into dozens of draping branches, each one tipped with a tiny bauble of a glass bead in a variety of shades of green.
The full-sized version of the sculpture was nothing more than a skeleton of metal at the moment, and I didn’t trust myself to work on either the glass or metal after the repeated failures today. So colored pencils and paper it would have to be.
But I still couldn’t focus, so I just sat doodling and feeling less and less like an acclaimed artist and more and more like an imposter. What if it was me? What if I’d lost my touch? I’d had one amazing year of achievements when every creative idea I had was effortlessly produced in metal and glass. It had been as if the very elements themselves obeyed my whims.
The success had landed me a solo show at an exclusive Seattle gallery and a residency at their studio. That was where I now sat, within the vast, cavernous space of the Olympic Glass gallery’s resident artist studio. They’d spared no expense outfitting the warehouse-sized workshop behind the gallery with brand new furnaces, annealers, and gloryholes for my glass, with an entirely separate set of furnaces and benches and an anvil for my metalwork. Of course, my residency wasn’t without its expectations. I had one month left to complete the centerpiece for my show, which they’d scheduled for May first.
And I was apparently blocked. Or something. It wasn’t lack of ideas that was my problem. My materials had effectively rebelled. I smacked down the curling edge of my sketch pad and stared at it in dismay. Even my goddamn paper was misbehaving. Flipping the page, I began a fresh sketch, swiping the dark graphite around in a circle to describe the shape of one of the many glass globes that would hang from the branches of the metal tree. Only to have the tip of my pencil snap, leaving a dark blotch at the bottom of the arc.
“I give up!” I yelled up at the ceiling, standing and tossing my pencil down, ignoring when it rolled off the angled drafting table and cracked in half when it hit the floor. It was the first of April, so maybe the universe was playing some cosmic joke on me. After discovering a year ago that humanity was not alone on the planet, I supposed anything was possible, but I hadn’t worked up the courage to approach any of the so-called higher races who might shed light on whether there was a bigger plan.
Turning to head to the door and get a change of scenery, I stopped short with a small yelp of alarm. A tall, bearded man stood halfway in the door as if I’d just caught him coming in, and for some reason, everything suddenly made perfect sense.
“Ah, didn’t mean to scare you, hon.”
I sighed. “Hi, Dad.”
I loved my dad despite his wayward nature and questionable decisions. Today, I was grateful for the excuse to abandon my disaster of a workday and indulge in an extra pastry or two at the bakery down the street. On past visits, he would treat, but when we got to the register, he gave me a sheepish look and a shrug. I just shook my head and handed the cashier my credit card.
“You’re the big success now. Have I told you how proud I am of you, April?” He flashed a wide grin through his graying beard, patting me on the shoulder before picking up his bear claw and coffee and heading to a table.
“So, what’s the occasion?” I asked as I settled into the seat across from him. The prospect of a fresh banana muffin had improved my mood, but I was still wary.
Dad tugged off his knit hat and combed his fingers through unruly dark-blond curls. The scent of the road wafted off him, acrid but not unfamiliar. I guessed he hadn’t been in town all that long.
He cleared his throat, stalling by picking up his mug and taking a tentative sip of coffee, then pausing longer to add more sugar and creamer. “Can’t I just bask in the presence of my favorite woman in Seattle? Tell me about your show, honey.”
“If you tell me why you’re here, Dad. You never just pop in to visit without wanting something.”
Dad’s usual enthusiasm for food was nonexistent. He picked an almond sliver off his pastry, nibbling on it distractedly and glancing out the window. His eyes searched the street before slipping