Pane and Suffering

Pane and Suffering

Cheryl Hollon

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

If it takes a village to raise a child, it takes a planet to support a writer.

For craft development, nothing has had more impact than the Sisters in Crime's online chapter, the Guppies (the Great Unpublished). There are hundreds of Guppies and here's a wave of the fin to you all. In particular, Guppies are stellar at coming up with book titles—Lisa Mathews, Mariella Krause, and Di Schultz, that's you.

Big bear hugs go to Joye Barnes who courageously provided that precise balance of encouragement and gently targeted feedback to nurture my early writing attempts. Without her support, I would not be a writer at all. Her warm circle of friends followed my arduous journey with interest and supplied adult beverages in generous quantities.

I have been wildly fortunate to host a face-to-face critique group—Amy Jordan, Christa Rickard, Sam Falco and Aaron Steimle. Filled with dread, I've entered the “cone of silence” while they pointed out continuity errors, awkward dialogue, and plot holes big enough to hide a planet. Thank you.

If you have a chance to attend Donald Maass' Break-Out Novel Workshop—do it. This is where you learn to take your writing to the next level. No, two levels! Organized by the extraordinary editor and author, Lorin Ober weiger, of Free-Expressions, I attended my first one in Santa Fe, NM, and another in Charlotte, NC. The manuscript I tortured in Charlotte captured my agency's attention. Seriously, just go.

This series is based on an actual neighborhood of St. Petersburg, FL, the Grand Central District that runs along Central Avenue and an actual stained glass store, Grand Central Stained Glass. I've taken an artist's license of changing the names of some of the businesses and the name of the church downtown. Locals will recognize Queens Head Eu-robar and 3 Daughters Brewing as well as other eateries and landmarks. I reserve the delight to research them thoroughly and move them around to suit my book. I've simplified the name of the pub to Queen's Head.

Deepest thanks to cover artist, Bruce Emmett. For the unknown debut author, I believe a first-in-series book cover is the most influential factor in attracting readers. He absolutely nailed the look of Webb's Glass Shop and the ever adorable service beagle, Suzy.

The editor of my dreams, Mercedes Fernandez, has been my cheerleader, counselor, and champion in guiding the way through my novice year as an author. She has pushed me gently out of my comfort zone and into a better story.

I am deeply grateful for the skill, knowledge, inspiration, and confidence that my agent shared with unstinting cheer and encouragement. Thank you, Beth Campbell, of Bookends, LLC.

Thank you to my mother, Marcella, who blessed me with a wildly original upbringing that provided life skills taught with love and a critical amount of joyous freedom. Thank you to my dad, Wendell, who broke the local library age restriction rules to help me check out books from the adult stacks. He also taught me how to make impossible things (remember the completely handmade canoe we built in the attic?). This book is one of those impossible things.

I'm also very grateful for the loving support from my family in this long journey to publication. Thanks, Eric, Jennifer, Aaron, Beth, Ethan, Lena Rose, Mister, Pepper, Ricky, and Snowy for simply believing this dream would come true.

Chapter 1

 

S
avannah fingered the key ring her late father had used only a week ago. She knew each key by memory, having used them from babyhood up through borrowing his car with her newly issued driver's license. She clenched them in her fist and took a deep shaky breath.
Dad will never twirl them barely out of my reach again.

Paint flaked off the heavy, fireproofed and double-bolted back door.
It's like Dad,
she thought,
well-worn, but strong and solid.

How could her smart, funny, marathon running dad die of a heart attack?

Savannah unlocked the shop, stepped into his office, and keyed the alarm code. With walls built of salvaged barn wood, the tiny space awakened a vision of his shoulders hunched over a mountain of paperwork. The sharp smoky scent of his aftershave clutched her heart.

Forcing a slow breath, she dropped the keys onto the rolltop desk that had once been her grandfather's. Small pilings of papers, files, bills, and Post-it notes covered every available flat surface and all the pigeonholes were stuffed like magpie nests. Grandpa Roy had used the sturdy desk for the motorcycle business he'd started after World War I. In continuous use by her family since the 1920s, it looked at her with serious expectations.

She ran her hand over the top and smiled when her fingers reached the dent caused by a wildly thrown toy rocket when she was five. Her dad had yelled at her.

Startled by the ringing of the black wall-mounted phone, she cleared her throat and picked up the receiver. “Webb's Glass Shop. May I help you?”

“Oh my. I wasn't expecting a real person. I meant to leave a message.”

Good guess. I don't feel like a real person today.
“It's okay. I'm opening up. May I help you?”

“I wanted to know if class has been cancelled. I would completely understand, you know, because the funeral was on Sunday. It was so awesome—all those young men in military uniforms.”

Savannah flinched, recalling the haunting echo of
Taps
floating behind the gravestone that marked the final rejoining of her parents. She swallowed quickly. “Classes are being held as scheduled beginning today. Which one are you taking?”

“I'm in Beginning Stained Glass.”

“It starts in half an hour. What's your name?”

“Amanda Blake. I signed up for more classes with John, I mean with Mr. Webb, last month, but I thought the shop might close.”

“Hugh Trevor is taking over the classes for Dad. I mean Mr. Webb. I'll see you in—”

“Oh my goodness. Are you Savannah?”

“Yes, I'm—”

“I am so, so sorry. I saw you at the funeral. You must be devastated. Mr. Webb was so proud of you. He talked about you all the time.”

“Thank you. I have to—”

“He was so proud that you were studying at Pilchuck Glass School on a special scholarship. He told every class about how you won the Spinnaker Art Festival on your first entry when you were only seventeen.”

“How embarrassing. Every class?”

“Yes, it was always in his first lecture.”

Savannah struggled to keep her voice from breaking. “It's going to be difficult to—”

“Your dad looked so strong, so healthy, and so positively vital . . . if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, it was a shock.”

“He was such an excellent teacher and mentor. How are you going to manage everything?”

“I'm not sure yet.” Savannah's stomach fluttered. “Sorry, but I've got to go. I'll see you in class.” Savannah clicked the receiver down before Amanda could continue.

Savannah finger combed her short, black hair, tugged up the waistband of her skinny jeans, and rolled up the cuffs of her classic white shirt. It was her basic teaching uniform. Calm, she focused on getting the shop ready for the day's business.

Shoving the key ring into her back pocket and picking up the waiting stack of student handouts, she walked into the classroom. Situated between the office and the retail area, the large classroom contained six sturdy worktables for students, each with a tall wooden stool. As she placed a large brown manila envelope on each of the worktables, she remembered how her dad had experimented with various table sizes, table heights, stool types, and the number of students per table.

He'd tried to rope in Hugh to help, but his long-time assistant had no empathy for a student's environment. However, the crusty Hugh could teach a mule about the beauty, art, and mystic nature of always-liquid glass. Her dad's meticulous research had resulted in the current configuration of three rows of two worktables facing a whiteboard on the front wall and an instructor worktable facing the class. He'd practically wiggled with joy after he'd found the perfect environment for his students to create great glass art.

She switched on the overhead natural lighting that illuminated the projects of former students displayed around the walls. Her heart wrenched when she noticed her dad had placed her first piece, the traditional green turtle sun catcher panel, on the narrow shelf of the whiteboard. He had been planning to use it for the first demonstration project. Tears immediately formed and she pulled a tissue from her back pocket to press them away.

In her mind's eye, she saw her nail-bitten child's fingers struggling with the pieces of green glass. She had desperately willed them to be nimble and sure as she assembled the little turtle under her dad's watchful guidance. It must have pleased him to no end to use it as an example for the class.

After switching on the task lighting lamp for each worktable, she walked to the room at the front of the shop facing the street. It served as the student display gallery and retail section. It was neat and orderly as he'd always kept it.

Off to her right, she looked at the closed door of her dad's custom workshop. They had spent many, many hours working on delicate restorations, complicated repairs, and amazing consignments from almost every church in the city.

Deliberately delaying opening up the workspace that held her oldest and strongest memories, she found the right key and unlocked the front door.
If I don't open the workshop door, I can imagine that he's still in there working on his latest project. I know it's childish, but I don't have to be a grown-up all the time.

At twenty minutes before ten, it was a little early to open the shop, but some students preferred to arrive early so they could lay claim to their work area. She looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the length of the storefront to see a short man with an elaborate comb-over getting out of a red BMW, then striding up to the door.

“Rats,” she muttered. It was the owner of Lattimer's Glass Shop, her dad's competitor. She pushed down a rush of panic and put on her face reserved for welcoming customers. Savannah opened the door. “Hi Frank. What brings you down here to the Grand Central District? Your shop is still downtown, right?”

Frank pursed his soft lips into a thin line. “Good morning, Savannah. I see you're opening up. I thought we could talk about my offer to buy Webb's Glass Shop.” He stepped closer, but she blocked him from entering.

“I'm not ready.”

“What's to get ready? Why are you torturing yourself when you could accept my offer and be on your way back to Seattle?”

Not slamming the door in his face took willpower. “I'm on bereavement leave. My scholarship will still be there when I get back. Besides, I haven't worked out all the finances yet.”

“You can trust me on this. It's a generous offer.”

Savannah started closing the door, “Yours is not the only offer, you know.”

“Oh sure, that land shark Smythe can mention a tempting figure,” he said, putting a name to the corporate real estate tycoon who wanted to buy the block to build a Super Store. “But he has to work through his corporate office
and
get the other stores to sell along with you. I'm only trying to save you time and trouble. Come on, Vanna. Your dad would have signed in a heartbeat.”

Savannah snapped, “That's a bald-faced lie. The two of you hadn't spoken in ten years.”

“You know he was a good businessman. That doesn't necessarily mean he wouldn't approve.”

“Approve? You didn't even come to the funeral. He would expect me to have thrown you out on your ear.”

Frank was quiet and the silence between them grew large and heavy. He looked down. “I'm sorry. I was busy. We did have some pretty wide differences. But that's only natural between teacher and student. He really was a wonderful teacher. I never thanked him for all he taught me. Now it's too late.”

Savannah looked at the floor and took a calming breath. “Look. I need to check the books. I'm not turning it down. Quite the opposite. I need to make sure everything is ready and that there are no financial surprises.”

“No one was a better businessman. John would have approved.”

“He sounded stressed the last few . . . Never mind. Let's meet downtown for lunch, say Wednesday at the Casita Taqueria just down the street. I promise I'll give you either an answer or a counteroffer.”

“Fair enough.” Frank nodded his head. “I'll see you then. Vanna, trust me. John would have approved.”

She leaned out the door. “Don't call me Vanna,” she yelled as an afterthought, watching him scrunch back into his sleek status symbol, screeching tires as he drove away.

She had been lying. She had no intention of selling to Frank. If all went well, she would leave for Seattle the next day and let Hugh handle everything else.
I should have told Frank,
she mused.
A little suffering would do him good.

Closing the door gently enough not to jangle the bell at the top, Savannah slipped behind the retail counter facing the entry door and tentatively pushed the power ON button to the point-of-sale PC. She watched it nervously, her fingers crossed that it would start up. Pushing the button was all she knew how to do.

Savannah picked up the phone beside the screen and ran her finger down the tattered list of contacts taped to the counter top, stopping at
Hugh Trevor.
She dialed the number and heard his answering machine message. “I'm out. You know the drill.”
Beep.

“Hugh, are you there? It's Savannah. I need your help to open the shop. I hope you're on the way. Please be on the way. Please. See you soon.”

As she spoke, the doorbell jangled fiercely and a tall man dressed in black western boots, black jeans, and a French blue oxford shirt topped with a black string tie bolted through. “Don't touch it,” he cautioned in a BBC-newscaster accent. “If the cash register starts up wonky, it'll be ages before it sorts itself out.”

Savannah looked into his seriously green eyes and caught a faint whiff of Polo Black. He crowded her to the side and peered at the PC screen. As she was six-foot in stocking feet, not many men looked down on her.

She stretched around his back to hang up the phone. “I didn't want to start it, but I couldn't wait for Hugh any longer. Who are you?”

He peered into the monitor. “Good. Coming online and”—he looked for a certain sign from the monitor—“brilliant. It's happy.” He pulled back, then turned to her. “I have the same system next door and I had a meltdown with mine this morning.”

“Right, but who—”

The tinkle of the door opening interrupted Savannah's question. A plump young woman with wildly spiked pink and yellow hair entered the shop. Wearing a white peasant blouse and patchwork midi skirt, she shouldered through the door balancing a huge purse, a canvas bag of tools, a briefcase overfilled with glass remnants, and a large plywood square for mounting stained glass work.

Green-eyed man lunged to hold open the door. “Amanda, you shouldn't try to carry everything at once.”

Savannah's eyebrows lifted.

Puffing like an espresso machine, Amanda said, “It's all right. Two trips would take too much energy. My aura has been weak since I heard the terrible news about Mr. Webb.” She made a beeline for the classroom.

Savannah scurried over to push the classroom door out of the way. She nudged a doorstop in place to keep it open.

Amanda grunted and plopped her bundles on the worktable in the first row. “I want to sit where I can see.” She nudged her bold orange glasses back onto her nose. “Savannah! Oh my goodness. You're just as beautiful as John said.” She clamped Savannah in a round tight hug, stepped back, and looked into her face. “And you have his cobalt blue eyes. I'm so happy to meet you.”

“Thank you, Amanda. Welcome to class.”

Savannah turned to stare pointedly at the green-eyed man.

Again, the doorbell jangled and two slender elderly women entered, wearing matching gray ruffled blouses with gray polyester pants over gray ballet flat shoes. They carried large gray tote bags. One carried hers over the left shoulder. The other twin carried hers over the right shoulder. Even their round, black glasses were identical.

Savannah gulped.
I'll never be able to tell these two apart.