Читать книгу Season Of Glory - Ron/Janet Benrey - Страница 11

Sharon waited in the hospital’s lobby, her mind filled with the hazy notion that she was about to lead Andrew Ballantine into harm’s way. As the patient in Room 204, he was relatively safe—especially with the formidable Special Agent Keefe still poking around, annoying the E.R. staff and paramedics with questions. But outside the hospital—well, anything could happen in the real world.

She watched the elevator door slide open. Melanie Luft, the floor-duty nurse who’d cared for Andrew, pushed his wheelchair alongside the Information kiosk in the lobby.

Melanie looked elfin in a Santa hat as she walked back to the elevator—a reminder that Christmas was only nine days away. But despite the approaching holiday, Sharon found the hat more frivolous than festive. The thought of a poisoner stalking Andrew had overwhelmed the joy of the season. It no longer felt like Christmas to Sharon.

Her former husband had announced his intention to leave a few days before Christmas two years ago. She’d urged herself not to allow the divorce to destroy her love of Christmas—and she’d succeeded. But how could she enjoy the Season of Lights this year when Andrew might be in lethal peril?

Andrew waved at her, a cheerful smile on his face. She jogged to the wheelchair and reprimanded him, “Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not going to overexert yourself today.”

“Wow! Did I do something wrong?”

Sharon winced at her overreaction to his understandable pleasure at leaving the hospital. She’d scolded Andrew, she knew, because she was worried about him—and also harbored guilt for orchestrating his premature release.

“Your cardiologist wanted you to spend another day in bed until we’re entirely sure your heart rhythm is back to normal,” she said briskly. “I talked her into letting you go this morning—with the understanding that you’d have a no-stress day and wear a real-time cardiac monitor.”

Andrew patted the book-sized plastic box clipped to his belt. “Melanie described it as a portable patient monitor.”

“It’s more than that. There’s a cell phone module inside that transmits your cardiac data back to the hospital every hour. It will report abnormal rhythms as soon as they occur.”

He peered up at her. “I just noticed…you’re not wearing scrubs.”

The admiration she could hear in his voice pleased her. She’d chosen her simple outfit—a cashmere sweater and designer jeans—because it flattered her figure. This wasn’t a date, but why not look her best?

“I’m your chauffeuse today,” she said. “You’re not allowed to drive until you rack up twenty-four more hours of normal heartbeats, so I arranged for another nurse to replace me in the E.R.” She stepped behind Andrew, took hold of the wheelchair’s handles, and pushed the chair toward the hallway that led to the parking garage.

“Thanks for springing me from Glory Regional. Another night upstairs would have driven me bonkers.” He added, “I’m raring to get to work.”

“Don’t ‘rare’ too hard. You’ll trigger your cardiac surveillance system.”

“I feel fine.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Admit it—I even look healthy.”

She replied by pushing the wheelchair faster. It was true that Andrew seemed as hale and hardy as when she first saw him. But she knew that Sharon Pickard, Committee Chair, not Sharon Pickard, Registered Nurse, had championed Andrew’s early “parole” from medical care—for purely practical reasons.

Andrew was scheduled to speak at a special Tuesday night elders’ meeting at Glory Community Church, where he would present for their approval his recommended strategy for restoring the broken stained-glass window. Alas, it was too close to Christmas to reschedule the meeting. If Andrew didn’t speak tonight, the committee work she found so tedious would drag on another month.

Well, whatever her motives for persuading his cardiologist, Andrew would remain “fine” and “healthy” today. She’d be at his side throughout the day—his own private duty nurse.

I won’t let him overdo. And I’ll make sure he’s not poisoned again.

She paused in front of the sensor to allow the electric doors to open, then pushed the wheelchair into the parking garage.

“I can walk from here,” Andrew said.

“Stay put! My car is at the other end. I intend to bring the wheelchair with us today. In case we need it.”

“I feel silly being wheeled around.”

“Get used to it. It’s all part of the deal I made.”

“Whew! You can be tough,” he said with a chuckle.

“Not tough enough,” she murmured. I didn’t say no to Pastor Hartman.

Daniel Hartman had approached her just before Thanksgiving. “Sharon, we need someone like you to chair our Window Restoration Committee.”

“I’m not a committee person,” she’d said truthfully. “I’m impatient and not at all diplomatic.”

Daniel countered her objections. “It’ll be an easy job for someone with your organizational skills and experience. It’s a small committee—only three members plus yourself. You’ll meet occasionally to decide the best way to repair our damaged stained-glass window. Once the committee recommends a course of action to the elders, Ann Trask Miller—our church administrator—will oversee the actual construction work when the restoration strategy is approved by the elders.”

He’d made it seem like such a simple assignment. But the “occasional meetings” had quickly become three meetings a week as the WinReC discovered that the job of restoring a stained-glass window was a festival of unforeseen complexities. After two weeks of wheel-spinning, the members reluctantly decided to import a stained-glass expert to help them plan a restoration strategy.

“End of the line. Here’s my car.” She stopped in front of a compact sedan. “You buckle up in the passenger seat while I collapse the wheelchair and stow it in the trunk.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To your office.”

“I have an office?”

“We didn’t get the chance to tell you on Sunday, but Gordie Pollack set up an office for you to use while you’re in Glory.”

“Did I meet Gordie at the tea party?”

“Briefly. He’s the Director of the Scottish Heritage Society, Glory’s Number-One expert on our Scottish traditions and history. He’s also a member of the church’s Window Restoration Committee. He’s become the project’s “historic conscience”—the person who champions the window’s cultural significance.”

Sharon climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Glory is a small town,” Andrew said, “and it’s a fine morning for a brisk stroll. Do we really have to drive to my office?”

“True. I agree. And, yes—it’s not negotiable.” She put the car in gear. “No brisk strolls until your cardiologist feels confident you won’t suffer another bout of bradycardia.”

“I’ll say it again. You’re tough.”

She drove in silence for more than a minute. “That impressive stone and granite edifice ahead on the left, on the corner of Front and Main, is the Glory National Bank Building—the tallest structure in Glory.”

“Our destination?”

“Yep. Your office is on the second floor.”

Sharon found a parking space in front of the building.

“What happens now?” Andrew said.

“We’ll risk you walking from here on.”

Sharon followed Andrew into the building then through the high-ceilinged lobby, her heels tapping on the marble floor.

“Let’s climb the staircase to the second floor,” he said.

“Let’s no t. A sudden increase in your pulse might trigger your heart monitor. If that happens, we’d be hip deep in paramedics.”

Sharon noted that Andrew stared straight ahead as they rode up in the elevator. He must’ve been getting irritated with her seemingly foolish edicts. Well, the world would be back to normal tomorrow—for him and for her.

The Scottish Heritage Society occupied a small suite on the eastern end of the second floor. Gordie Pollack gave Sharon a hug, then moved toward Andrew, his hand outstretched. “The last time I saw you, Andrew,” he said, “you were as dark green as a MacAulay hunting tartan. I’m delighted to see you returned to the pink.”

He trilled his tongue as he said “dark” and “returned,” combining his mellifluous voice with a thick Scots accent to create a sound that Sharon found delightful. Gordie was charming and friendly, with bright blue eyes and handsome features. The ladies in Glory loved him, but he was firmly attached to Siobhan Pollock—who was as proud of her Irish ancestry as he was of his Scottish.

Sharon smiled as Andrew took up the Scottish brogue challenge. “Aye, Mr. Pollack,” he said. “I only wish everyone in Glory was as perceptive as ye. The doctors at the hospital fear I’m still ailing and as helpless as a wee bairn.”

“Enough Scottish games,” she chided. “Let’s put Andrew to work.”

“Certainly…” Andrew said with the longest trill of all.

“I yield to your rolling of the Rs.” Gordie raised his hands in mock surrender. “I converted our conference room into a guest office for you. We retrieved your laptop bag this morning from The Scottish Captain, so you should have everything you need.”

Sharon followed Andrew and Gordie into the smallish room. The walls were lined with the crests and framed tartans of the Scottish families who’d settled in Glory in 1733—McGregor, Macdonough, Stewart and Campbell in the places of greatest honor.

Sharon circled the room to examine the majestic, nineteenth century painting that depicted Scottish sporting exhibitions, but Andrew all but ignored them. He’d moved to the east wall and given his attention to five large unframed photographs—each three feet by two feet—of Glory Community Church’s stained-glass windows.

“Five windows, five of Jesus’ best-known parables,” he said.

Sharon perched on the edge of the conference table and listened to Andrew orate. He seemed to enjoy speaking to an audience. Good. He would impress the elders tonight.

“First,” Andrew went on, “is The Prodigal Son, everyone’s favorite. The window depicts the delighted father celebrating the wayward son’s return.”

He gestured toward the second photograph. “The next depicts another familiar parable, The Lost Sheep.”

“That’s also one of my favorites,” Sharon joined in. “The shepherd has just found his one lost sheep, and in the distance we see the roughly ninety-nine he left alone while he went searching.” She chuckled. “A supply pastor gave an especially dull sermon when Daniel Hartman was on his honeymoon. I actually counted the sheep in the window. There are only thirty-eight.”

Andrew nodded. “But there are ten coins in the window that depicts the parable of The Lost Coin. A woman who lost one of ten precious silver coins rejoices when she finds it. The fourth window presents the parable of The Wise and Foolish Builders.”

“My turn,” Sharon said. “A flood made of cobalt blue glass washes away the home of the foolish man who built his house on sand, but can’t damage the house of the wise man who built atop a solid foundation.”

“Finally, we have The Pearl of Great Value, the parable shown on the window that was destroyed by the fire,” Andrew began again. “The illustration portrayed the merchant overseeing the sale of his things so that he could purchase the prized pearl—which sits on a marble display stand near the top of the window. The pearl, of course, is the focal point of the illustration.”

Andrew turned around to face Sharon and imitated the posture—complete with outstretched hands—of a preacher delivering a sermon. “The Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it. Matthew 13:45-46.”

Sharon had expected Andrew to spout off about artistic merit, not grandly proclaim a Bible verse. She clapped appreciatively. “A man who quotes Scripture verbatim. I’m impressed.”

He gave a theatrical bow. “Work with ecclesiastical glass long enough, and you can’t help learning the best-known verses of the Bible.”

Gordie chimed in. “What you said about the pearl being the focal point proved to be true in every way. Our fire chief said the pearl was the last part of the window to melt away.”

Sharon recalled the day of the fire. She’d treated two firemen who had arrived at the E.R. with minor injuries. Both reported their astonishment that the fire crew had been able to contain the blaze to one narrow corner of the sanctuary. The fire had begun in a run of ancient electrical wiring directly below the window, and had traveled upward rather than sideways. The Glory Gazette reported this fact as “a stroke of great fortune,” but many church members considered it a miracle.

Andrew gestured toward the wall. “These photographs are stunning,” he said. “Who took them?”

“Lori Hartman,” Gordie replied, “the Pastor’s new wife. She took them last May, before they were married.”

“You’re lucky to have them. I can compare the colors on these photos with the surviving windows and figure out exactly the kind of glass used in the fifth window. They’ll also help us with the painting.”

Gordie stepped closer to the photos. “Now I get to ask my dumb question. I always thought that stained-glass windows were made of colored glass, not painted glass. Where did I go wrong?”

“You ended your journey of learning too early.” Andrew pointed to the image of the pearl merchant. “Stained-glass windows are made of pieces of colored glass held together with lead strips called cames. But before we assemble the window, the fine details are painted on appropriate pieces of glass, which are then fired in a kiln to make the paint part of the glass surface.” He tapped the merchant’s face. “Ta-da! Painted stained glass.”

Sharon slipped to her feet. “I’ll get out of your way so you can think about your presentation.”

Andrew waved a small black notebook. “You wouldn’t let me have my laptop yesterday, but I never travel without this tucked into my jacket pocket. I did lots of thinking last night.” He showed the inside of the notebook to Sharon. She could see one short sentence written in bold block letters.

“I have a simple recommendation to make to the elders,” he said. “Duplicate the original window exactly.”

“Is that possible?” Sharon asked.

“Absolutely! The original window was designed by a Scottish artist named Daniel Cottier and built by James Ballantine, my genuinely famous forebear. There’s a stained-glass workshop in New Bern, North Carolina that can fabricate an identical window, if we provide the cartoon—the detailed blueprint and design drawing.” Andrew smacked the notebook against his palm. “Now here’s the really good news. The cartoon for the window is preserved in the Ballantine family archives.”

“So that means we’ll get our old window back…” Sharon said.

“…as if there’d never been a fire,” Andrew replied.

“It seems a no-brainer,” Gordie said excitedly. “Why would the church do anything else?”

“Why indeed?” Sharon felt like cheering. Andrew had come up with an easy-to-implement solution that would quickly erase all memories of the fire. The elders were bound to agree with such a straightforward recommendation and her life would become committee-less once again. With luck, before Christmas. That would be her “Pearl of Great Value.”

Sharon pulled Gordie aside. “This is going to sound silly, but would you lock your front door today?”

“Way ahead of you. When Agent Keefe questioned me, he mentioned that Andrew might still be a target.” He added with a frown, “I find that hard to believe in downtown Glory, but…”

Sharon nodded. “As the Scot’s proverb says, ‘better to keep the devil out, than have to put him out.’”