybe I’ll come by one day and see your work.”

  Ella wasn’t sure she wanted him in her studio or her house. But she probably had to concede that much. If he truly stopped pushing her to leave, she could accept a visit or two.

  “Let me know when,” she said.

  Khalid caught up on some e-mail the next morning and then called his brother. Rashid was the head of Bashiri Oil. Khalid was technically equal owner in the company, along with an uncle and some cousins, but Rashid ran the business. Which suited Khalid perfectly. He much preferred the oil fields to the offices in the high-rise building downtown.

  “What’s up?” Rashid asked when he heard his brother’s voice. “Are you still in Hari?”

  “No, I’m at Grandmother’s estate. Did you know she rented out the guesthouse last year?”

  “No. Who to?”

  “An artist. Now I’m wondering why the secrecy. I didn’t know, either.” Another reason to find out more about Ella Ponti.

  “Good grief, did he convince her to sponsor him or something? What hard-luck story did he spin?”

  “Not a he, a she. And I’m not sure about the story, which is the reason for the call. Can you have someone there run a background check? Apparently Ella has an airtight lease to the premises and has no intention of leaving before the lease expires—in four more years.”

  “A five-year lease? Have someone here look at it.”

  “Already done. It’s solid. And she’s one determined woman. I offered her as big a bribe as I could and she still says no.”

  “So, look for dirt to get her out that way.” Rashid suggested.

  “No, I think I’ll go along with it for a while. I just want to know more about her. I respect Grandmother’s judgment. She obviously liked the woman. But she also knew her and I don’t.”

  There was a silent moment before his brother spoke again. “Is she pretty?”

  “What does that have to do with a background check? She’s a widow.”

  “Oh. Sure, I’ll have one of the men call you later and you can give him what you have to start with. Bethanne and I are dining with Mother tonight…care to join us?”

  “I’ll take a rain check. I’m going through Grandmother’s things. I still can’t believe she’s gone. It’s as if she stepped out for a little while. Only, she’s never coming back.”

  “Planning to move there?”

  “I was thinking of selling the place, until I found I have an unbudgeable tenant.”

  “Then good for the widow. None of us wants you to sell.”

  “It’s not your place. You got the villa south of the city.”

  “Where I think Bethanne and I will live. You love the sea. Why not keep it?”

  “It’s a big house. You don’t need it—you have your own villa by the sea. Why let it sit idle for decades?”

  “Get married and fill it up,” his brother suggested.

  “Give Mother my love and have someone call me soon,” he said, sidestepping the suggestion. Rashid should know as well as he did that would never happen. But his brother had recently become engaged and now had changed his tune about staying single. He was not going to get a convert with Khalid.

  Ella’s words last night echoed. He shook his head. Easy to say the words in the dark. Harder to say when face-to-face with the scars.

  He hung up the phone and looked again at the vase sitting on his desk. He’d taken it last night from the foyer to the study. It was lovely. Almost a perfect oval, it flared at the edges. From the center radiating outward was a yellow design that did look like a sunburst. Toward the edges the yellow thinned to gossamer threads. How had she done it? It was sturdy and solid yet looked fragile and enchanted. He knew his grandmother had loved it.

  Seeing the vase gave validity to Ella’s assertion she was an artist. Was she truly producing other works of art like this? Maybe his grandmother had seen the potential and arranged to keep her protégée close by while she created. She’d been friendly and helpful to others, but was an astute woman. She must have seen real talent to encourage Ella so much. So why not tell the rest of the family?

  Khalid rose and headed next door. It was time he saw the artist in her studio, and assessed exactly what she was doing.

  He walked to the guest cottage in only seconds. Though it was close, because of the lush garden between it and the main house there was a feeling of distance. He saw a new addition, obviously the studio. How much had his grandmother done for this tenant?

  He stepped to the door, which stood wide-open. He could feel the heat roiling out from the space. He looked in. Ella was concentrating on her project and didn’t notice him. For a long moment Khalid watched her. She wore a large leather apron and what looked like leather gloves that reached up to her elbows. She had dark glasses on and straddled a long wooden bench. At one end a metal sheet was affixed upon which she turned molten glass at the end of a long tube. As he watched, the glass began to take shape as she turned it against the metal. A few feet beyond was a furnace, the door open, pouring out heat.

  Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. He studied her. Even attired as she was, she looked feminine and pretty. How had she become interested in this almost lost art? It took a lot of stamina to work in such an adverse environment. It had to be close to thirty-seven degrees in the room. Yet she looked as cool as if she were sitting in the salon of his grandmother’s house.

  Slowly , she rotated the tube. She blew again and the shape elongated. He was afraid to break her concentration lest it cause her to damage the glass globule.

  She looked up and frowned, then turned back to her work. “What do you want?” she asked, before blowing gently into the tube again.

  “To see where you worked.” He stepped inside. “It’s hot in here.”

  “Duh, I’m working with fire.”

  He looked at the glowing molten glass. She pushed it into the furnace. No wonder it was so hot; everything inside the furnace glowed orange.

  She pulled out the molten glass and worked on it some more.

  Khalid began to see the shape, a tall vase perhaps. The color was hard to determine as it was translucent and still glowed with heat.

  He walked closer, his scar tissue reacting to the heat. He crossed to the other side, so his undamaged cheek faced the heat. How did she stand it so close for hours on end?

  “Do you mind if I watch?”

  “Not much I can do about it, is there?” she asked with asperity.

  Khalid hid a smile. She was not giving an inch. Novel in his experience. Before he’d been burned, women had fawned over him. He and Rashid. He’d bet Ella wouldn’t have, no matter what.

  “Did my grandmother build this for you?”

  “Mmm,” she mumbled, her lips still around the tube.

  “State of the art?”

  “Mmm.”

  He looked around. Other equipment lined one wall, one looked like an oven. There were jars of crushed glass in various colors. On one table were several finished pieces. He walked over and looked at them. Picking up a vase, he noted the curving shape, almost hourglasslike. The color was pastel—when held up so the white wall served as a background, it looked pale green. When on the table, it grew darker in color contrasting with the wood.

  He wondered how much all this cost and would his grandmother ever have made any money as a return on her investment. She must have thought highly of Ella to have expended so much on an aspiring artist.
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  He looked at the other pieces. He wasn’t a connoisseur of art, but they were quite beautiful. It was obvious his grandmother had recognized her talent and had encouraged it.

  When he glanced back at Ella, she was using a metal spatula to shape the piece even further. He watched as she flattened the bottom and then began molding the top to break away from the tube. Setting the piece on the flat bottom, she ran the spatula over the top, gradually curving down the edge. He watched her study it from a couple of angles, then slide it onto a paddle and carefully carry it to the oven. She opened the top doors and slid it in, closing the doors quickly and setting a dial.

  Turning, she looked at him, taking off her dark glasses.

  “So?” she said. Her skin glowed with a sheen of perspiration.

  “Interesting. These are lovely,” he said, gesturing to the collection behind him. Trying to take his eyes off her. She looked even more beautiful with that color in her cheeks.

  “I hope so. That’s the intent. Build an inventory and hit the deck running. Do you know any art dealers?” she asked hopefully.

  Khalid shook his head. His family donated to the arts, but at the corporate level. He had no personal acquaintance with art dealers.

  She sighed and untied her apron, sliding it off and onto the bench. “Me, neither. That was another thing your grandmother was going to do—introduce me to several gallery owners in Europe. Guess I’ll have to forge ahead on my own.”

  “Too bad you can’t ride in on the al Harum name,” he murmured.

  Her eyes flared at that. Was he deliberately baiting her to see her reaction? He liked the fire in her eyes. It beat the hint of sadness he saw otherwise.

  “I was not planning to ride in on anyone’s name. I expect my work to stand on its own merits. Your grandmother was merely going to introduce me.”

  “Still, an introduction from her would have assured owners took a long look before saying yea or nay, and think long and hard about turning down a protégée of Alia al Harum. She spent a lot of money in some galleries on her visits to France and Italy.”

  “I don’t plan on showing in Italy,” she said hastily.

  Khalid’s suspicions shot up. She was from Italy—why not show in her home country? He’d given what information he had to a person at the oil company to research her background. Now he wanted more than ever to know what brought her to Quishari, and how she’d met his grandmother.

  “Do you think you can sell enough to earn a living?” he asked.

  “Your grandmother thought so. I believe her, so yes, I do. I don’t expect to become hugely wealthy, but I have simple needs, and love doing this creative work, so should be content if I ever start selling.”

  “Have you sent items out for consideration?”

  “No. I wanted to wait until I had inventory. If the pieces sell quickly, I want more in the pipeline and can only produce a few each month. I have a five-year plan.”

  He met her eyes. Sincerity shone in them. It seemed odd to have this pretty woman talk about five-year plans. But the longer he gazed at her, the more he wanted to help. Which was totally out of character for him. He broke the contact and gave a final glance around the studio. Heading for the door, he paused before leaving. “I say give it a test run, send out some of your best pieces and see if they’ll sell. No sense wasting five years if nothing is worth anything.”

  Ella stared out into the garden long after Khalid had left. He made it sound so simple. But it wasn’t. What if she didn’t sell? What if her pieces were mundane and mediocre? She could live on hope for the next few years—or have reality slap her in the face and crush her. She was still too vulnerable to venture forth to see if her work had merit. Madame al Harum had been so supportive. Now she ran into a critic. She had to toughen up if she wanted to compete in the competitive art world. Could she do it?

  She cleaned up, resisting the temptation to peer into the lower part of the annealer to check the progress of the piece she’d done yesterday. She hoped it would be spectacular. Maybe Khalid al Harum was right. She should not waste time creating glass pieces if they would never sell. The slight income from Alexander’s insurance would not carry her forever. If she couldn’t make a living with glass, she should find another means to earn her livelihood.

  Only, she didn’t want another means. She loved making glass.

  Once she finished cleaning the studio, she grabbed her notebook and went to sit on the terrace. The arbor overhead sheltered it from the hot sun. She enjoyed sitting outside when planning. It was so much more pleasant than the hot studio. She opened the pages and began to study the pictures she’d taken of the different pieces she had already made. She had more than one hundred. Some were quite good, others were attempts at a new technique that hadn’t panned out. Dare she select a few pieces to offer for sale?

  What if no one bought them?

  What if they skyrocketed her to fame?

  She did not want to rock the boat. She liked life the way it was. Or the way it had been before Khalid al Harum had arrived.

  Idly she wondered what it would take to get rid of him. The only thing she could think of was moving out so he could sell the estate. She wasn’t going to do that, so it looked as if she were stuck with him.

  He was so different from his grandmother. Distracting, for one thing. She’d known instantly when he appeared in the doorway, but had ignored him as long as she could. Of course he had the right to visit his property, but his grandmother had always arranged times to come see what she was working on. There was something almost primordial about the man. He obviously was healthy and virile. She was so not interested in another relationship, yet her body seemed totally aware of his whenever he was near. It was disconcerting to say the least.

  And distracting.

  Ella stayed away from the beach that night. She listened to music while cataloging the pieces she thought might do for a first showing. She only had a couple of photos of the first batch of vases and bowls she’d made when she moved here. She needed to take more pictures, maybe showcase them in one of the salons in the main house. It was an idea she and Madame al Harum had discussed.

  Good grief, she’d have to ask Khalid and she could imagine exactly what he’d say to her proposal. Or maybe she could sneak in when he wasn’t there. Surely there was an oil field somewhere in the world that needed consulting. If he’d take off for a few days, she was sure Jalilah would let her in to photograph the pieces sitting in prominent display in the main salon. It would add a certain cachet to her catalog and maybe garner more interest when she was ready to go.

  She went to bed that night full of ideas of how to best display the pieces she would put in her first catalog. The only question was if she dare ask Khalid for permission to use his salon for the photographs.

  By the time morning arrived, Ella regretted her decision to forego her walk. She had slept badly, tossing and turning and picturing various scenarios when asking Khalid for his help. Maybe she should have been a bit more conciliatory when discussing her lease. She planned to stand fast on staying, but she could have handled it better.

  Only she disliked subterfuge and manipulation; she refused to practice it in her own life.

  After a hasty breakfast, she again dressed up a bit and headed for the villa. Walking through the gardens, she tried to quell her nerves. The worst he could do was refuse. The guesthouse had a small sitting area, not as lavish as the main dwelling. She could use that, but she longed for the more elegant salon as backdrop for her art.

  Jalilah opened the door when she knocked.

  “I’d like to see Sheikh al Harum,” Ella said, hoping she looked far more composed than she felt.

  “He has someone visiting. Wait here.”

  Ella stood in the foyer. Her vase was gone. She peered into the salon; it wasn’t there, either. Had something happened to it? Or had Khalid removed it once he’d learned she made it? That made her feel bad.

  “Come.” The maid beckoned from the door to th
e study.

  When Ella entered, she stopped in surprise. Two men looked at her. Except for their clothing, and the scar on Khalid’s cheek, they were identical.

  “Twins?” she said.

  Khalid frowned. “Did you want something?”

  “Introduce us,” the other man said, crossing the room and offering his hand.

  “My brother,” Khalid said.

  “Well, that’s obvious.” Ella extended her hand and smiled. “I’m Ella Ponti.”

  “I am Rashid al Harum. You’re the tenant, I take it.”

  She nodded. “Unwanted to boot.”

  “Only because I want to sell,” Khalid grumbled. “Rashid is trying to talk me out of it, too.”

  “Good for you. I told him your grandmother wanted him to have the house. She could have left it to a charity or something if she hadn’t hoped he’d live here,” she said.

  “It’s a too big for one man,” Khalid said.

  “So—”

  He raised his hand. “We’ve been over that. What do you want?”

  Rashid glanced at his twin. “Am I in the way?”

  Ella shook her head, bemused to see her vase in the center of Khalid’s desk.

  “Not at all. I came to ask permission to photograph some of my work in the salon. Give it a proper showing—elegant and refined. The guest cottage just doesn’t have the same ambiance.”

  “You want to take pictures of my house?” Khalid asked. “Out of the question.”

  “Not the house, just some of my special pieces sitting on a table or something which would display them and give an idea of how they would look in another home. The background would be slightly blurred, the focus would be on my work.”

  “Use the table in your workroom.”

  “That’s elegant.”

  He frowned. “I don’t see—”

  “—any problem with it,” Rashid finished before his twin could finish. “I was admiring your vase when you arrived. Khalid explained how you made it. I’d like to see more of your work. I bet Bethanne would, as well.”

  “She’d do anything you say,” Khalid grumbled.