A Woman Without Lies

1
Angelina Lange stood quietly amid the rainbow blaze of her stained glass creations. She was barely aware of the people milling slowly around in the art gallery, murmuring about the beautiful art she had made from pieces of sharp-edged glass.

Some panels of glass gleamed in shades of green and blue, forest and ocean and sky, mountain ridges falling away into the distance. Other panels radiated the iridescent beauty of Tiffany glass touched by shafts of gold, evoking British Columbia's cloud-swept summers.

A handful of panels were impressionistic swirls of color and movement, a sensual richness that was as compelling as a lover's whispered invitation.

The stained glass works came in all sizes and shapes. Most were set in wooden frames and hung against the gallery's huge wall of ocean-facing windows. A few panels were suspended from the high ceiling.

Light from both natural and artificial sources struck rich colors from the pieces of glass, making the room quiver with shadows of every hue.

A summer cloud came and went, concealing and then revealing the sun. Murmurs of pleasure rose from the people inside the room as Vancouver's clear sunlight poured through the gallery's wall of windows. The stained glass art glittered with brilliant colors.

Unconsciously, Angel tipped her face toward the cataract of light, letting it wash over her. Her pale, curling hair glowed molten gold, a color as pure and beautiful as any she had used in her stained glass. For a moment she simply stood, filling herself with light, keeping shadows at bay.

"Angelina "

Angel opened her haunted, sea-colored eyes and turned toward the diffident voice.

Bill Northrup, the gallery owner, stood nearby, quietly waiting for her attention. At one point in their relationship, he had wanted considerably more than her attention. Now he settled for what she would give him--her friendship and her art.

Angel smiled at Bill, but her eyes were still haunted by the sadness that was as much a part of her as her long legs and slender body.

"I always feel that I should sign my pieces 'Angelina and Sun,' " Angel said, "because without that incredible light, my stained glass is nothing."

Bill shook his head unhappily.

"You're too modest," he said. "Look around. You're selling very well, especially for a first show."

Angel looked, but she had eyes only for the art itself. Brilliant shards of light and shadow, a shifting play of colors, the feeling of being in the center of a fantastic, slowly turning jewel.

She was pleased that she was selling her creations, because that was how she earned her living. Money as such didn't give her any particular joy, however. Colors did. That, and knowing that other people enjoyed her rainbow visions.