“Hi, I’m Iolana.” I held out my hand, and he didn’t hesitate to grasp it, his grip firm but not overly long. Still, I tingled at the touch. Probably because I rarely came into physical contact with anyone.
The man smiled, showing perfectly white teeth. “Apollo Jameson. Nice to meet you.”
I almost giggled at his name. Who called their kid Apollo?
As Mr. Jameson released my hand, I studied him. Tall, almost as tall as my grandfather, who stood a whopping six foot five, but Mr. Jameson didn’t have a keg of excess around his middle. He appeared fit. Tanned and toned arms peeked from his short-sleeve button-up. No pudge hung over the waistband of his pants, but that didn’t mean he sported any abs. His hair, a lustrous mahogany, had a lot of gray speckling it. The slight creasing at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth put him likely in his forties. Handsome, if you could get past the rich, outsider thing. I wouldn’t, and not just because we belonged to two different classes. I would never date anyone who hired us.
“About time you showed up,” Tutu grumbled.
“I was delayed by traffic,” I stated, rather than point out Jameson had arrived early. “At least I didn’t miss the entire tour.” Tutu did that to showcase the expensive tools and the intricacy of what we did. Despite the work and detail that went into every piece, people still balked at our prices, though.
“Fascinating process,” Jameson stated in a deep timbre that brought a shiver. “I’m very interested in acquiring some unique pieces. Your grandfather mentioned you’re quite talented with creating patterns in the glass before it cools.”
“Yes. Depending on what you prefer, we make the obsidian more black, gray, red, or brown by adding minerals. If you want texture, bubbles are an option that will give it a frothy appearance.”
“I’ll have to see an examples to decide. You mentioned having a few pieces I can look at.” Jameson directed the last past at my grandfather.
Tutu nodded. “In the house. We don’t have them on display since it’s furniture we use.”
Rather than complain once more about my grandfather letting strangers traipse through our personal space, I smiled.
“While you show Mr. Jameson the samples, I’m going to begin sorting my beach finds.” I headed away from them and opened my satchel. I hefted out the big rock first, putting it aside before dumping the remaining bits of obsidian onto the counter.
As Tutu and Jameson passed by, the latter paused. “That’s a large piece compared to the others.”
“Found it on Kaimu Beach. Surprising, since black sand mostly spits up shards.”
“Will you use it for melting, or will this become one of your carved pieces?” Jameson asked.
My shoulders rolled. “Don’t know yet.”
“Melt,” Tutu declared. “A big piece like that would nicely cover a tabletop.”
“Guess we have our answer,” was my wry reply.
“Let’s go see those samples.” Tutu marched off, the client in his wake.
As the door shut behind them, I made a face. Guess I wouldn’t be chiseling a shape out of the rock. Pity. Something about it called to me.
Despite Tutu’s decree, I held off throwing the bigger hunk into the kiln, just in case the client decided he wanted it intact for something more interesting than a glossy surface. Just please don’t let him ask for a dildo. I’d never been more traumatized than by the lady who paid an exorbitant amount for one with a specific width and length. I swear my cheeks burned red the entire time I carefully shaved and polished the glass so it could be used without harm. Used in ways that our volcano goddess probably didn’t approve of.
I’d sorted my finds into piles by the time Tutu returned with Jameson, this time heading for the office, likely to hammer out details—and for some reason, I watched. Blame his snug trousers for framing his ass nicely. Look at me, obviously starved for companionship.
By the time they emerged, I was prying open a crate holding some furniture handcrafted by a local carpenter. We’d add some finishing obsidian touches and put them up for sale on our website. Tutu often hinted I should date Akamu, the guy who built the pieces we used. My less-than-subtle grandfather hinted it would be practical to bring the man into our family because then we’d get the furniture at a discount and be able to sell it for even more profit.
Funny how my grandfather married for love, but with me, he had a mercenary outlook when it came to who I should settle down with. The fact Akamu stood an inch shorter than me and had a belly almost as wide apparently shouldn’t matter. Had the man any kind of personality and didn’t bray like a donkey when he laughed, I could have looked past his appearance—or put him on a diet. However, I couldn’t stand to be in Akamu’s presence more than a few minutes before I wanted to gag him. My disinterest in the man didn’t stop Tutu from bugging. I swear, the next time he brought up me dating the carpenter, I’d bring home the most annoying surfer—the kind who dropped the word dude every other sentence—just to see the steam coming out of his ears.
The office door opened, and the men exited, murmuring before shaking hands.
“I’ll be in touch.” Jameson declared as he headed for the exit, only to pause before he passed me.
“Nice chair and table,” he remarked, running his hands on the smooth but not yet varnished surface.
“Akamu is talented, and the wood he uses is locally sourced.” See, I could play the selling game when required.
“Your grandfather already sold me on his work. I look forward to seeing the finished product.”
“What are you getting?” I asked to be polite.
