Beginnings

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Andrew straightened and placed one hand against his chest. “I don’t talk about you out of maliciousness. It’s because I’m excited for the things happening here for us.”

  Beth’s antenna went up. She carefully tempered her tone. “You mean for me. It’s my studio, Andrew, not ours.”

  His ears glowed. “That’s what I meant.”

  She nodded slowly. “I hope so. I need your help on projects, and I need McCauley’s contracts to get everything up and running around here, but both of you are going to have to understand that the studio is my business. It’s going to stay that way.”

  Andrew remained silent, his narrowed gaze pinned to hers. She held her breath, waiting for him to tell her she was out of line in her expectation.

  “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  At his flat comment, she nearly sagged with relief. Although his words were pushed past a tense jaw, she hoped she’d made herself clear about where he fit in the studio. She also hoped it would be the end of his possessiveness concerning the studio. And her.

  “Great.” She slid the goggles back in place. “I’ve got to sand the edges of these pieces for the McCauley window. With the number of pieces involved, I speculate I’ll be sanding all week.”

  “And you need me to...?”

  She nodded toward the cutting wheel as she picked up the carborundum stone and began whisking it across the edge of a piece of cornflower blue glass. “It wouldn’t hurt to make up a few more crosses and butterflies. The e-mail I got from the organizer of the President’s Day Extravaganza said they expect a great turnout. I’d rather have too many than not enough.”

  Andrew’s jaw dropped. “The craft show—it’s this Saturday.”

  Beth’s hand paused. “Yes. We’ve had it on the calendar for months.”

  He slapped his forehead. “I didn’t make the connection.”

  Beth put the stone down. “What’s the problem?”

  “The men are meeting at Uncle Henry’s on Saturday to put up the walls and roof for his addition. They want to get it going before the farmers need to be out in the fields. I had hoped...”

  Beth didn’t need to hear the remainder of his sentence to know what he’d hoped. But she’d already lost time this week with the meetings with Sean. She couldn’t take Saturday off to man her booth, yet she counted on those sales to cover the expense of having made the suncatchers plus expenses involved with keeping the studio open. Andrew already knew all of that; she wouldn’t spell it out for him. She simply waited for him to decide what to do.

  With a sigh, he gave a nod. “There will be plenty of men around to help with the addition. I’ll go to Salina like we’d planned.”

  “Good.”

  Andrew turned toward the drawer that contained the patterns, and Beth leaned over her pieces of glass. As she whisked the stone along the edge of the diamond-shaped piece, her thoughts skipped ahead to Saturday. She had fully intended to work all day in the studio. But after the community—organized by Henry—had rallied around her in erecting the building that housed her business, didn’t she have an obligation to help in the construction of the room addition?

  Once more the question stabbed her heart: Where do I fit in?

  THIRTEEN

  Beth and Andrew worked in quiet amity the remainder of the week—Beth grinding until her fingers ached from gripping the glass and stone, and Andrew constructing another dozen suncatchers. Sean McCauley called twice to check on progress and forward a couple of questions from the church in Carlton. Each time, Beth sensed Andrew’s disapproval, which gave her a slight feeling of unrest, but she managed to sweep it away. On the Saturday morning of the craft show, she watched him load the boxes of foam-cushioned suncatchers into the back of his pickup truck.

  As usual, he’d dressed in his Sunday suit for the fair. In his workday clothes of dark trousers, solid button-up shirt, and suspenders, he could blend in with farmers outside of Sommerfeld. But the black homemade suit with no lapels on the jacket, a light blue shirt buttoned to the collar, and the black, flat-brimmed felt hat marked him as Mennonite. Each time they’d attended a fair, his attire had drawn curious gazes and a few bold questions. She’d recognized his unease in fielding queries about his “Amish” clothing in the past, and she had frequently explained the differences between the Amish and Mennonites who lived in Sommerfeld. Today he’d have to answer questions himself, and his silence told her he wasn’t keen on going alone.

  “It’s too bad Trina can’t go with you.” Beth knew Trina was the favorite of many of her cousins, Andrew included. Her bubbly personality added a healthy dose of fun wherever she went.

  Andrew grunted. “Yeah, I’d like that, but Aunt Deborah would never let her loose from the café. Especially today, with half the town turning out to help Uncle Henry. Aunt Deborah plans to take lunch over for all the workers, and she’ll need Trina to get it accomplished.”

  “Sure seems like Kyra or someone might have been willing to take Trina’s place,” Beth mused. Kyra, one of Beth’s many cousins, often helped out in the café.

  “She is helping,” Andrew said, giving the hatch of his pickup a firm slam. “Aunt Deborah needs both Trina and Kyra today.”

  “Oh.” The crisp air tugged strands of her hair free of her ponytail and whipped them beneath her chin, tickling her. She shoved the errant strands behind her ear and squinted up at Andrew. Beneath the brim of his hat, his shadowed eyes appeared uneasy. “Well, I’m sorry you have to go alone, but you look very handsome.”

  The instant the word handsome slipped from Beth’s tongue, embarrassment washed over her. It increased when she saw his ears turn bright red before he ducked his head, pulling his hat brim lower. But it was true. Andrew, with his close-cropped hair, dark eyes, and solid frame, was a handsome man. The unpretentious clothes in some odd way seemed to accentuate his rugged attractiveness rather than detract from it. Maybe if he realized it, he would set aside some of his insecurities and feel more confident.

  So she ignored the awkwardness of the moment and added, “I am positive you will single-handedly sell out of suncatchers and bring back orders for more.”

  He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made Beth smile. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  She laughed out loud, then waved as he climbed into his pickup and drove out of the alley. Turning toward the door of the studio, she heard a sound, an echoing, sharp ring. A hammer hitting a nail. Then came another, followed rapidly by two more. The rings came in closer succession, taking on the semblance of off-pitch bells, and Beth realized it was a chorus of hammers.

  The men were already at work on Henry’s addition. She quickly stepped into the studio and closed the door, but even behind the steel door, the sound of clanging came through. Guilt hit hard. She should be helping like everyone else was. The rooms were for her new siblings. What would people think if she didn’t come?

  She walked to the platform and looked down at the array of glass pieces waiting to have their edges ground. The grinding was taking much longer than she had anticipated given the weight of the glass and the number of pieces. She rubbed the calluses on her thumbs, grimacing at the roughness of her hands.

  Maybe she’d wear gloves today, even though it was harder to control the carborundum stone with the bulky leather. Or maybe she’d use her credit card and purchase an electric grinder, even though she worried she’d ruin some pieces while learning to operate it.

  Clang! Clang—clang—ring!

  The hammer sound called to her. She drew a deep breath, debating with herself. Her gaze went from the scattered pieces of the glass to the window then back to the glass. With a disgruntled huff, she marched to the radio in the corner and snapped it on. Music covered the hammer rings. Returning to the platform with carborundum stone in hand, she plunked down and lifted a red diamond.

  But the moment the stone touched the glass, the image of a hammer connecting with the head of a nail intruded. She knew she would not be able to focus unless she at least made
an appearance at the house.

  After bundling up in her heavy jacket and scarf, she decided to leave the car and walk. It was only six blocks, and the late February morning was crisp but not unbearably cold. The clear sky seemed to echo the choir of nail strikes, making Beth’s ears ring. Halfway there, she picked up the sounds of voices and muffled laughter in addition to the ringing of hammers. For some reason, the mingling sounds made her chest feel tight.

  When she rounded the final corner and glimpsed the clusters of townspeople, the tightness in her chest increased. The women, with their skirts showing beneath the hems of plain wool coats and their heads covered with simple white caps, made Beth feel slovenly in her faded blue jeans and short suede jacket with her ponytail tumbling over her shoulder. Her steps slowed, and she considered returning to her shop.

  But a masculine voice called out, “Beth!” Heads turned. She’d been spotted. Lifting her hand to wave at Henry, who smiled from his perch on a roof rafter, she closed the remaining distance between herself and the group where her mother stood.

  “Hi, honey!” Mom greeted her with a hug and a press of her cold nose to Beth’s cheek. “I’m glad you came by. Look at that!” Mom’s breath, released on a sigh, hung in the morning air. “It never ceases to amaze me how well they work together.”

  Beth’s gaze followed her mother’s to the addition. Already the studs clearly marked the peripheries of the room, and the rafters connected with the existing roof. At least a dozen men swarmed over the skeleton, adding crossbars and securing the rafters to the wall studs. More applied saws to lengths of wood laid across sawhorses or unloaded Sheetrock and plywood from the backs of pickup trucks.

  “By noon,” Mom continued, her arm around Beth’s waist, “they’ll probably have the roof sheathed and ready for shingles.”

  A woman on Mom’s right released a snort. “Not if Nort Borntrager has anything to do with it. Look at him over there, leaning on the Mullers’ car hood as if he’s already earned a break.”

  “And I saw him eating buns instead of unloading lumber,” another contributed.

  As they watched, the man pushed himself free and ambled toward the sawhorses. He stood, hands in pockets, watching the wielder of the saw. A yawn nearly divided his face.

  The cluster of women clucked their disapproval. One said with no small measure of sarcasm, “That Nort, he’s so slow you have to look twice to see him move.”

  The women all chuckled, and even Beth fought a grin. Someone like Nort, who watched rather than worked, was the exception rather than the rule when it came to the hardworking attitude the Mennonites possessed. But then she swallowed her grin, her hands clenching within the pockets of her trendy jacket. What might these women say about her when she wasn’t in earshot?

  She ducked her head, taking in the sea of skirts surrounding her denim-clad legs. Discomfort pressed harder. Just as Nort’s laziness set him apart, her attire set her apart. Once more, the feeling of being a misfit washed over Beth. Her heart pounding, she raised her gaze to her stepfather, who straddled a rafter and swung his hammer with precision. A glance to the side confirmed her mother also watched Henry.

  By joining the church and marrying Henry, Mom had reestablished her place in the community. Beth knew her mother had never been more content than she was in her role as Mrs. Henry Braun, accepted resident of Sommerfeld, Kansas. Jealousy hit, surprising Beth with its intensity. As much as she wanted to feel as though she belonged, did she want everything else that would be required to be accepted here?

  She tried to envision herself in the head covering and simple dress of the Mennonite women, and she nearly laughed out loud. No doubt she’d look ridiculous! She squirmed within the confines of her jacket and ducked her gaze once more. The sight of her mother’s legs next to hers gave her a jolt of concern.

  “Mom, you’re all swollen again.”

  The hand at Beth’s waist slipped away, and Mom tucked her coat beneath her belly to look at her feet. She grimaced. “Oh, goodness, and I’ve hardly been up. Well”—she flipped her hands outward in a nonchalant gesture—“at least I’m consistent. This puffiness has become the norm.”

  “But it isn’t normal, is it?” Beth pressed, worry making her heart thud in tempo with the hammers that continued to pound.

  One of the other ladies in the group shook her head and pursed her lips at Beth. “Now, young lady, don’t fuss at your mother. We check on her every day, and she always says she feels fine. A little swelling isn’t uncommon.”

  Beth bristled at the implication that she didn’t check on her mother as frequently as she should. She also didn’t believe one would call what she was seeing a “little” swelling. Mom’s legs looked puffy from the knees down, and the flesh extended over the tops of her brown oxfords. It looked painful and worthy of great concern.

  She clamped her jaw and didn’t answer. These women already saw her as an oddity who was too headstrong for good sense. She wouldn’t argue and give them fuel for gossip about her. Instead, she offered a brief nod and looked back toward the workers.

  She easily located Henry. From the back, his dark hair and broad shoulders reminded her of Andrew. How much Andrew resembled his uncle. Along with the thought of Andrew, a recurring idea teased the back of her mind. If she were to marry into the community, as her mother did, she would belong. Really belong. Remembering his formal bearing this morning and her comment on his handsomeness, she felt color flood her cheeks.

  “Mom,” she blurted out, jerking sideways two steps, “I’m going to head back to the studio. I have work to do.”

  The disapproving raised brows and pinched lips of the women standing nearby made Beth’s face grow hotter.

  “But I’ll go to the café at noon and help Deborah carry lunch over, so I’ll see you then, okay?”

  Some of the women gave small nods of approval, their expressions softening. Beth wasn’t sure if this pleased or aggravated her.

  Mom moved forward on her swollen feet to offer a quick hug. “All right, honey. Enjoy your day.”

  Beth turned and fled.

  ***

  Sean hung up the phone and stifled a frustrated groan. He replayed his father’s parting comment: “You’re sidetracked, son. Focus. We’ve got deadlines to meet.”

  He’d like to argue with his father. He’d like to say he was just as on top of things as he’d always been, but he knew it wouldn’t be the truth. And he admitted only to himself, sidetracked wasn’t a strong enough word to describe what had happened. He’d been completely derailed. By a blond-haired, blue-eyed, cleft-chinned artist whose sole focus was her art. Ever since their “business dinner” a week ago, he’d had a harder time setting aside thoughts of Beth. Despite the original intention, it hadn’t been a business meeting, and Sean knew it.

  Shaking his head, he looked toward the ceiling. “God, I prayed we’d find a dependable artist with a heart for You who would be willing to use his talents in our company. Did You have to send me to a woman too pretty and independent for her own good?”

  He didn’t get a reply. But he didn’t expect to. God worked in mysterious ways, as Sean well knew, and he’d learned long ago to simply trust His judgment. But that was easier when it didn’t affect every aspect of his life. He could not get Beth Quinn out of his mind.

  Their relationship—such as it was—was only weeks old. They’d had little face-to-face contact, although he communicated with her daily by e-mail and weekly by telephone. How had such minimal connections managed to keep her in the forefront of his thoughts? He saw the checkout girl at the local grocery store more regularly than Beth. But the checkout girl didn’t have that endearing cleft in her chin.

  He pushed away from the drafting table and stormed to the kitchen, where he yanked open the refrigerator and grabbed a can of cherry-flavored cola. Popping the top, he stared at the silver ring and for the first time contemplated placing a gold ring on a woman’s finger.

  Without taking a sip, he plunked the can on th
e counter and spun toward the window. Looking across his neatly trimmed backyard, he tried to imagine working side by side with someone under the sun, putting in a garden—tomatoes, cucumbers, and green beans, like his parents did every year. Turning a slow circle, he envisioned sharing the cooking duties, sitting down with someone and holding hands to pray, loading the dishwasher after someone else rinsed the pots and plates.

  In each case, the someone had a face. Beth.

  He shook his head, grabbing up the can to take a long draw that did little to cool his racing thoughts. Hadn’t she made it clear she had no interest in leaving that little town called Sommerfeld? Imagining her in his yard, his house—his life—was a waste of time.

  “An exercise in futility,” he said aloud, then drained the can. He dropped it into the recycling bin before returning to his office. Sliding into the chair at his tall drafting table, he picked up his pencil and T square and bent once more over the drawing pad. Although the final drawing would be done on computer, he always did hand sketches first. Applying the pencil to paper somehow made the building more real to him than when he created it on a computer screen. As his eyes followed his line of lead on the page, he suddenly pictured Beth’s hand forming the peak of the little chapel from Carlton.

  He sat straight up and slapped the pencil against the pad. “What will cure me of thinking of that girl?” he exclaimed to the empty room.

  Oddly enough, a voice from his past offered a solution. His grandfather, for whom he’d been named, had once proclaimed, “The best cure for any ill is the hair of the dog that bit ya.” Sean remembered how his mother had shaken her head in disapproval, and he’d learned later that often that statement was used in reference to imbibing. While neither of Sean’s parents ever partook of alcoholic beverages, nor had Sean, that saying now seemed to offer a solution to his dilemma with Beth.

  Perhaps a quick phone call. Hearing her voice, being reminded of how focused she was on her own work, would help him put his attention back where it belonged. Yes. He slid his cell phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Just a few minutes of conversation would certainly get him back on track.