Beginnings (11 page)

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 must 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?”

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.

Keep me focused,
she prayed silently and aligned the mark on the glass with the wheel. For the next two hours, she repeated that simple prayer a dozen times. It helped. By the time noon rolled around and she let the wheel wheeze to a stop, she had the glass scored for at least a third of the McCauley window.

“A good morning’s work.”

She almost didn’t hear Andrew’s approving voice over the whine in her ears. It always took awhile before the sound of the saw ceased its echo in her head. Mom had suggested earplugs. Beth was beginning to think that was a good idea. Crossing to the worktable, she fingered the line of butterfly suncatchers with the tip of a gloved finger.

“You, too. Thanks for finishing these up.”

“That’s my job.”

The words were glib, yet Beth once again sensed an odd undercurrent. Dropping her gloves on the worktable next to her goggles, she pushed aside the twinge of worry. “When we get back from lunch, I’ll help you pack these; then we can snap and grind the pieces I scored this morning.”

Andrew, whisking a small broom over the surface of the worktable, shot her a startled look. Before she had a chance to question him about it, he said, “Do you want to go to the café for lunch? Trina told me Aunt Deborah planned chili and cinnamon rolls for today’s special.”

Beth’s stomach growled on cue, and she laughed. “I’ll never pass up Deborah’s homemade rolls, but I need to run by the house and check my mail. Marilyn Fox e-mailed me—”

“Is she checking up on the lilac piece?”