Beginnings (10 page)

“I’m a sight,” she snorted. After running cold water on a washcloth, she mopped her face and then looked again at her reflection. The tiredness remained despite the thorough scrubbing.

“If I go to the meetinghouse looking like this,” she spoke aloud to her dismal face in the mirror, “Mom will think I’m sick.” With the thought of her mother came the remembrance of Henry and Mom in the booth yesterday, absorbed in one another. Swinging from the mirror, Beth charged to her bedroom and sank onto the edge of the mattress.

Her head slung low, she moaned, “Dear God, where do I fit in?”

She wasn’t a member of the church, so she didn’t belong there. Having been raised far away from the cousins who resided in this little town, she didn’t blend in with them. Grown and out of her mother’s house, she no longer fit there. She released a humorless huff of laughter as a childhood memory struck.

Every Christmas season, she and Mom had curled together on the sofa to watch the television version of
Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
She had loved to sing along with the characters. Now the lyrical question “Why am I such a misfit?” drifted through her mind, bringing both a rush of fond remembrance and a stab of pain. The words were too close to the truth.

Beth simply didn’t fit in—not in Sommerfeld, not in her mother’s house, not back in Cheyenne.

But she had her business, her art. Pushing to her feet, Beth straightened her shoulders with resolve. Hadn’t Mom said God gave her the gift of creating beauty from bits of colored glass? Well, then, that’s where Beth belonged: in her studio, creating beauty. And if the next few weeks went well, she’d have enough business to keep her too busy to worry about needing to fit in anywhere else. Her misfit days were nearing their end, thanks to the contract offered by McCauley Church Construction.

Knowing her mother would worry if she didn’t show up at the meetinghouse for services, Beth laid out a modest skirt and blouse and headed for the shower. But when the service was over, she’d come home, get out her pencils again, and finish planning the window for McCauley’s. By the end of the day, she’d shoot several color options to him via e-mail, and she hoped that by the end of tomorrow she’d be able to order glass.

She had one chance to carve her niche in the stained-glass world, and she wouldn’t let it escape her.

NINE

Andrew shut off the cutting wheel. His ears buzzed as if the carbide wheel still screeched. He removed his goggles and peered toward the newly constructed platform where Beth sat cross-legged, scissors snipping a steady rhythm. Her shining ponytail captured the light, and as always, he found himself wondering if those strands felt as silky as they looked.

She turned and caught him staring.

Heat built in his ears, and he gestured clumsily toward the stack of glass he’d scored. “Got enough here for six more crosses and six butterflies.”

A nod bounced her ponytail. “Good. I’m glad you’re ahead of the game there, since my order of glass for this one”—she tipped her head toward the paper pieces scattered across the platform—“should be arriving this afternoon. That frees up the wheel for me to get to cutting.”

Andrew fought a frown. She had hoarded each step of the process in creating the window for McCauley, spending every minute of the past week finalizing the colors, putting a rush order on glass, drawing the design to scale on butcher paper, and now cutting the pattern into pieces. He had hoped to at least help by cutting and fitting the glass pieces together, but apparently she intended to see this project through as a solo artist. He supposed he should be grateful she’d allowed him to help build the platform where she planned to construct her window.

Her brows pulled down in a brief scowl of worry. “I hope the glass will arrive as promised. I’ve got a pretty tight schedule to keep in order to meet McCauley’s deadline.”

Andrew considered telling her if she’d allow him to help, they could speed up the process, but instead, he glanced out the window at the sunshine-bright February day and said, “Can’t see any reason why they’d be delayed.”

Beth turned back to the paper spread across her lap and began snipping once more. “I sure hope not.” Without looking at him, she said, “Go ahead and snap those pieces apart and then grind the edges. Hopefully by tomorrow, you’ll be ready to put them together. And maybe you can ask Trina to go to Salina with you for the show so you’ll have some company.”

Andrew, reaching into the drawer for the pliers, jerked to attention. “You aren’t going?”

She paused again to stare at him over her shoulder. “Of course not. I can’t take a whole day away from here—at least not until this first project for McCauley is done. So from now until April 1, whatever shows we do are yours.”

Andrew rounded the worktable to stand beside the platform and gawk down at her. “Trina can’t take a Saturday off from the café.” It was the only argument he could compose on short notice. He knew he shouldn’t say what he was thinking:
But I look forward to those times when we go away together.
Away from Sommerfeld, Beth was more open, animated, and relaxed, which made him more open, animated, and relaxed. He relished those snatches of time.

Beth made a sour face. “Oh, I didn’t think about that. Of course she couldn’t.” A graceful shrug bunched the blond ponytail that lay on her shoulder. “Well, you should be able to handle it on your own.”

Her unconcerned comment set his teeth on edge. Andrew clomped back to the storage cabinet and snatched up the pliers.

“You could ask someone else if you prefer not to go alone.”

Andrew preferred not to go alone, yet he didn’t want anyone else’s company. Besides, who else would be interested? His family either ignored or made sport of his art-related pursuits. Beth waited for an answer, the scissors motionless in her hand. He finally grunted, “We’ll see.”

She shot him a speculative look before offering another shrug and bending over the paper once more. They worked without speaking, with only the
snap
of the pliers, the muffled
clink
of glass pieces being placed on the table’s surface, and the
snip-snip
of the scissors breaking the tomblike quiet. After a long while, Beth released a noisy breath and spun on her seat to face Andrew.

“What’s your problem?”

Andrew, startled, raised one brow and pointed to his own chest.

A second huff split the air. “Yes, you.”

“I don’t have a problem.” He’d lied. His chest constricted with the knowledge, yet he couldn’t retract the words.

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.