The man I previously thought was attractive now scowls at me. No sign of that dimple. “Sofie’s only five, Miss Dailey. How can a minor skirmish over a crayon cause you to write her up?” His dark eyes glare at me, pinning me in place. He’s acting like I’ve put a blemish on his daughter’s record that will stick with her until college.
“All my students are five, Mr. Sullivan.” My voice sounds a little too haughty, so I tone it down. “The reason for the write-up,” I nod towards the slip in his hand, “is to inform the parent and to have the parent help address the issue. A simple discussion about sharing and not shoving another student is all I’m asking you to do.”
If eyes could shoot daggers, Mr. Sullivan’s would be shooting them at me. “I’ll address this with Sofie,” he says in a clipped voice, forestalling any further discussion. He turns, and his face brightens again as he calls out to his daughter, “Sofie, come on, time to go home.” She carefully puts away the precious crayon bucket and rejoins her dad. He takes her tiny hand, and they walk away without a backward glance.
I berate myself, wondering if I could have handled that better—used a lighter, friendlier style with the attractive Mr. Sullivan. Sometimes my no-nonsense façade puts people off. I sure got off on the wrong foot with him, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Glancing around the room, I confirm that everything is in its place, then collect my overloaded book bag and leave. My quiet house isn’t so appealing anymore, and I’ve lost my appetite. I’ll stew about that interaction with Noah Sullivan for the rest of the night.
Chapter Three
Noah
SHOVING THAT DETESTABLE PINK SLIP into my pocket, I stomp to my car with Sofie in tow. A deranged laugh almost escapes at the irony of getting two pink slips in one day.
When it rains, it pours. That expression pretty much sums up my day. First, I’m fired, then my sweet Sofie is written up for an offense involving a crayon. She’s in kindergarten, for Pete’s sake! I fume when I remember Miss Dailey advising me on how to counsel my own daughter, her snotty voice strongly hinting that I didn’t have a clue about how to discipline my child. Maybe I’ll send Ellie in my place for the parent-teacher conference coming up next week. It would be fine by me if I never laid eyes on Miss Dailey again.
As I drive along the main thoroughfare, an idea hits me. Ellie is gone this evening, so what better time to take my daughter out to a father-daughter dinner at her favorite place? I smirk at what Miss Dailey would think about that—I’m sure she’d say I was rewarding Sofie for bad behavior.
“Want to eat at Mac and Don’s?” I use our code name for the local fast-food restaurant. My eyes glance at Sofie in my rearview window as she sits in her kiddie safety seat in the back.
She perks up, clapping her tiny hands. “Is it my birthday?” she asks in an excited tone.
A stab of guilt hits me. When was the last time I took Sofie out for dinner, just her and me? Sadly, it was on her birthday last year. “No, it’s not your birthday,” I reply with an embarrassed chuckle. “I just want to treat my little girl to dinner.”
“Yay! Can I have French fries?”
“Sure,” I say as we pull into the parking lot.
We’ve obviously beat the rush since it’s only 4:30 and there’s barely a handful of people in the restaurant. An elderly couple having coffee and each eating one of those fried apple pies. Two teenage boys snarfing down a stack of hamburgers. And a man in a business suit reading a newspaper, the trash from his meal still sitting on the tray beside his elbow.
“How about a kiddie meal?” I ask Sofie as we approach the teenage girl manning the cash register. She looks bored and keeps popping her gum like she wishes she were anywhere but here.
Sofie stops her bouncing beside me. “I want a meal with a hamburger. Do I get a toy?”
I address the order-taker, “What’s in your kiddie meal?”
She turns and looks at the sign above her head as if that holds the answer. “Um, a small hamburger and fries, I think,” she says without making eye contact.
Sensing that it’s going to be a long delay to get the answer to my question, I say, “We’ll have one kiddie meal, a double hamburger with cheese, large fries, and a Coke.” With how badly today went, I owe myself some greasy comfort food. At least I justify my questionable nutritional choices in my head.
The girl puts our order in the register. “Do you want a small soda or chocolate milk with the kiddie meal?”
“Chocolate milk, please,” Sofie practically shouts, drawing the attention of the older couple sitting in the booth in the far back. The lady exchanges a wink with me at Sofie’s exuberant outburst. I feel an immediate kinship with her for not scowling at my daughter’s loudness.
After paying, we stand off to the side, waiting for our food. Sofie retrieves far too many napkins from the dispenser, but I don’t say anything. I can always put them in the glove compartment in the car for use another day.
“Number 241!” the girl who took our order yells from her place behind the counter. Since there’s no one else waiting for food, I find it amusing that she couldn’t just hand me the tray. Mentally shrugging, I grab the tray and let Sofie pick a booth, where we settle in with our food.
Sofie swings her short legs (which don’t come close to touching the ground) and chatters the entire meal. Her animated discussion keeps my mind from drifting to my woes. She shows me the plastic toy, which luckily was included in the meal. I can’t tell what animal the lime green figure is supposed to be, but at least Sofie’s happy with it.
I learn about finger painting and how fun it is to put your fingers directly into the paint. My daughter extols Miss Dailey’s many good qualities, such as her ability to act out a storybook—doing a mean rendition of a donkey named Fred. Miss Dailey can peel an orange so the peel comes off in one long spiral, and she can keep some naughty boy named Oliver from throwing mud on everyone in the playground. According to my daughter, Miss Dailey is a saint with a heart of gold. Maybe my bad first impression of Miss Dailey was a bit rash.
Once we’re back in the car, my double hamburger and fries sit like a rock in my stomach. I generally don’t eat fast food, so my body is probably having a difficult time processing it. Or is it that I’m not as young as I used to be? I’ll hit up the Tums once I get home.
“Daddy, can I watch Frozen when we get home?”
A groan nearly escapes, but I manage to suppress it. This will be our hundredth viewing of the animated feature. I hate to admit it, but I can sing Let It Go with the best of them. “Sure, honey,” I say reluctantly.
As we walk inside my fancy, 4000-square-foot house, my financial worries hit me like a slap in the face. Viewing the movie is a brilliant idea. It’ll keep my mind off my current lack of employment, and I can forget about Miss Dailey’s reprimand and that onerous write-up slip in my pocket. I really should take Elsa’s advice. Let. It. Go. At least for tonight.
Chapter Four
Raelynn
I DIDN’T ANTICIPATE HOW LONG it would take to make friends in this small town. After leaving all my friends and family behind in Denver, I figured I could easily meet my new neighbors, my new colleagues, and even people at the grocery store. The thing is, everyone may know everyone in Paradise Springs, but an outsider isn’t readily accepted in their tight-knit clique. I’m known as “that lady from the big city.”
Mom always told me that the best place to meet people is at church, so I’ve been attending the FaithBridge Church on Third Street for a couple weeks now. I was drawn to the beautiful brick exterior, stained-glass windows, and the tall, majestic steeple. Plus, the sign out front said, “Everyone Welcome.”
The first Sunday, I decided to attend the nine o’clock service, which I thought might be a little more sparsely attended. Apparently, there’s reserved seating for that service because several people asked me to move because I was “in their seat.” Once I found a spot in the unreserved section in the back pew, everything went well.
Today when I arrive, I immediately take the same seat as I have every time since that awkward first time. No one asks me to move, so maybe I’ve found what can now always be my seat. The choir sings several uplifting songs. Pastor Tim talks about not judging others. I think back to my conversation with Noah Sullivan and recognize that I may have been judgmental in my little speech about how he should handle the situation with Sofie. Since he never appeared until months into the school year, I assumed he was an uninvolved parent, and that may have colored my view of him and how I handled the write-up slip. I vow to apologize to Mr. Sullivan next time I see him.
God, please help me to not judge others, as I would want them not to judge me.
As the service wraps up, Pastor Tim points to the huge stained-glass window adorning the rear wall in the church. “Our century-old window is in dire need of repair.” As he says the words, I notice some cracking and discoloration that aren’t noticeable unless you look closely. “We got a bid from a restoration company, but it would cost us $25,000 to have them do the work.” Gasps echo around the room at the exorbitant price. “I have faith that God will help us find a solution.” He grins, looking across the audience. “If anyone knows anyone with stained-glass experience, please talk to me after the service. We can use all the help we can get.”
I remain in the pew for a few minutes, stunned at the timely plea for help. Is this finally my chance to make new friends? God works in mysterious ways, because I’ve done stained glass for over ten years, even restoring a few smaller windows in older homes in my former neighborhood. My experience may not be enough to restore the enormous window by myself, but I’m willing to assist. My heart lifts, knowing that I can help this congregation and that this will give me an opportunity to meet some new people in the process. I eagerly approach Pastor Tim and volunteer.
~*~
The next Tuesday, Pastor Tim calls to say that he’s found another person willing to help with the stained-glass restoration project. He wants to meet with us this evening. I tell him that I can meet after work, so we agree on five o’clock.
When I pull into the church parking lot, there’s only two other cars. I walk into the church and spot Pastor Tim talking to another man. They’re both examining the massive window with their backs to me. As I walk towards them, I notice how the other man towers over the pastor by several inches. He’s tall and fit, his dark hair curling slightly at his collar. Since my footsteps are muffled by the carpeted walkway, they don’t hear me. I clear my throat once I’m standing a few feet away.
Both men turn, and my heart sinks like a rock. Noah Sullivan is the man standing next to Pastor Tim.
“Raelynn, so nice to see you again,” Pastor Tim says in his cheery voice. A bright smile lights up his face as if I’m a long-lost cousin. “Let me introduce you to Noah Sullivan. He’s also volunteered to help restore our stained-glass window.”
Noah and I stare awkwardly at each other for several beats. A pin could drop and be clearly heard in the dead silence hanging between us. I finally come to my senses, and good manners take over. I smile and say in an overly friendly voice, “Noah and I’ve met. His daughter is in my kindergarten class.”
Noah nods with a slight frown on his face, while Pastor Tim beams, looking at both of us like a proud father. “Even better!” the pastor says. “I’d love to stay, but the missus is expecting me home for dinner. I’ll leave you two to discuss the window. Just let me know how I can help, and give me a heads up when you need access to the sanctuary. Bye!” He strides down the aisle and is gone in the blink of an eye.
I turn back to Noah, regretting that I volunteered for this project and internally debating how to gracefully get out of this. The drawn expression on Noah’s face tells me he’s probably thinking the same thing.
“Here’s the ladder you requested.” Noah and I both jump as an older gentleman appears, hefting a long ladder up beside the window. I gulp at how high the ladder reaches. My fear of heights kicks in. Boy, I sure didn’t think this project through, did I?
“Thanks,” Noah says. The guy nods and returns to the front of the church and out of sight. After a long pause, Noah turns to me. “I thought we could identify all the areas that need work and then discuss how best to fix them. Although I have some experience with stained-glass restoration, we might need to get some advice from an expert.” Noah raises an eyebrow, “Unless you’re an expert?” His skeptical expression tells me that he doubts my expertise.
“Um, well, I’ve helped restore a few windows in the historical district in my old neighborhood. But this project is much more massive than any I’ve undertaken before.”
Noah shakes his head in agreement. “I repaired a few of the church windows near the entry last year,” he nods his chin towards the two beautiful windows near the front entrance. “My sister’s boss goes to this church, and she mentioned to Ellie that they needed volunteers. Ellie knew how much I used to enjoy working with stained-glass, and one thing led to another . . .” He trails off with an embarrassed shrug. “That’s why Pastor Tim asked for my help again with this project, but I’ve never tackled anything this large before either.”
Ah, so Mr. Sullivan wasn’t exactly a volunteer. I suspect that no one can turn down Pastor Tim when he asks for your help.
Now’s the time to address the elephant in the room and get it out of the way before we go any further. “Let me ask this first, do you even want to work with me?”
My bluntness takes him by surprise. His eyes widen and he blinks at me several times before he responds. “Why wouldn’t I want to work with you?”
I shift nervously back and forth on my feet. “Mr. Sullivan, I was rude and judgmental when we talked in my classroom. I apologize for that, but I’ll also understand if you don’t want to work with me.”
His lips twitch into the semblance of a small smile. “Let’s start over.” He extends his hand. “I’m Noah Sullivan. Please call me Noah.”
I blush like an adolescent girl at his flirty smile. Extending my hand to shake his, I feel a tingle zip up my arm. “I’m Raelynn, but all my friends call me Rae.” We smile pleasantly at each other for a few seconds.
Noah pulls out of our staring match and points to the ladder sitting beside the window. “Do you want to examine the window first or should I?”
“How about I take notes and you do the climbing?” I pull my laptop out of my purse and take a seat in the nearby pew, leaving no room for debate as to who’s climbing that ladder. No need to admit to my fear of heights.
With a shrug, Noah scales the tall ladder. I notice his toned muscles and how easy he makes it look to climb to that height. Gulp.
He pauses beside the first one of the cracked pieces. Pulling a tape measure out of his pocket, he measures the crack. “Six-inch crack in the yellow glass that makes up the top left corner of the manger.”
I pull out a pad of graph paper and make a quick drawing of the window, which is made up of a series of four sections, each section enclosed in a wooden frame. The very traditional scene depicts the baby Jesus in the manger, with Mary and Joseph flanking the child. Two shepherds and a sheep stand off to one side, while the three wise men stand off to the other.
I chuckle as I sketch, remembering an article I read about a church in Steamboat Springs that has a stained-glass window portraying Jesus on skis. Because this window was originally constructed 100 years ago, it probably didn’t occur to the designer to create anything too unconventional.
Since I’m using grid paper, I number the grids so we can reference each piece of glass easily. Noah watches me from his perch on the ladder. “That’s a great idea
, Rae. And you’re quite an artist.”
Looking up from my drawing, I smile. “I also have an art degree, but these days all I get to use it for is finger painting or paper-mache.”
He laughs. “Well then, let’s hope this project makes better use of that skill.”
Noah climbs higher, stopping to describe each flaw in the glass. He identifies cracks, discolored glass, as well as areas where the lead between sections has decayed. In places where the lead joints are very deteriorated, Noah taps lightly on the glass to see if moves or rattles. I note when a section rattles, indicating that the integrity of that part of the window is compromised by the deterioration.
Noah descends and moves the ladder over, then repeats the process in the next section and the next section. It’s a tedious process and takes about an hour, but eventually we identify all the areas that need repair. It’s quite overwhelming how much of the window needs restoration.
Noah takes a breather and sits beside me as I enter the last of the information. His dark eyes look at me intently, tracking my every movement. “The details on your drawing and how you’ve labeled everything is extraordinary.”
A warm blush heats my cheeks at his unexpected compliment. “I used this technique for the smaller windows I restored in my former neighborhood, and it was extremely helpful. I’ll scan in the picture and email it to you, along with the spreadsheet.”
As we turn to walk out, Noah says, “I also need to apologize for my behavior when we first met. I wasn’t having a particularly good day, and I took it out on you.”
I wave my hand. “Please, let’s forget all about that. We both made mistakes that day.”
He nods, accepting my suggestion. “Once we’ve digested the spreadsheet, do you want to meet so we can give Pastor Tim a proposal and timeline for the work?”
A Time for Faith Page 2
