Beginnings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Beth crunched her lips into a scowl. “Oh, yes, you do, or you wouldn’t be so sullen.” Plopping the scissors onto the wooden platform with a solid thunk, she folded her arms and glared at him. “Come on, spit it out. Neither of us will be able to focus until you do.”

  Andrew’s heart set up a thudding he feared could be heard. He disliked conflict. How often had he held his tongue at home, even at his age, when his father forced his opinions on him? He’d been raised to honor his father and mother, so he did. He’d been raised to believe confrontation dishonored God, so he avoided it. Now he looked at Beth, who sat waiting, her pretty face pinched with frustration. She gave him an opportunity to speak his mind, to share his thoughts, but words failed him. All he could do was give a helpless, wordless shrug.

  Throwing her hands outward, she filled the silence. “Andrew, things are changing here. For the better, I hope. I realize we’ve done most everything together, but right now, I have a huge task I have to tackle on my own, proving to Sean McCauley and his father that I am capable of putting together a window that will meet their expectations. What that means is I have to concentrate solely on this project.”

  She gave the platform a slap with her palm that sent a few cut pieces scooting across the wooden surface like ducks skidding across a pond. “But I can’t afford to just ignore the other commitments I’ve made—namely, the second cardinal piece for Fox’s studio and the two craft fairs between now and McCauley’s April 1 deadline. People are waiting for those stained-glass projects. And I can’t do it all without your help.”

  Andrew swallowed and managed to give a nod. He would help. That wasn’t the issue. He wished he could get his tongue to express the issue, which was his desire to be needed for more than someone to work on her secondary projects.

  She went on, her tone rising in intensity. “Once this project is completed and McCauley extends the contract beyond the conditional one I signed, I intend to be the designer rather than the producer. At that point, I’ll want you to put together the windows I design for the churches. I’ll probably even hire a couple more people to work with you, which will free me up to focus on one-of-a-kind pieces for galleries. I can really broaden the scope of the studio that way.”

  “But”—for the first time, her fire seemed to flicker—“none of this is going to happen if you aren’t going to be around. So ... what’s the plan, Andrew?”

  To become so indispensable you lean on me at work and home. But of course he couldn’t say the words out loud. He sat stupidly, perched on the stool like a crow on a fence post, but unlike a crow, he couldn’t manage to release so much as a squawk. Looking at her with his lips clamped shut and his thoughts racing, he carefully processed everything she’d said.

  Her choice of the word I rang too prominently in his mind for him to feel completely secure, yet he replayed her comment about him eventually putting together the windows for McCauley. His heart sped up, making his breath come in spurts. That meant full-time work. Which meant supporting himself with art. His hands quivering, he rubbed the underside of his nose and swallowed.

  She had asked him the plan. It seemed she already had one mapped out, but he wouldn’t oppose it if it meant the fulfillment of his dreams. He opened his mouth and forced a reply past his dry throat. “My plan is to help you get this studio going.”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits as she seemed to consider his brief response. “Even if it means doing all the little stuff on your own until April?”

  He felt as though his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Dad might have different ideas about his time in another few weeks. He’d be needed to help in the fields by the first of March for sure. But somehow he’d make time for Beth’s “little stuff,” as she put it, and bide his time until he could prove to his father this art studio had the capability of supporting a family.

  “Whatever it takes,” he said with conviction.

  Beth nodded. A smile curved her lips. “Thank you. That’s what I hoped you’d say. Now”—she pointed to the idle pliers in his hand—“finish snapping, and get to grinding. We’ve got work to do.”

  Andrew followed her direction, and at noon, she suggested he go to the café and pick up sandwiches. By the time he returned, she had finished cutting the design apart and was reconstructing it on the platform. Slender coils of butcher paper—the pieces removed by the scissors to allow for the width of the lead came—lay in tumbled heaps around the wooden platform, giving the illusion that someone had thrown confetti. He supposed that was apt, considering the party that would take place when the project had served its purpose in securing future contracts with McCauley.

  For a moment, he stood, paper sack in hand, and watched her carefully secure each labeled pattern piece with a roll of masking tape. The look of concentration on her face made him hesitate to interrupt her. Always zealous when it came to her work, she’d been almost obsessed this past week. He admired her hardworking attitude, and he wondered if she would be as fervent in other aspects of her life ... such as relationships.

  A lump formed in his throat with that thought, and he cleared it, making Beth jump. She whirled on her knees and stared at him with wide, blue eyes, a strand of hair framing her cheek.

  “Oh! You’re back.” She pushed off from the platform and stood, brushing off the knees of her jeans with both palms. “You should have said something.”

  He grinned. “You were busy.”

  She glanced at the array of snipped paper and frowned. “Yeah.” Turning her gaze to the window, she sighed. “But I’ll be out of things to do in another hour if that glass doesn’t arrive.”

  “Here.” Andrew reached into the bag and retrieved a sandwich. Holding it out, he said, “Take a break and eat. It will take your mind off the missing glass.”

  She flashed a quick smile, took the sandwich, and sat down on the edge of the platform. After a moment’s hesitation, Andrew perched next to her, even though she hadn’t offered an invitation. Her smile told him it was okay, and heat once more built in his ears. He blurted, “Should I pray?”

  She gave a wordless nod, and he bowed his head and asked a brief blessing for the food. He ended, “And let the glass come, please.” When he raised his head, he found Beth’s smiling face aimed at him, which only increased the warmth in his ears. He turned his attention to his sandwich.

  He finished before her and stood, stretching his tense muscles. Accustomed to hard work, he always found it interesting that his muscles complained more about sitting still than they did from a long day in the fields. The hunching over, he decided, made things tighten up. If he was going to be an artist, though, he’d need to get used to it.

  The kinks worked loose, he sat back on the stool and picked up a carborundum stone. Just as he began grinding, Beth set aside the remainder of her sandwich and picked up the roll of tape.

  “You should at least finish eating,” he admonished. While he admired her slender figure, she needed the energy to keep working.

  “I’ll finish it later.” Swinging her ponytail over her shoulder, she sent a quick grin across the room. “When this project is done.”

  He snorted. “You’ll waste away by then.”

  She imitated his snort. “Not likely. It’s only until April.”

  “That’s two whole months,” he reminded her, warming up to the teasing and surprising himself with the ease he found in playfully sparring with her.

  “You mean only two months.” A slight frown marred her brow. “That’s really not much time at all.” Slapping her knees, she stomped to the window and peered outside. “Oh, where is that glass?”

  Andrew set aside the carborundum stone and crossed to stand behind her, looking past her head to the road outside. “My mother always said a watched pot never boils.”

  If he thought his lighthearted comment would bring a laugh, he was wrong. “It’s got to get here soon.” She rested her hands on the windowsill and strained forward, her shoulders tense. “I’ve got limited time, and I mu
st meet that deadline.”

  His hands twitched with desire to squeeze her shoulders and offer comfort. He put his hands in his pockets. “I could help.”

  She spun to face him, shaking her head adamantly. “Huh-uh. I told you. This project is mine. After I’ve proven myself, then I’ll let you work on windows for McCauley. But this one...” Her gaze drifted to the paper pieces forming the design. “This one is all mine.”

  “Then work on your cardinal piece,” he suggested. “It’ll occupy your time.”

  She stared at him for a moment, her brows low and lips tucked between her teeth. He wondered if she would start spewing frustration. Her mood swings reminded him of a mule he’d had when he was a boy. Old Pokey nosed you with affection one minute, then bruised you with a nip the next. Despite the animal’s sometimes irascible nature, Andrew had always been fond of Old Pokey. He’d felt as though he’d accomplished something when the mule greeted him with a happy bray.

  “I suppose I could....” Her musing tone was cut short by the sound of an engine’s roar. She jerked toward the window, once more nearly pressing her nose to the glass.

  Andrew tipped sideways to look, too. A shipping truck bearing the logo HALE’S SHIPPING AND TRANSPORT came to a groaning halt in front of the studio.

  Beth grinned at him, her nose crinkling impishly. “I guess sometimes a watched pot does boil!”

  With a chuckle, he headed across the room and grabbed up his coat. “I’ll help the driver unload.”

  TEN

  Sean McCauley leaned back in his desk chair, wincing at the squeak of the springs. As a kid, he had never cared for high-pitched noises. His brother, Patrick, had teased him by stretching the mouth of a balloon and releasing its air in ear-piercing squeals. He had played basketball in high school, but the squeak of sneakers on the polished floor jarred his concentration. Even as an adult, the screech of a saw or the squeal of brakes was enough to set his teeth on edge. He supposed that was why he’d chosen the architectural side of construction rather than being part of the assembly crew.

  Sean glanced at his computer screen, smiling at the most recent e-mail from Patrick.

  Hey, little bro! Had some awesome tamales in a café on the border this evening. Thought about you and wondered if you were eating a cold bologna sandwich—ha! Tell Dad things are on schedule and that glitch with the plumber is all fixed now so he doesn’t need to worry. I’ll touch base again tomorrow.

  As an assembly crew foreman, Patrick traveled all over the United States. Each day since he’d arrived in Columbus, New Mexico, he had sent Sean an e-mail raving about some unique feature from landscape to customs to food. Patrick, the older of the McCauley brothers, had always loved to pester and tease, and his daily e-mails were his way of letting Sean know exactly what he was missing by being stuck in the little office he’d set up in the smallest bedroom of his 1960s unpretentious ranch-style home.

  What Patrick didn’t realize, however, was that Sean was perfectly happy in his office. He loved the planning side of construction—meeting with church committees, drawing blueprints, finalizing dreams. His prayer was that the churches he designed would be attractive, inviting, usable buildings, but mostly that they would serve as places of growth and worship for the members of the community in which they were built.

  His gaze shifted to the blueprint that lay on the drafting table in the corner. A small town outside of Salina, Kansas, had requested his services in planning a church building. Their original building, erected in the early 1900s, had burned to the ground nearly a year ago, and the congregation currently met in the high school gymnasium. They were eager to build, but the congregation was split between re-creating the chapel they’d lost and building a more modern facility.

  Sean viewed this as his biggest challenge thus far, and he had an idea for a compromise he believed might meet the desire of the entire congregation. But it involved Beth Quinn, and he wasn’t sure he could ethically involve her until he knew for sure she would be working long-term with McCauley Church Construction. He reached back to massage his neck, bringing another complaining squeak from his chair’s springs.

  Grimacing, he pushed himself out of the chair and crossed to the office closet, where he kept a can of lubricant. A few well-placed squirts insured the chair’s noise-making days were over for the time being. He put the lubricant away, then crossed to the drafting table and looked down at the drawings.

  The congregation had limited funds—they hoped to keep the cost equivalent to the insurance settlement—and building costs had increased since the policy had been purchased. Extravagance wasn’t possible, but Sean hoped he could squeeze in one small splash of ostentation.

  “And when it comes to splashes of ostentation...” He could use an artist’s input on whether his idea would work or not. Only one artist came to mind. Moving from the table to his desk, he clicked a few buttons on the computer keyboard, bringing an address book into view. He gave a one-fingered click on Q, and Beth Quinn’s telephone number popped onto the screen. In short order, he punched in the series of numbers on his cell phone and then waited, rubbing his lips together in anticipation of hearing her voice.

  “Quinn’s Stained-Glass Art Studio.”

  That was not Beth’s voice, and a horrible racket came from the background. Sean frowned. It sounded as if a dentist were drilling a mastodon’s teeth. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He raised his voice to block the unpleasant sound. “Is this Andrew?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “This is Sean McCauley. Is Miss Quinn available?”

  “Oh.” The tone took a turn, a bit of cold air seeming to whisk through the line. “Yes. Just a moment, please.” A slight thunk was followed by a wheeze as the grinding sound came to a halt. Muffled voices let Sean know Beth was on her way. Finally, the voice of the person who had filled too many of his thoughts lately came through. “Hello, this is Beth.”

  “Good morning, Beth. Sean McCauley here. How are you today?”

  “Busy,” she replied with a light laugh. “I have a lot of glass to cut for a large stained-glass window.”

  He smiled. “Glad to know it’s coming along. Listen, I need to be in your area early next week. I wondered if I could swing by, check on your progress, and discuss a different project with you.”

  “A different project?”

  Did he detect a slight note of panic? “I’d like your input as an artist,” he said. “This is a window that might not come to pass for reasons too complicated to explain over the phone, but if it’s a possibility, I’d like to be able to present the idea to a church planning committee.”

  “Oh, I see.” A slight pause, then, “Sure. You can stop by. I’m here pretty much around the clock these days, so feel free to just pop in.”

  “Great. I’m guessing it would be around nine in the morning on Monday. I have a meeting in Carlton at noon. Will that give me time to get there?”

  “Let me ask Andrew. He’s more familiar with the towns around here.” Her voice became muffled, as if she had shifted the receiver away from her mouth. “Andrew, how far is Carlton from here?” A mumbled tone answered, and then her voice came clearly through the line once more. “Andrew says it’s less than forty minutes from here, so that should give you plenty of time.”

  “Okay. Nine it is then.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you Monday.” The click indicated she had disconnected.

  Sean stared in surprise at his telephone for a moment before bursting into laughter. Beth Quinn was all business. Placing the cell phone on the corner of his desk, he tapped his lips with one finger, his laughter fading. He needed her to take her business seriously if he was going to be able to use her services regularly. So why did her abrupt departure leave him feeling slightly disappointed?

  ***

  Beth moved directly back to the cutting wheel, slipped her goggles into place, and reached for the switch.

  “So he’s coming to check up on you?”

&
nbsp; Andrew’s voice, carrying a hint of something—rebellion, maybe?—gave her pause. She moved the goggles to the top of her head and gave him her full attention.

  “He’s coming because he has a meeting with some people in Carlton and needs my advice before he goes.”

  Andrew’s eyebrows rose. She’d seen that look before when Sean McCauley’s name had come up in conversation. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Andrew was jealous of Sean. But how ridiculous would that be? Her relationships with both men were business only. An odd sensation wiggled down her spine. At least from her end, they were business only, weren’t they?

  Giving a shake of her head to dislodge that thought, she pulled her goggles down and suggested, “If he is checking up on me, I want to have progress to show him, so I’m going to finish cutting. How are the butterflies coming?”

  Andrew held up the soldering iron. “Almost done.”

  “Good.” Beth flipped the switch on the cutting wheel and focused on her task. The whir of the spinning wheel changed to a high-pitched squeal when she pushed the heavy glass beneath the carbide wheel. Brow pinched, lower lip tucked between her teeth, Beth concentrated on following the lines she’d drawn on the glass.

  Making straight cuts was simple; the curved ones required complete concentration. But as she guided the glass with glove-covered fingers, she found her thoughts wandering. Andrew’s behavior over the past few days had begun to concern her. He remained his usual helpful and hardworking self, but at times he exhibited a protectiveness—an almost territorial attitude—that created a niggle of discomfort. This studio was hers and hers alone. He was an employee. But his actions made her feel as though he saw himself as much more than mere employee.

  Sliding the blue glass free, she reached for a second piece, and her gaze drifted across to Andrew. He sat at the worktable, guiding the soldering iron along the lines of copper foil. She felt a little better seeing him engrossed in his task. Maybe she’d only imagined his change in demeanor. Yet something told her she hadn’t. Still, worrying about it wouldn’t get the glass cut.