by Traci DePree
Kate liked this girl. The twinkle in her eyes showed good humor, and while Kate couldn’t see her smile with the mask covering her mouth, she could see the laugh lines at the corners of her eyes that turned up in sincerity. Kate felt a motherly protectiveness for her almost instantly.
“So, how long does that course of treatment last?” Kate prompted.
“I just finished four weeks, so I guess it depends on my next test results. It could go on for quite a while. If they could find a bone-marrow donor, I could be done soon...”
Kate glanced at Patricia, who’d gone silent. She set the tray of coffee and the accoutrements on the table between Kate and Marissa.
“Sweet or unsweet?” she asked Kate, pointing to the coffee.
“Sweet,” Kate said. “But I can fix my own. You don’t have to.”
Patricia handed Kate a steaming cup, then added sugar and cream to another, stirred it, and handed it to her daughter.
“Thanks,” Marissa said before going on.
Kate readied her own cup while the girl continued.
“There’s no telling how long it will take to find a match, though. People don’t know how easy it is to be tested—just a swab from the inside of the cheek. But even if there was a match right in Copper Mill, I might never find them if they aren’t tested. Of course, family is my best bet for finding a match anyway. Mom was tested, but she isn’t a match. Parents rarely are, since they represent only half the gene pool.”
“Do you have any siblings?” Kate asked.
Marissa glanced at her mother, and Kate sensed nervousness in the look. “No,” she said.
Patricia was staring hard at her cup. The way she seemed to be avoiding eye contact, even with Marissa, gave Kate pause. Then sadness flickered in Patricia’s eyes, and something else Kate couldn’t put her finger on. But whatever it was, it disappeared behind that resolute shield almost as quickly as it had appeared. Kate wondered what the woman was hiding. Then she shook off the thought. The last thing this woman needed was Kate criticizing her.
Each of us has our own way of coping, Kate scolded herself. And why shouldn’t she, especially after losing her husband a few short months ago and facing a hardship like this alone.
“I could talk to people at the church about being tested,” Kate offered. “You never know. Someone could—”
Patricia rose suddenly and cleared her throat. “Marissa really needs her rest,” she began, her tone markedly sharp, impatient.
“Mom, I’m fine,” Marissa protested.
Patricia let out a breath. “No, I think you need to go, Mrs. Hanlon.” Her eyes met Kate’s. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you?”
“Mom!” Marissa protested.
“Your mom’s right,” Kate said. “I need to go.” She stood and picked up her purse.
Patricia lifted the tray and returned to the kitchen, the sound of clattering dishes spreading across the rooms.
“Will you come back to visit?” Marissa asked. “Mom gets so discouraged. She seemed to be enjoying your company before I came in.” Her voice was low as if she was trying to keep her mother from hearing.
Kate smiled as she looked into the girl’s eyes. “I’ll come back,” she said. “I promise.”
Then Patricia led Kate to the front door. Her thin shoulders were stiff, and Kate noticed that she was shaking. Patricia stood facing the closed door while Kate waited behind her, then a moment later, she broke down in sobs and turned to face Kate, her blue eyes made bluer with the tears.
Kate lightly touched her arm. “I know this is hard,” Kate said. “I just want to help. You have to believe that. If there’s any way I can...” Her words trailed off, then she said, “I didn’t mean anything by offering to look for donors.”
Patricia nodded, letting out a shuddering breath. “You are the first person to darken my door,” she squeaked. “I’ve been doing this all alone for so long, without Ray...I can’t lose her too.” Her gaze flittered toward the other room, then back to Kate. “And it’s all my fault. I could stop it, if I chose, but I’m so selfish—” Her words stopped short, and her eyes darted from Kate’s gaze.
“What do you mean you could stop it?” Kate asked.
“Nothing,” the woman said quickly. “Forget I said anything.”
“I don’t understand.” Kate knew she was pushing, but she couldn’t help herself. What guilt could Patricia possibly be carrying that would lead her to think that she was the cause of her daughter’s leukemia? “You can’t blame yourself.”
“I said forget it.” Patricia’s tone was firm, so Kate decided to let it go.
“I don’t mean to pry. I’m sorry.” Kate met her eyes. “I want to understand and to help you and Marissa. That’s all. No strings attached.”
When Patricia finally raised her eyes, Kate could see the agony that seemed poised to drown her.
KATE CLIMBED into her Honda Accord and turned the key, her thoughts still with Marissa and Patricia as she began the short drive home. The dusting of snow that had been falling earlier had turned into a full-fledged snowfall that gave the quaint town a Currier and Ives look. Kate turned on her wipers to push the fat flakes off the windshield.
She didn’t hold Patricia’s curt attitude against her. Instead, she thought once more about what it would be like to lose Paul so tragically and then to be alone as her only child faced leukemia. She couldn’t even fathom it. She sent up a quick prayer for Patricia as she turned onto Smoky Mountain Road and made her way home.
A tangle of questions nagged at her mind. Why had Patricia said she could end her daughter’s suffering? And if she could, why hadn’t she already done it? And why had she been so resistant at the mention of testing others to see if they were a match for Marissa? Wouldn’t most mothers want that? Any chance to save her daughter’s life? It was obvious from the tender way she cared for Marissa that she loved her—so what was it?
Kate pictured the stiff way Patricia had moved about the kitchen after her daughter had come into the room, the sideways glances when Marissa had talked about her leukemia and treatments, and the way she had abruptly ended the visit when her daughter so obviously wanted to talk. Something else was there. Kate could feel it. An undercurrent, but of what? Fear? Certainly that was understandable. And a protectiveness of her only daughter—that too seemed completely reasonable. But why the guilt?
No doubt she was just imagining things.
Chapter Three
Energized by the idea of creating a stained-glass studio, Kate rose early the next day and spent some time read-ing her Bible and praying, then she began preparations for converting the third bedroom into a studio. Ever since Paul had mentioned turning the spare bedroom into a stained-glass studio, the idea had grown within her. She’d had a small workspace in San Antonio, but with a full-time job and all her responsibilities at the church, she’d never had the time to really enjoy her hobby the way she’d wanted.
For years she’d kept files of project ideas—sketches of windows, sun catchers, and lampshades she wanted to create someday. Now, she realized, she could really invest in the hobby, turn it into something more substantial. Who knew what could come of it?
The previous evening, she’d jotted down a list of supplies she’d need and ideas for the surprise project for the church. She’d also sketched out some design ideas that had been floating around in the recesses of her mind.
The coffeemaker beeped from the kitchen as she pulled a thick folder of project ideas from a small file box in her bedroom closet.
She padded back down the hallway and across the large living room to the cute but tired-looking kitchen. She lifted the coffeepot off its warming plate, then pulled out a delicate china cup and saucer from the cupboard. Lifting the blue stylized pot, she poured the hot brew, releasing its aromatic scent. Then she settled down at the kitchen table, opened the folder, and peered through its contents.
She’d been collecting design ideas ever since she’d taken her first class in stained-glass art. She’d had
many art classes in high school and college, and she’d always been good at drawing, but there was something about stained glass that held a particular attraction for her. It allowed her to use her love of drawing, but it took that ability one step further, turning the one-dimensional concepts into a living, breathing creation. The interplay of shadow and light meant that her creations were ever changing, fresh, with a life of their own. That, to Kate, was the best part of being a stained-glass artist, watching her pieces grow into something more than even she had imagined. Letting the light have its way. She supposed God was that way too, as his light took over and transformed a person into someone they never could have ever been on their own.
She’d made a small sun catcher during that first art class and then moved up to larger and larger pieces until she began making more intricate Tiffany-style lamps, complete with the requisite dragonflies and butterflies. Her house was filled with them, as were the homes of her children and friends. Everyone she gave them to said she was an exceptional artist. Whether or not she was the most talented artist, she couldn’t say, but she felt happiest when she was creating, and that was motivation enough to keep at it.
She paged through a stained-glass supply catalog and wrote down a list of the items she needed: additional glass cutters, glass in a variety of colors, caulk, foil, jewels, lead came, soldering supplies, some zinc framing materials, and a new grinder. She did have several boxes of sheet glass in the basement storage room, but she knew she’d need a bigger variety. She added “large table for layout” to her list, and a light table she could use to see how the light would play through any given piece. And she would definitely need more storage for her soldering supplies, tools, and any special trims the pieces might need. It seemed there were always a multitude of small pieces she needed, and she liked to hang on to scrap glass for mosaic-type works. That, of course, would mean bins for sorting scraps by color.
Next she took a sheet of clean paper and drew the layout of the extra bedroom. It was a basic square with one end occupied by a closet with bifold doors. If she bought an organizing system for the closet, it would allow her to maximize the room itself as a workspace. She positioned the light table in front of the room’s only window, which looked out on the backyard. She liked feeling connected to the outside world while she worked, even if she was alone in her studio. Then she drew a square to indicate the large divided storage unit for the glass sheets that she’d brought with her from San Antonio and a smaller square representing a file cabinet for any paperwork that might need filing.
She liked to keep track of her costs so she could feel good about how much she’d saved whenever she saw similar lampshades or windows in stores. And who knew, if she did decide to sell a few pieces, it was always good to know where her price points were. After all, it paid to be optimistic about one’s ventures, she told herself.
The worktable would take up the majority of the space behind her. She needed something durable, with a top that wasn’t fussy, since cutting glass and soldering seams didn’t lend themselves to keeping the furniture pristine. She wondered where she could find such a table and decided to give Sam Gorman’s Mercantile a look-see. If he didn’t carry anything along those lines, she could always see what was available in Chattanooga or search online. She was amazed at what she could find if she simply let Google do the work for her.
She glanced at the clock and realized it was seven. Paul must have already left for his morning run. She’d been so engrossed in her plans, she hadn’t even heard him go.
Making her way to the spare bedroom, she stood in the doorway and pictured how it would look without the boxes and clutter that currently occupied the space. The room had become a sort of catchall while she decorated and remodeled the rest of the house. If she didn’t know what to do with something, she’d put it in here.
Having to downsize was part of the price of moving into a smaller space. Yet, to her surprise, she discovered she enjoyed the process of clearing out the clutter. It felt cleansing, more than simply a reduction of possessions but an inner release as well. As if getting rid of the physical encumbrances that surrounded her freed her mind and spirit.
Things she’d held on to for years, she was now able to let go of. In their place was the satisfaction of simplicity. Who’d have thought it of her? She used to love going shopping, hitting the antique stores, looking for those perfect trinkets to fill her life with.
Perhaps people could change. She smiled at the thought. Already, Copper Mill was changing her.
Entering the room, she began sorting through the piles. Soon she had four large garbage bags filled with items to put on the curb with Monday’s trash and another three boxes of usable items to take to Goodwill on her next trip to Pine Ridge. She took the boxes out to her Honda and placed them in the trunk, then came back in and hung her coat back in the front hall closet.
She returned to the room that was already taking on a semblance of order. The remaining miscellaneous items she placed in two boxes to be distributed in their rightful spots around the house. All that remained was a pile of boxes containing the stained-glass supplies she already owned. She went down to the basement and brought up the colored glass, still in its shipping box with her San Antonio address on the label.
As she stood assessing her next task, her mind drifted to her visit with the Harrises the day before. She sent up a prayer for Patricia and her daughter, that they would find comfort and healing during this hard time, that God would draw them close. God had a way of doing that in difficulties, drawing people to himself, giving them the tools of faith and perseverance just when they needed them, and not a moment before. She wondered how God would get ahold of Patricia. The woman certainly had a hard shell when it came to matters of faith. Surely, losing her husband was a devastating blow, and now Marissa’s ill health...Kate shook her head. What must it be like to face such hardships without hope?
Whenever God had allowed Kate to suffer, she had leaned more heavily on his comfort during that time. She couldn’t imagine life without that assurance. How bleak the future must have looked to Patricia, especially since she seemed to be blaming herself for Marissa’s condition. What had she meant when she said she could stop her daughter’s suffering if she chose to? That comment continued to nag at Kate. Her heart ached at the thought.
She remembered her promise to Marissa that she would return. She wondered if Patricia would slam the door in her face this time. She sighed, allowing her prayers for mother and daughter to float upward. She’d just have to pray that Marissa would answer the door.
When she heard the front screen door slam, she raised her head. A moment later, Paul appeared in the bedroom doorway. His face was red from exertion. He was wearing red wind pants over his sweats, and the hood of his East Tennessee State Buccaneers sweatshirt was sticking out of the top of a navy bubble vest.
“I was wondering if you went running,” she said.
“I ran a little ways, but it’s cold out there! So I stopped at the Country Diner for a bite to eat with the other pastors.”
Kate glanced at her watch. “Which explains why it’s nine o’clock.” She lifted a brow.
“Spending time with the locals is part of the job, honey, part of the job.” He grinned, then said, “Oh, and remind me to pay Pete MacKenzie back for breakfast.”
“You borrowed money from the Presbyterian pastor for breakfast?” Kate teased.
“You don’t expect me to carry my wallet in my running pants, do you?” He was grinning as he said it, then he lifted his gaze to the room and cleared his throat. “So, what are you doing in here? I haven’t seen this room so clean since we moved in.”
“I’m setting up my stained-glass studio, remember?”
“I’m glad to see you’re moving forward with that.”
“This is fun, actually.” She held out the studio layout sketch for him to see.
He took it from her and studied it. “Looks like you have everything covered.” He handed the shee
t back and asked, “You think you’ll make mostly lampshades or windows?”
“I’ll let time and my whims dictate that, I guess. I was thinking about talking to Steve over at Smith Street Gifts to see if he’d be interested in carrying some of my work. What do you think?”
“I can’t think of a good reason not to.” Paul gave her a lopsided grin.
“Maybe I could even teach a class on glasswork. I’d need to prepare a curriculum of sorts...decide what I’d have the students make first. Perhaps I could offer several levels of classes—beginner, etcetera...”
“That’s what I love about you, Katie. When you’re onto something, you’re like a pit bull!”
“Hey!”
“I mean that as a compliment, honey. Entirely complimentary.”
Kate blushed, then shrugged. “I guess I’m a little excited. I’ll start small, just do a few projects that I enjoy, stretch my abilities as an artist.”
“I have no doubt you’ll be branching out, building a large facility, and starting a full-out business in a few short months. Maybe you could hire me to be your errand boy.”
“Don’t tease me, Paul Hanlon. Besides, you’re already my errand boy.”
Paul sidled next to her and bent over to kiss the top of her head. “Well, I suppose I should get crack-a-lackin’.” He pointed to his watch. “Say,” he paused to add, “I was thinking maybe I should stop in on Patricia Harris, pay her and her daughter a visit, since I was too busy with my meeting to go with you yesterday.”
Kate shook her head. “I think she’s going to need gentle nudging. If the pastor shows up on her doorstep...” Kate shrugged. “Well, I think she’ll bolt.”
“I just thought—” he began.
“You have good intentions, hon, but God had a reason for keeping you busy yesterday. Patricia is skittish. She’s been hurt. I don’t know the details, but I can see it in her eyes. We can’t push her. Besides, just because you’re the pastor, it doesn’t mean you have to personally meet every need. Let the church be the body of Christ, not a one-man show.”
