Beginnings (7 page)

“What has Andrew done?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just ignored my direction to put together suncatchers for the show in Salina and spent his time reworking a drawing he had no business reworking.” Beth attempted a glib tone, but she heard the sharp undercurrent.

Mom’s face pinched. “I’m sure his motivations were good.”

Beth bounced from the chair, marching to the stove to stir the contents of the skillet. “Just like Mitch’s motivations were good when he illegally ‘collected’ antiques for our boutique?” Vegetables and chunks of chicken caught the fury of the wooden spoon before she clanked the lid back in place. Facing her mother, she crossed her arms. “No, I’m better off working alone. That way, things get done the way
I
want them done without any misunderstandings or deceptiveness.”

Her gaze fell on the contract, which lay on the table. Her heart skipped a beat. How would she keep up with everything on her own? A wave of panic struck, a silent prayer forming without effort.
God, how am I going to meet these demands?

Mom struggled from the chair, arching her back to lift herself. With one hand pressed to her lower back, she crossed the kitchen to cup Beth’s cheek with her free hand. “Honey, don’t sell everyone short because Mitch made a mistake. Being alone is...” She heaved a sigh, her eyes drifting shut for a moment as if reliving something. “Lonely. Don’t cut yourself away from everyone out of fear.”

Beth felt tears sting behind her nose again. She sniffed. “I don’t want to, Mom, but—”

The back door banged open, and Henry Braun entered the kitchen. His nose and ears were red from the cold, his hair stood on end, and he carried in the odors of cold air and gasoline. He bestowed a huge smile on both women. “Well, good evening! My two favorite girls.” He crossed the kitchen and kissed Beth’s cheek and then his wife’s lips.

Beth, watching their kiss of greeting, felt a pang of envy. It must be wonderful to fully belong with someone the way her mother now belonged with Henry. She shoved that thought aside. Belonging to someone meant depending on them. And it meant being let down.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Henry asked Beth as he lifted the lid from the skillet and peeked at the contents.

“If that’s okay.” Beth watched Henry waggle his eyebrows in her mother’s direction, his face creased in a grin. The serious Henry who had shown up unexpectedly at their apartment in Cheyenne fifteen months ago had transformed into a lighthearted, teasing man nearly impossible to resist.

“Perfectly okay.” He slipped the lid in place and rubbed his stomach. “I’ll try to control myself, even though your lovely mother has prepared stir-fry, one of my favorites.”

Mom’s tinkling laughter rang as she shook her head at her husband. Beth wondered if she should creep away now and leave the two of them alone. But Mom turned to her and pointed to the cupboard.

“Would you set the table, Beth? I’ll make sure the rice is done, and then after Mr. Braun here has washed up”—she looked pointedly at Henry’s hands, which he examined with mock dismay—“we can eat.”

Half an hour later, the last of the rice had been scraped onto Henry’s plate, and Beth’s stomach ached from the second portion she hadn’t needed but had eaten anyway. Leaning back in her chair, she took a sip of water and sighed.

“That was really good, Mom. Now I know why it’s one of Henry’s favorites.”

Mom sent a fond smile across the table to her husband. “You know, he puts the title ‘one of my favorites’ on everything I fix, even if it’s just a bologna sandwich.”

Henry grinned. “That’s because no one spreads mayonnaise on a slice of bread like you do—just the right amount to bring out the flavor of the bologna without overpowering it.”

“Oh, Henry.” Mom released an amused snort, shaking her head.

Even Beth had to laugh. Honeymooners. That’s what her parents were. And at their ages! Still, she had to admit it was wonderful to see them so contented. She only wished they didn’t seem so ... complete. Where did that leave her?

Henry swallowed the final bite of rice, wiped his mouth, and fixed Beth with an intent look. “Now, your mother said you have something to discuss with us.”

Beth appreciated the way her stepfather removed all teasing from his tone before addressing her. Never had Henry treated her with anything except respect and kindness, the way she had always wanted a father to treat her. Sometimes she wished she could set aside her inhibitions and accept him as readily as he had accepted her. Yet the remembrance of another father—one she’d never had the opportunity to meet—always reared up, tangling her emotions and distancing her from Henry.

But he was right: She did have something to discuss, and she did respect his opinion. She plucked up the contract, which she had placed on the floor beside her chair, and handed it across the table. While Henry leafed through it, Beth shared the details of the visit from Sean McCauley and their conversation. Both Henry and Mom listened intently, interrupting occasionally to ask a question.

Beth finished, “It looks like it would be a wonderful opportunity if I can satisfy them with that first project.”

Henry looked over the top of the contract, his eyebrows high. “And all the expense falls on you if they don’t like it. Can you absorb that?”

Beth grimaced. “It would be painful. It would take quite a few craft-fair sales to make up for it, that’s for sure. But the risk would be worth it considering the potential payoff if they do like it. Lots more work, plus the income to expand the studio and buy the equipment I need to be completely self-sufficient.”

Henry nodded and went back to reading.

“What about the gallery in Wichita?” Mom, leaning sideways to peek at the contract, shifted her gaze in Beth’s direction. “Can’t they keep you busy enough?”

With a shrug, Beth stifled her frustration. Being torn between the gallery opportunities and the construction company’s opportunities left her feeling bruised. “I don’t know. They did commission a second piece, and Mrs. Fox indicated there would be more, but it’s still small scale compared to what McCauley is after.”

Henry shot a startled glance at his wife. “The gallery commissioned Beth to do a second piece?”

Mom nodded, pride shining in her face. “Yes, they did. She delivered the first one, and they immediately asked for a second.”

Beth wriggled on her chair, feeling as though she’d been forgotten.

But Henry set the contract aside and fixed his gaze on her. “There’s no doubt this could be financially lucrative if it works out, Beth. I guess what it comes down to is what you want to accomplish with your studio. Do you want to be strictly an artist, creating your own designs on your own time clock, which gives you freedom but maybe lacks security? Or do you want the security of knowing you’ll have steady jobs, putting together windows with someone else’s idea at the heart, and you serving as the constructor?”

Steady, secure work opposite sporadic, unreliable contracts. Designing her own projects opposite following someone else’s lead. The thoughts ping-ponged in Beth’s mind, making her dizzy with the possible pros and cons of each position. Finally, she threw her hands out and huffed in aggravation. “I want the security with the freedom to create my own stuff!”

Henry chuckled softly while Mom shook her head, her lips tipped into an amused smile.

“Well, Beth,” Henry said, one eyebrow cocked high, “the only way I see clear for that is if you continue doing both your own artwork
and
meet the demands of this construction company. To be honest, I’m not so sure you could handle all that on your own.”

Beth sighed. “So what do I do?”

Henry shrugged. “If you want it all, hire a full-time staff.”

Slumping back in her chair, Beth swallowed the groan that pressed at her throat. A full-time staff. As if workers were lining up for jobs in this little Mennonite farming community! She knew of only one person willing to dedicate time to the art studio.

It was back to Andrew.

***

Andrew unplugged the soldering iron and rotated his head, trying to work loose the tense kinks in his neck. The acrid taste from the solder lingered on the back of his tongue, making him wish he had one of those bottles of water Beth liked to carry around with her. Placing the soldering iron on the concrete floor to cool, he turned back to the worktable.

Satisfaction welled, bringing a tired smile to his face. It had been a hard eight hours of steady work, but seeing the suncatchers lined up, ready for the craft show, made it worthwhile. Hopefully this would make up for this afternoon, when he’d fiddled with Beth’s drawing instead of doing what she’d asked him to do.

“You let me down.”

Her remembered words stung on a variety of levels. He’d been taught to honor his commitments, and it created a sense of disappointment in himself that he hadn’t followed through on what had been expected. Deeper than that, though, was Beth’s lack of understanding that he wasn’t trying to let her down—he was trying to help. There had been something wrong with her design, and he had discovered the needed element to bring out the dimension.

He wished she’d at least looked at what he’d done before flinging out an accusation and storming off. Hadn’t she figured out by now that he wanted what was best for her? For them? Sighing, Andrew picked up a little whisk broom and began cleaning up the work area.

Sometimes he wondered if his fascination with Beth was unhealthy. She was so different from the other girls in the community. And it was much more than the way she dressed. She was self-reliant, a freethinker. She didn’t let anybody tell her what to do. Some perceived this as pigheaded, but Andrew preferred to think of it as independent. He admired it.

And at the same time, he resented it. An independent person didn’t need anybody else. Andrew wanted Beth to need him. One thing was certain: He needed her if he wanted to use his artistic abilities full-time.

His cleanup finished, he yawned and reached for his coat. Outside, full dark had fallen, letting him know without looking at a clock that it was well past his normal bedtime. But before heading out the door, he glanced once more at the worktable. Returning to the table, he took a moment to arrange the suncatchers in a neat line.

When Beth came in tomorrow morning, she would see he had honored his commitment. She’d teasingly told him to make half a dozen. He’d done it. She would see she needed him as much as he needed her.

SEVEN

A dull ache throbbed at the base of Beth’s skull as she brushed her teeth. Straightening from bending over the sink, a wave of dizziness hit, and she grabbed the porcelain basin to steady herself.

“Whew, I hope I’m not coming down with something.”

Her equilibrium restored, she headed to the bedroom to dress. It was early for her to be up—especially for a Saturday—but she didn’t know when Sean McCauley would be stopping by, and she needed to be ready.

Her hands trembled slightly as she slipped on a fuzzy sweater, and again she wondered if she was getting sick. But then she shook her head, reminding herself of her restless night. Of course she felt wimpy this morning. It had been well after two when she looked at the clock last, which meant she’d had fewer than five hours of sleep.

“Once I get some coffee in me, I’ll be fine,” she encouraged herself as she sat on the edge of the bed to tie her sneakers. Bending down that way made her head spin, and she added through gritted teeth, “And I better eat something, too.”

She considered going to the café for breakfast. The new owner, Henry’s sister Deborah, baked the most delectable cinnamon buns.

But Saturday mornings were always busy at the café, and Beth might have to wait to be seated. She didn’t want to waste time this morning. Instead, she visited her own kitchen, frowning at the limited choices.

With a sigh, she plunked a mug of coffee left over from yesterday’s pot in the microwave and dropped two frozen waffles in the toaster. The microwave dinged just as the toaster tossed the waffles into the air. Leaning against the counter, she munched the dry, blueberry-flavored waffles and sipped the bitter liquid. Although it couldn’t compete with Deborah’s cinnamon buns and freshly brewed coffee, it filled her belly and revived her enough to go to the studio. Tucking the drawing pad containing both hers and Andrew’s designs and the thick contract beneath her arm, she headed to her vehicle for the short drive.

Cars—plain ones and “worldly” ones—lined Main Street, providing evidence of the café’s patronage of both Mennonite and non-Mennonite customers. Lisbeth’s Café had brought in the highway traffic for more than four decades. The café was as popular now as it had been when Beth’s great-aunt had operated it. Beth had chosen to build her studio on the south side of the café partly because the land had been bequeathed to her and partly because it was a great opportunity to pull in café customers when she finally built the showroom addition.

Her heart pounded as it always did when she thought of her dreams for the studio. Although she’d lain awake last night, mulling things over and over in her mind, she still wasn’t 100 percent certain about signing on the dotted line with McCauley Church Construction.
God, You’re going to have to clunk me hard with an answer before Sean McCauley gets to the studio. I want to do the right thing.