Pane and Suffering (11 page)

“Hey,” said Edward, “you've done this before.”

Savannah tilted her head sideways, batted her eyelashes in an outrageous flutter, then swallowed the beer. Setting down the shot glass, she admitted, “I've been playing coy. I've been a beer cicerone since the week I turned twenty-one.”

“Cicerone?”

“It's the equivalent of wine sommelier. In Seattle, I organized the city's beer runs. They were very much like the Bad Santa Crawl here at Christmas and the Kilted Beer Run on St. Patrick's. I also hosted a beer blog that had over five thousand followers.”

“So you officially know more about beer than I do.”

“Yep.” Savannah nodded her head, then sipped her beer. “Officially.”

Chapter 11

 

O
n the third day of class, Savannah opened up the shop, started the cash register, and realized that Edward hadn't delivered morning coffee along with his mouth-watering cranberry scones. She didn't exactly expect him to bring her breakfast each day, but she was a little hungry and even a bit disappointed.

Stopping by the local gym had been the exact right thing to do. The boot camp training session was already in progress when she'd arrived but the instructor had welcomed her and she'd slipped into the mindless pattern of kettle bell lifting alternating with jumping jacks and the dreaded lunges. The crack of dawn class was a complete hodge-podge of young professionals, college students, and active retirees in need of a challenging exercise class.

For the first time in days, the knot at the base of her neck wasn't trying to creep up the back of her head. She'd signed up for a one-month membership to keep up her fitness level and help reduce her stress.

The door jangled and she turned with a smile to greet those delicious scones, but it was Reverend Kline stepping through the front door. He was wearing his pastoral suit of light gray over a black shirt with a black clerical collar and narrow black leather tie-up shoes. He had a folder in his hand. “Good morning, Savannah. I was passing by on my way to see the church's district superintendent and wanted to drop this brochure into your hands personally.” He held the folder out to her.

“Good morning, Reverend Kline. It's nice to see you.”

“How are you holding up?”

“I'm feeling a bit alone in the world.” Savannah read the banner across the brochure. E
ND OF
L
IFE
G
ROUP
C
OUNSELING
—I
NSPIRATIONAL
I
NTERVENTIONS
I
N
G
RIEF
AND
B
EREAVEMENT
. She held it away from her and looked askance.

“I know.” Reverend Kline shrugged his shoulder. “It's a bit sensational, but it makes it easier for me to discuss grief with potential members of our therapy group. I established it about five years ago and I must take some small credit for building it into a successful part of our mission.”

Savannah flipped through the brochure and looked back to him. “I'm not sure this is what I need just now. This morning, I wanted to pull the covers over my head and stay there. Luckily, Rooney needs to go out and then needs to be fed. By then, I've started the day.”

“That's exactly why you need to come and join the group. Each member has been where you are now. It really does help.” He scanned around the shop. “You're continuing with the business?”

“I don't think I want to talk about my father's death to a group of strangers.” She flipped to the back page of the brochure and looked at the picture of kindly faces quoting words of sympathy and supportive testimonials. “Dad's biggest contract was for your replacement windows. They require specific expertise. Hugh's death has left a gap in skill and knowledge that will be difficult if not impossible to fill.”

“I thought your plan was to sell the house and the shop in order to return to Seattle.”

“Well, the actual plan was to sell Webb's to Hugh, but that has been completely turned upside down. I want to finish teaching the class Hugh was all geared up to handle. I feel obligated because the students signed up and paid for it way in advance. I'm happy to keep Dad and Hugh's last few commitments. They were real particular about commitments. I don't know what I'm going to do about the backlog—probably cancel them. I don't know. I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet.”

“I understand. You see, those are the things we could work out in the grief and bereavement support group. What your future should be. How you should proceed.” He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a bouncing side hug. “Your dad would have wanted you to discuss these things fully. He was so proud of your achievements in Seattle at the Pilchuck Studio.”

She nodded her head slightly. “I'll think about it. When's the next meeting?”

“It's tonight at seven in the church community room. I know you'll make good progress within the group, but first you actually have to attend.”

The door jangled sharply and Edward bounced into the shop. “Good morning.” He screeched to a halt. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see, er, I mean I didn't know, er, you had company.” He turned around. “I'll come back later.”

Savannah laughed right out loud at his silly reaction. “Edward, come back. It's Reverend Kline from my church. Reverend, this is Edward Morris, owner of the Queen's Head Pub next door. He's been helping me get used to being a business owner.”

Reverend Kline tilted his head and reached out a hand. “I believe I recall meeting some of your staff at Mr. Webb's funeral service. I'm pleased to meet any friend of Savannah's. I've known her all her life.”

Edward stepped into the store and put the coffee tray on the sales counter. He wiped his hands on his black jeans and stood as tall as if he were wearing a tuxedo. “How do you do, Reverend Kline.” Then he looked into Savannah's eyes. “Everyone needs to support Savannah in these difficult days.”

Savannah swallowed quickly and then burst into tears.
That was so kind
. She fumbled in her jean pocket for a tissue.

Edward produced a freshly pressed white handkerchief and placed it in her hand. “Here you go. I'd be shocked if you didn't have a few tears over the next week or two. Right, Reverend?”

“You're absolutely right, Edward. I think we all need to encourage Savannah in her path to grieving for her father.” He turned to her. “Would you mind if I take a look at the progress of the replacement panel? It's been several weeks since I stopped by.”

Savannah wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She nodded in the direction of the custom workshop. “No problem, Reverend. The door is unlocked.”

“Is that wise?” Reverend Kline halted in the doorway to the workshop. “How can you ensure that the panel is safe?”

Savannah walked into the custom workshop with him. “I didn't think about that. You have a good point. I'll start locking the door even when the shop is open.” She lifted the white cotton sheet used to cover the panel.

He bent over the work and peered specifically at the solder joins, then picked up one of the foiled pieces and ran his finger over the smooth surfaces. He straightened and looked at Savannah. “It's coming right along. This is very good work. It's the same quality as the ancient Russian pieces that I've acquired for the church. Craftsmanship of this level is difficult to find. Hugh will be sorely missed.” He placed the foiled piece back on the worktable.

Savannah replaced the protective cover. “Russian pieces?”

“Yes, I've been scouting for religious icons for years. It's one of my passions to see that they don't fall into the hands of private investors who will never let them fulfill their holy purpose as spiritual inspiration.”

“So, maybe that's why you helped the committee choose Webb's Glass Shop for the duplications. You have become an admirer of the craft.”

He nodded absently and she followed him back into the display room where Edward was intently looking at the reverend's brochure.

“Thanks for letting me take a look. I see you've started work where Hugh left off. I'm especially anxious to see how you get on with the completion of the panel. I know how skilled you are, but the best proof will be the quality of the work. I would be very distressed if the steering committee decided to withdraw the contract.” Reverend Kline patted Savannah on the shoulder and left them standing in front of the checkout counter.

“He's right,” Savannah said, turning to Edward. “I'm in a pickle without Hugh.”

“But your dad and Hugh taught you everything they knew about stained glass.”

“It would still be a stretch to say that I'm anywhere near as good as they were. The reverend may have to retract the contract. That would certainly make Frank happy. Dad, however, will turn over in his grave.”

“Of course, I heard that your dad and Frank had a falling out, but John wouldn't talk about it. Do you know why?”

Savannah's shoulders slumped and she ran a hand through her hair. “Yes, I remember when it happened. It was a clash of titans, in a way. Frank used to work here, and Dad felt strongly about giving students the best possible instruction and highest quality materials to encourage a life-long love of glass.”

“Frank didn't agree?”

“His approach is to get a ton of students jammed in a class and charge them twice the wholesale price for the cheapest of materials. It's why Frank started his own shop. Dad wouldn't have it. And being each other's direct competition didn't help things after Frank left Webb's.”

“And of course, John wouldn't have grassed on him,” said Edward.

“What? What's grassed?”

“Grassed means tattletale or snitch. Sorry. Are you going?”

“Where? Back to Seattle?”

“No, I mean to the grief counseling group.”

“Oh. I think I need to attend something. I keep bursting into tears anytime something reminds me of Dad. That can't be normal.”

“It might be. That's the kind of thing you would find out if you went to the group.” Edward turned to the door. “Have you called Burkart yet?”

“Shoot, I forgot again. I'll do that now.”

As Edward left, she reached for the phone, but the Rosenberg twins walked into Webb's with a million questions for her. The remaining students arrived. They were going to spend the rest of the morning continuing to work on the turtle sun catcher. The pattern was simple, but because it touched on all the steps required for copper foil–based artwork, they needed lots of help.

During the first lull in teaching, Amanda stepped up front close to Savannah. Her head tilted to one side, she whispered. “Any news from our intrepid Officer Boulli?”

Looking up, Savannah turned her back to the class, “No, I'm very pleased to say. Have you heard any rumors from the District that could help us?”

“Not a peep.”

 

 

Fifteen minutes before noon, her cell rang.

“Hey, Vanna, are we still on for lunch?”

Savannah pushed down the urge to throw the phone against the wall. “Of course, Frank. As we already agreed. At noon. I'll be on the sidewalk in front of the Casita Taqueria just a few minutes after high noon.”

She pressed the
END CALL
button on her phone screen. “That idiot just doesn't listen. My name is Savannah.”

Chapter 12

 

T
ucking her slim billfold into her back pocket, Savannah enjoyed walking the few short blocks through the slow-moving lunch traffic, until she spotted Frank standing near one of the outdoor picnic tables waving his hand. She pressed a sweating palm to her roiling stomach.
That man could have murdered my dad.

“Vanna! Over here.”

“Please don't call me Vanna”—she smiled her sweetest false grin and tilted her head—“or I will box your ears until they swell up like tomatoes.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. I thought you liked that.”

“Not one bit and I've told you more than once. Let me put this in words small enough for you to understand.” She leaned over to his ear and yelled, “Don't call me Vanna.”

“Settle down.” He backed away and covered his ear. “I've apologized already. We're supposed to be friends. I've known you since you were a baby.”

Savannah pressed her lips shut and exhaled a long breath. “As many people have been reminding me lately. Have you been here before?”

Frank shook his head. “Nope, too casual for me. If I'm in the mood for it, I like the New Orleans café toward downtown. The food is one hundred percent authentic NOLA and the jazz is wonderful.”

Her eyebrows lowered in disgust
. What a snob without a cause
.

“I haven't either, but I've heard that the blackened shrimp tacos are fantastic. It looks like we order inside.”

They joined a line inside the repurposed gas station painted in bright colors. The décor theme was a combination of a Cinco de Mayo Fiesta and the Day of the Dead Festival. There were more decorative skulls per square foot than Disney's Mexican Showcase on steroids.

A young, slim server girl behind a small counter gave them lunch menus. “May I take your order please?”

Savannah quickly scanned it, skimming down to the seafood section. “I'll have the blackened shrimp tacos, spicy, and an order of tortilla chips with hot salsa, please.”

The server scribbled the order on a yellow slip of paper. “And something to drink?”

“Sure, unsweetened iced tea.”

“Anything else?”

“No thanks. Just lemon.”

“The lemon will be at the beverage station.”

The girl handed Savannah a clear plastic cup and a brown paper bag full of tortilla chips stapled at the top. “Your order is number fifty-seven and the beverage and salsa stations are to your right. Sit anywhere you like. We'll deliver your order when it's ready. That will be six dollars and thirty-five cents.”

Savannah paid and stuffed the change into her pocket. She moved down to the drinks self-serve counter.

Frank sucked in his expansive gut and stood tall. “Hello, girlie. Just bring me a fried grouper sandwich and some extra-large spicy fries.”

“Sorry, sir. We don't serve fries. Will tortillas be okay?”

Oblivious, Frank prattled, “Oh, sure. A fried grouper sandwich with double the sauce and an extra-large serving of the spicy fries.”

“We don't serve fries here, sir. Would you like our fresh tortillas with a spicy salsa?”

“Oh, that's weird. Sure, just make sure the grouper has extra sauce.”

“And your drink?”

“I changed my mind about the Diet Coke. I'll have the Dos Equis in a bottle.”

“Of course, sir.” The server handed him a quickly opened beer along with a paper bag of tortillas. “Your order is number fifty-eight, sir, and we'll deliver it right to your table.” She accepted his payment for the order.

Savannah stood by the beverage station, looked at the selection of empty tables inside, and led Frank to a picnic table outside as far from other patrons as she could get.

Frank plopped down sideways and hitched his legs beneath the table.

Savannah sat across from him. “If we're supposed to be such great friends, why didn't you come to the funeral? I thought you were a person of influence in St. Petersburg.”

“It was personal.” Frank quickly ripped the bag of tortillas wide open and dipped one of multicolored chips in Savannah's bowl of taco sauce, then put the whole chip in his mouth. Mumbling around the chip, he asked, “Have you studied the financials of the shop yet? That was the excuse you gave me on Monday.”

“That was not an excuse.” She tore open her bag of tortillas and loaded one with a moderate amount of the salsa. “I've been going over the books from the past few years and remarkably, given the number of discounted classes Dad and Hugh conducted, it appears that the shop has been holding its own.”

“Sheesh.” Frank's eyes watered and he grabbed his beer for a huge swig. “That's a hot salsa.”

“That's why it's labeled
H-O-T
, Frank.”

“Yeah, I got that.” He took another swig of his beer. “The classes don't make money themselves. I make up the loss by selling supplies to the students.”

“Yes, my dad told me about your methods. Anyway, adding in the custom commissions, repairs, and restoration projects, Webb's has been enjoying a nice revenue stream.” Savannah fingered the sides of the sweating glass of tea, then took a sip.

She glanced up to spot Reverend Kline strolling down the public sidewalk that ran next to the outdoor tables. He stopped mid-stride. “Savannah, how nice to see you twice in one day. Hello, Frank.”

Frank made an attempt to stand but couldn't get his bulk over the edge of the picnic table. He half-stood and shook hands with the reverend. “Hey, there. How's it going?”

“Are you conspiring with my prized glass artist here? I think she's going to do an excellent job with the church's stained glass replacement contract, don't you, Frank?”

Frank plopped back down. “That's what we're discussing. I think this kid should go back to her studio out in Seattle.”

Reverend Kline looked over to Savannah. “She's definitely not a kid anymore. She can make up her own mind. I just want to go on record that I strongly encourage her to take over the shop and serve the community as her dad has always done.”

Frank's face flushed deep rust and he took a large gulp of his beer.

“The Lord's blessings to you, Savannah.” The reverend nodded a farewell and walked quickly down the street.

Savannah smiled at his overt support.
I wonder why he's in this part of town. The church is downtown and he lives in the northeast section of town.

Frank cleared his throat. “Hey, what's with the puzzled look? What does he mean with this confidence in your stuff?”

She fiddled with the paper bag of tortillas that was slowly turning brown with oil. “Hugh was a great teacher and he was better than Dad in his ability to repair difficult pieces. We worked on so many restoration and original design projects together before I won the scholarship to Seattle.” She didn't mention that she hadn't done any in years and hadn't been nearly as good as Hugh even when she was well practiced. She wanted to make Frank uncomfortable. Insecure would be even better.

“Yeah, but the shop's steady stream of custom commissions were mostly due to the experience that Hugh brought to the shop. No one was better in the entire state of Florida—no one. You don't have that resource anymore.” Frank's ego seemed unfazed. He looked up in delight as a server placed his sandwich on the table, then placed a basket overflowing with three tacos in front of Savannah.

“You don't have him as a resource either. At twelve, I was a better glass artist than you'll ever be. How many projects have you personally completed lately?”

“That's not important. John would have approved.”

“Why do you say that when the two of you hadn't spoken for years?”

“That's not entirely true. We finally started to resolve our differences. It was just a few weeks ago.”

“I still don't understand. If the two of you were such buddy-buddies, why didn't you come to the funeral?”

“I was out of town on a personal matter.”

“What personal matter could be that important?”

“I was at a . . . you know what, never mind. Let's get back to the church commission. I'm telling you, my shop can finish the panel. There's no other place in town that can do it.”

“How? I just don't see it. Help me understand.” She put her taco back in the basket and stared directly at Frank. She was even more curious about Frank since he wouldn't tell why he missed her father's funeral.

“All right, all right. I have an inside connection with the family that created and installed the panels. They're going to send down two of their experts to finish the panels and conduct some training as well. It will pull my studio to the top in this town.”

“Pull it out of the category of student factory? I don't think so.”

“You're being shortsighted. Admit that calling in the original factory will more than make up for Hugh's loss.”

“Yep, I have to admit that is an excellent plan. I wouldn't have thought of it myself.”
But I have now
.

“Well, never mind about me.” Frank lifted his beer. “How about a toast to our soon to be completed deal.” He tapped the bottle to her still sitting glass of tea and took another serious gulp of his beer.

“We don't have a deal yet.”

He spluttered, quickly set the beer on the table, and grabbed his napkin to muffle the choking cough. “Yet.” He coughed again “The key there is
yet
.”

“What will you do with the glass shop if I sell it to you?”

“What kind of question is that? What do you care? I mean, after you sell, you're going back to Seattle, right?”

“I'm trying to assess my options. Besides, your offer wasn't particularly overwhelming. Things are not as I expected with the glass shop. I enjoy teaching.”

The server—ALICE on her nametag—returned carrying a tray with a stack of napkins for the table and stowed them neatly in the napkin holder. “Is your order okay? Is there anything else I can get you?”

“I'll have another beer.” Frank placed his empty bottle on her tray. His eyes narrowed and he looked across the table at Savannah. “Why would you want to stay?”

“That's my business and none of yours.” She pressed her lips into a thin line.

“There's nothing for you here.”

Savannah raised her eyebrows. “Like I said, things are more complicated than I thought they were going to be.” Edward's green eyes rushed into her mind. “Definitely more interesting.”

Determined to enjoy her meal despite Frank's irritating remarks, she sprinkled more salsa on one of the messy, overfilled tacos and bit into the perfectly cooked and spicy shrimp. She savored that bite. “Wow. There aren't many places in St. Pete that can actually pull off seafood tacos. This one hits the nail on the head.”

“I don't like shrimp.”

She tucked into the dish like she hadn't eaten in years. “One more time, Frank. What are you going to do with the shop if I sell it to you?”

He had just taken a huge bite of his fried grouper sandwich. He mumbled, then lowered the sandwich, reached over to the napkin holder, grabbed several, and wiped his mouth. “I just don't see why you're concerned with that. I have given you a fair offer. I need a decision, now.”

“Sorry.” Savannah munched her taco noisily to drown the annoying buzzing that was Frank. She was determined to enjoy her meal no matter how much guff he dealt.

“Hey, I've been trying to reach you.” Gregory Smythe stood next to their table, hands locked behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Your wild-haired student, Amanda I think it was, said I could find you here. She didn't say you were lunching with my competition.” He threw a nasty look directly at Frank.

Savannah turned her head up.
Walking around in public wearing a cream suit with a bright teal shirt and he calls Amanda wild
? She swallowed quickly, swiped her mouth, and planted a customer smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smythe. This is a private meeting. I apologize for the inconvenience, but we need to schedule a time to discuss our business in private. I'm quite busy with the stained glass workshop.” She nodded over to Frank. “I also have other business matters to manage.”

Frank raised his eyebrows in an excellent Spock impression. “You heard her. She's discussing the matter with me. Get lost.”

“Don't make a fuss, Frank. I'm not convinced that your offer is in my best interests either.”

Gregory Smythe adjusted his Betty Boop tie, then looked down at Savannah. “This is the real estate business. The early bird gets the sale. When may I discuss my offer with you? Can we meet later this afternoon?”

“I'm teaching this afternoon.”

“How about this evening?”

“Fine. If you insist, how about meeting me at the Queen's Head Pub at six? Do you know the place?”

“Yes, I'll be there.” He looked at Frank. “I'll be ready to counter any reasonable offer.” He turned on his heel and strode noisily down the sidewalk.

Frank leaned over the table. “Come on, Savannah. You've got to give me an answer. You seriously can't be considering this slime bucket as a buyer. He'll tear down the whole block and there'll be nothing left of Webb's.”

“And you're planning on closing down Webb's and taking all my clients. If you do that, I may as well sell it to Smythe. I've said it out loud—I'm not ready to decide.” She took the last bite of her taco, stood, and placed the napkin in the serving basket. “It's too soon after Hugh's death. Things are not going as I planned at all. I'm not ready to say yes, but I'm not ready to say no either. Sorry, but that's the way it is. You'll just have to deal with it.”