Chapter 1 #2
“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.
“Coffee table, matching side ones, and possibly a vase. Just debating on if I want to mix in some copper or manganese.”
“You can’t go wrong with either. Both will give it a pop of reddish brown, and, depending on other minerals present in the obsidian, we could end up with other hues.
I take it you understand we can't always promise a perfectly even black surface?” Extracting elements from the melted glass proved more work than it was worth.
Personally, I liked my obsidian to have swirls of color.
“That’s part of what will make them unique. I’ll be browsing your gallery of past work to see what I prefer.”
“Can’t wait to get started,” I stated with the fake brightness clients expected—but I didn’t feel. As if I cared what he liked. I should also add, I hated doing small talk.
“I’ll let you get back to what you’re doing. Have a good day.”
I rolled my eyes as Jameson left. I swear, when I had to fully take over, I’d hire someone to deal with the client aspect.
A beaming Tutu approached; it could only mean one thing.
“How much did you overcharge?” The richer the patron, the higher the bill.
“Enough to get the water cistern replaced.” Tutu rubbed his hands. “We’re going to need more obsidian than what you collected today, though. I’m going to put a call in to Kai and see if he’s in the mood to scavenge. In the meantime, get the kiln going and melt down what you grabbed today.”
“All of it? I thought the big piece might make an interesting sculpture.” I attempted to save it and failed.
“Throw it in, too. Sculptures take you too long, and they’re harder to sell.”
I bit my tongue rather than point out his hefty price tags caused the delay. In Tutu’s defense, while the sale might not happen quick, my grandfather did get what he wanted eventually. “You sure you want me melting it already? Akamu won’t have the furniture ready that quick.”
“Actually, he’s sitting on the perfect pieces. He had a client die after having already paid the commission. It’s been six months and it doesn’t look like any of the heirs are coming to collect.”
Meaning Tutu got the pieces at a discount and Akamu ended up increasing his profit.
“I’ll get the kiln going and toss in the pieces.
Should be ready to start pouring sometime tomorrow.
” Obsidian could be finicky in how quickly it melted.
Sometimes it happened quick; other times, it could take a day or more.
It depended on the type of volcanic glass and size of the pieces.
Not to mention, specific special additives, a secret family recipe that was the key to our being able to melt, pour, and shape the natural rock.
“I’m going to grab us some loco moco and manapua from Mahi’s Bar to celebrate.”
While Tutu waddled off to fetch us his favorite dinner—mine too, actually, I did love manapua—I fired up the kiln and tossed in the obsidian chips I’d collected.
I did find myself hesitating before throwing in the big football-sized rock, though.
I could have totally made it into something unique, but Tutu was the boss, and I didn’t want to fight.
Besides, there’d be other nice pieces to carve.
New caches of obsidian were constantly being uncovered.
Maybe I’d hit Kaimu Beach again sooner than later to see if I could find more.
While the kiln did its thing, the chimney, which didn’t extend fully through the ceiling because Tutu was too cheap to extend it, began heating up.
The hangar would be stupidly hot by tomorrow, but I’d long ago gotten used to the elevated temperatures.
I washed up, and by the time I finished, Tutu returned with our dinner.
We enjoyed our meal in front of the television, watching a nature documentary. At ten, off to bed I went.
In the morning, after a quick breakfast of fruit and coffee, I headed into the hangar to check on the melting progress.
The quartz viewing glass in the kiln let me see that while the little bits had turned to liquid, the big hunk remained mostly intact.
Not surprising. Larger pieces always took longer.
I should have broken it up to make it melt faster, but I’d hoped to get away with skipping it.
I left the kiln running, but before I could tackle anything else, the furniture arrived, delivered by Akamu himself. One hundred percent Tutu’s doing, and he used the opportunity to try and sell me on the carpenter.
“Not many men who can run a successful business,” grandfather murmured as Akamu strained to lift the first table from his truck.
“I agree. It’s surprising given all the varnish he sniffed over the years.”
Tutu’s lips pressed into a thin line. “A woman should have a strong man to care for her.”
“I’d add she probably should choose one who doesn’t look like he’ll drop dead of a heart attack,” I murmured as a huffing and sweating Akamu dropped his load and treaded back outside to get the next piece.
“You aren’t getting any younger.”
“Agreed. Maybe if you didn’t work me so hard I’d have time to date,” was my tart retort.
“All the more reason to find a man in the same industry. You can spend time together at work.”
Kill me now.
“I’m going to get started on Jameson’s stuff,” I muttered, stalking off.
Since I had enough liquid obsidian for one of the tops for the side tables, I turned on the torch that would keep the glass liquid and released the drain cover, allowing the molten glass to empty out.
The bubbling fluid spread across the metal surface I’d prepared—one with the same dimensions as the table—and I had to quickly spread and smooth before it cooled too much.
Then I rolled the cart holding it into our large cooling kiln that received heat from the furnace and allowed our bigger pieces to cool slowly so as to avoid thermal shock.
As I cleaned up, I checked periodically on the big rock in the kiln, which appeared to have melted off its outer layer, leaving behind a smooth black sphere that kind of reminded me of an egg. Unusual.
We had some fresh-caught fish for dinner, pan fried in butter with seared pineapple and rice. After, I spent the evening reading in the lanai as Tutu attended his weekly poker night with his boys—a bunch of grumpy old men who spent most of the game talking about the good ‘ol days.
The next morning, I entered the workshop and headed for the kiln. Surely by now the hunk had melted.
I peeked in and frowned. The large lump of obsidian had finally melted, but it turned out to not be pure. Whatever element it contained left behind gray, white, and orange swirls.
The liquid glass could still be used, just not with the new client’s tables.
He’d chosen to not add any elements and requested only some frothing in a spiraling design.
A bit more work, but I’d wager Tutu increased the price, which would explain his smile when he told me.
What would irritate my grandfather? The delay in completing the project until a batch of obsidian arrived.
Couldn’t be helped, given the colorful mess in the kiln—which wouldn’t go to waste.
Luckily, I had a few molds, my go-to when I had a contaminated batch of liquid glass. I chose a bowl popular with tourists that would likely sell quick.
When the glass had cooled enough for me to move it off the mold, I attached a metal punty and gently removed it, then placed it carefully into the cooling portion of the furnace.
Not as hot as the area with the crucible, but hot enough it would allow the obsidian to come to room temperature without developing stress fractures from uneven cooling.
As I shut the kiln, a noise overhead had me craning.
Despite the shadows, I caught a glimpse of something moving along one of the ceiling cross beams that we used to hang fans and lights from.
Don’t tell me another mongoose had gotten inside.
Pesky buggers had been introduced to Hawaii to control the rats, only they ended up multiplying due to a lack of true predators.
While harmless, I didn’t need one dropping poop or walking across a drying surface.
“I’d suggest you vacate,” I muttered as I left to fetch a trap.