Welcome to
Tuesday's Tales
A place where books are born.
A place where books are born.
Rain slammed against the windscreen, making it
almost impossible to see the road, and pounded on the taxi’s roof.
Unfortunately it didn’t stop Jarrod eulogising about their hosts for the
evening.
And for the hundredth time Lacey wondered why had
she allowed him to induce her to accompany him to this tedious dinner? Even
if it was for a worthy cause. She didn’t
need to attend the high profile charity events to support her chosen charities,
such as this one. She swallowed a sigh and promised herself never to let Jarrod
persuade her into such an act of folly again.
“But you must,” he’d said in disbelief. “Everyone
who is someone will be there.”
What was she doing here at her brother’s place? It
had been ten years since they seen each other would he even recognise her? And
she’d changed. She’d toughened up, fought for her own survival and won through,
made a name for herself, and still managed to remain anonymous with all but a
favoured few.
“Did you know Phineas Spencer won an Oscar for his
performance in his latest film?” Awe tinged Jarrod’s voice now.
She knew, the same as she knew her sister,
Veronica, had followed their father into law and was working her way up the
family firm and looked set to become a partner in the not too distant future.
And her mother, Lady Meridith Dewar, still ran her fashion boutique with her
usual rod of iron. Her family were sought after in many circles, none of which
Lacey cared to become involved.
Lightning flashed, and thunder over-rode the sound
of the rain pounding the car. “It would be hard to miss,” she replied. “The
information is referred to on almost every news channel and the billboards...”
“We’re here.” Jarrod bounced in his seat, actually
bounced.
This was going to be some night if he couldn’t
contain himself, Lacey swallowed another sigh and wondered how soon she could
make her excuses and leave.
The receiving line was so long, and they appeared
to be the last arrivals, it took more than forty minutes to gain entry to the
ballroom and gave Lacey time to study her brother’s home. He’d married Sonia
Davenport five years ago, and according to media comments and snippets she
gathered from friends, it was a good marriage. Their boys, twins, were two, and
were the apples of their grandmother’s eye, apparently.
Marble floors glittered and sparkled beneath the
chandeliers in the huge hallway. Walls, probably once panelled in wood now
reflected light off cream surfaces. Antique tables and chairs were artfully
scattered along each side. One piece of hand blown glass, strategically lit, stood
in the huge, empty fireplace.
Almost everyone in the line ahead of them stopped
to stare. Some moved closer to get a better look. Some never bothered to lower
their voices as they stared at the thirty-five-inch high glass sculpture.
“Awesome.” “Elegant.” “Breathtaking.” “Is that
really gold in there?” “Magical.” She’d heard it all before, at the exhibition,
and still it took her breath away to hear others offer unbiased praise for her
work.
She knew exactly how high it was. Knew the exact
width and that the opaque glass was shot through with gold particles. Like
tentacles, the glass curved, twisted and flowed in breath-taking elegance. Energy
radiated from the sculpture. She’d given it everything she had that day as she
remembered what had sparked the creation.
It had snowed the night before and the cast of
winter sunlight on the snow-laden branches outside her studio window had
inspired her. She didn’t know how it would turn out when she started, but by
the time she placed it in the annealing oven Lacey knew it was one of the best
pieces she’d ever created, and wished, as she had dozens of times before, that
one day her family would see, recognise and appreciate her work.
