Tiffany Girl Read Online Free

ladle on additional colors. They drag a rake-like tool through it with big, haphazard movements.” He pantomimed the motion, using his entire body to comb the imaginary liquid fire. “The color begins to swirl throughout the glass. Sometimes it streaks, sometimes it pools, sometimes it twists, sometimes it spirals.” His eyes brightened, his face shone. “But no two pieces ever come out the same.”
    The words were lost in his animation and love for the process. He spoke passionately of using paddles along the edges of cooling glass to make it buckle so that it looked like folds in drapery, or jostling tables to make the glass ripple, and sometimes blowing a thin glass bubble, then shattering it and strewing it over the hot glass.
    Oh, to be a man and have the privilege of working a furnace burning at two thousand degrees, to have the freedom of movement their trousers allowed them, the power their muscles afforded them.
    They stood facing each other, his breaths deep, her painting forgotten, her brush loose in her hand.
    “I opened my own glassworks and furnaces this year in Corona, Queens,” he said, his voice soft, his lisp pronounced.
    “Did you?”
    “Yes.” He gave her a lovely smile, a smile that would make any woman catch her breath, even if he was twice her age. “We’re no longer restricted, as we were when we used other glassworks.” He shook his head, his curly hair loosened and tumbled from his earlier theatrics. “We try all kinds of experiments in Corona to see what accidental effects we might have, and I must tell you, Miss Jayne, we have produced every imaginable color in every shade, tone, and hue known to man.”
    “But what if you want to reproduce a particular color and style?”
    “We can’t. That’s the whole beauty of it.” A twinkle appeared in his eye. “My superintendent told me just yesterday that there areonly two things more uncertain than the manufacture of colored glass—the mood of a woman and the heels of a mule.”
    She laughed.
    Mrs. Driscoll joined them.
    “I’ve found a friend, Mrs. Driscoll. This is Miss Florence Jayne.” He turned to Flossie. “This is the head of my Women’s Department.”
    “How do you do?” Flossie asked.
    “Nice to make your acquaintance.” The woman turned to Mr. Tiffany. “I’ve decided upon five girls who I think will do quite nicely and who have agreed to join us.”
    “Excellent,” he said. “What if we make it six?” He turned to Flossie. “Would you like to come and work for Mrs. Driscoll in our Women’s Department, Miss Jayne? I must warn you, it would require staying within the lines.”
    Her pulse jumped. Her hand flew to her chest. “Oh. Oh, my. Why, yes. I would love to. I . . . I . . .”
    Nodding his head, he looked around the room. “Mrs. Driscoll will give you all the details, but if you ladies will excuse me, I’m going to speak with Mr. Cox for a moment.”
    “Yes, of course. Thank you.”
    But he’d already walked away, his footfalls sounding briskly on the wooden floor.
    She set her brush down on the palette, then turned to Mrs. Driscoll. “Did—did that just happen?”
    The woman’s face softened. “I believe it did.”
    She was older than Flossie and a good deal younger than Mother. Perhaps thirty? Thirty-two? No more than thirty-five, certainly. She’d fashioned her brown hair into a sensible twist, her brown eyes missing nothing. “We’ll be entirely focused on completing the windows for Mr. Tiffany’s World’s Fair exhibit. There will be little time for training—more of a baptism by fire, I’m afraid.”
    “Iunderstand. How long do you think it will take to do the windows?”
    “Every bit of time between now and May first, when the fair starts. You’ll be expected to put in a full day’s work Monday through Saturday and will be compensated with five dollars a week. Will that suit?”
    Five dollars a week. All of it hers. “Yes, that will suit very nicely. When do I