Kitabı oku: «Season Of Glory», sayfa 3

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.’”

FOUR

Andrew stood in the back of Glory Community Church’s sanctuary and counted heads. He tallied more than sixty people—a far larger audience than the “seven elders and a few members” Gordie had predicted.

“I’m astonished,” Gordie said with a sheepish shrug. “Who knew that so many members cared enough about our window to attend a Tuesday evening meeting?”

“I like big audiences,” Andrew said quickly to camouflage the twinge of concern he felt. If Gordie had been wrong about congregational interest in the window, what other incorrect information had the Windows Restoration Committee provided about the church and the project?

“Forget it! Committees never get everything right.” He’d dealt with hundreds of church committees over the years. They were well-meaning, but because they were manned by inexperienced volunteers, they often ignored important minor details.

All the overhead lights were on, giving Andrew a better view than he’d had on Sunday of the recent fire’s impact on the sanctuary. He noted dozens of plastered patches on the walls where new electrical wiring had been installed. A fitted panel made of several sheets of plywood neatly filled the opening that had held the destroyed stained-glass window. And two rows of classroom chairs substituted for a pair of pews that must have been damaged. He guessed that the interior would be repainted early in the New Year and after that the water-stained carpeting would be replaced.

Yet despite its under-construction ambiance, the sanctuary still possessed great elegance—thanks largely to the four remaining stained-glass windows that overpowered the patched walls and the other minor eyesores. Once again he experienced a sense of pride at the legacy of excellence that James Ballantine had left to his descendents. It was a pity that James hadn’t traveled to America; he’d never had the chance to see these magnificent fruits of his craftsmanship actually installed in a church.

Sharon and Pastor Hartman were already sitting in the front of the sanctuary, near the communion table. Andrew made his way forward and sat down in the chair between them. Sharon’s black sweater brought out the gold in her complexion and her hair. He found the contrast especially attractive. He reminded himself to focus on his presentation—and the audience.

They were clustered in the first nine rows of pews and seemed friendly enough, although he recognized only a handful people he recalled from the tea party. He whispered to Sharon, “I presume the elders are seated in the front pew.”

“The elders, plus the other members of WinReC. In case you’ve forgotten, Ann Trask Miller is the petite blonde sitting with Gordie Pollack and Emma Neilson. She’s the church’s administrator—she reports to Pastor Hartman.”

“Quite a crowd showed up.”

“I told you that you’re famous. There’s even a reporter and a photographer from the Glory Gazette.” She added, “But don’t let it go to your head—or your heart. Your cardiac surveillance monitor will send bizarre signals to the hospital.”

He glanced at his waist. His buttoned blazer hid the gizmo hanging on his belt. First thing tomorrow morning he’d return the monitor to the hospital and the oleander poisoning episode would be history. It had probably been some sort of ridiculous accident, anyway. Not even Special Agent Keefe had been able to invent a reason why anyone in Glory would want to kill him.

Andrew sensed motion to his right. He turned in time to see Daniel Hartman move behind the pulpit and adjust the microphone. The murmurings in the pews stopped.

“Good evening, my friends,” Daniel said. “Let us as begin tonight’s special meeting of our Elder Board with a prayer.

“Heavenly Father. In this period of Advent, Your servants at Glory Community Church await two things. First is the celebration of the birth of our Savior, second is the creation of a plan to complete the restoration of our sanctuary. The primary work left to be done is to replace the stained-glass window that was taken from us—a window that honors the teaching of Jesus of Nazareth.

“We thank You for the work done by the members of our Window Restoration Committee and for sending us an expert to guide their deliberations. We ask that You be with us this evening as we look ahead to a time when our place of worship will be renewed and restored. In Jesus’ name we pray.”

After a ringing “Amen!” from the audience, Daniel said, “Now I have the privilege of turning the microphone over to Sharon Pickard, the Chair of the WinReC, as everyone calls the Window Restoration Committee.”

Andrew sat straight in his chair as Sharon replaced Daniel behind the podium. “Good evening, everyone,” she said. “It is my great pleasure to introduce Dr. Andrew Ballantine—even though he rarely uses his title and prefers to be called Andrew.”

She smiled warmly before continuing. “Andrew earned his Ph.D. in the History of Art from Cambridge University, in England. His area of research was British architecture—specifically the role of painted stained-glass windows in Scottish church architecture.

“It’s not a cliché to say that Andrew wrote ‘the book’ on the subject.” She held up a hefty volume. “And here’s an interesting fact I didn’t know before I read Andrew’s book—Scotland has more original nineteenth-century stained-glass windows than any other European country. Many of those windows were built by James Ballantine, Andrew’s great-great-great-grandfather—in the very same studio that crafted our windows.”

Her eyes briefly met Andrew’s as she scanned the audience. “Andrew frequently consults about painted stained glass. Over the years he has helped churches and cathedrals around the world maintain and repair their windows.”

She paused for dramatic effect. “And now I am honored to present the esteemed Andrew Ballantine, who has graciously agreed to give us his recommendations for our window.”

He stood up, received a smattering of applause—and made a snap decision. He didn’t need the microphone; he would speak in front of the pulpit.

“It’s a treat, ladies and gentlemen, for me to be here tonight.” He gestured toward the four intact windows. “I vividly remember the first time I saw drawings of your windows. I was about ten years old—I browsed through an enormous scrapbook that was one of my grandfather’s proudest possessions. The book had originally belonged to James Ballantine—it contained illustrations, most drawn by his own hand, of the many windows that the studios of Ballantine and Allen had built.

“Today, that scrapbook has become my proudest possession, and I think of the windows it depicts as my old friends. So you can imagine my delight when your WinReC invited me to be part of the team that will recommend how to properly restore the window on page 82 of my scrapbook.”

Andrew paused to convey the full emotion he hoped to express. “Well, I have delightful news for the elders of Glory Community Church. As I told the Chair of WinReC today, you can fully restore The Pearl of Great Value window. Because we have the original design documents created by Daniel Cottier, the window can be recreated by a local stained-glass workshop. Your sanctuary will truly look good as new—as if the fire had never taken place.” He tried for a genuinely warm expression. “I’d be delighted to answer any questions you have.”

Someone standing behind the audience shot a flash photograph of him, and then took several other pictures of the sanctuary. Andrew stepped sideways as Pastor Hartman moved toward the pews, his outstretched hand holding a wireless microphone.

A stocky, red-headed elder stood up and took the mic. He cleared his throat and said, “Dr. Ballantine, my name is Gregory Grimes, but everyone calls me Greg. I shepherd Glory Community’s Christian Education Team. My question is quite simple. Would it be possible to replace the damaged window with one that illustrates a different parable?”

“Pardon me?” Andrew said before he could stop himself.

Greg promptly restated his question. “You see, Dr. Ballantine, there are many of us who’ve never understood—and never liked—The Pearl of GreatValue window. The church was sort of stuck with the old window, but the recent fire gave us a clean slate, so to speak. It seems to me that we now have a grand opportunity to find a parable we do like. How do we go about doing that?”

Andrew stared at Greg, struggling to respond. He finally said, “The damaged window was one of the loveliest ever built by the Ballantine Studios. We have the original artwork and can create an exact replica. Why would you want to replace the window with a different parable? How can one of Jesus’ parables not work for you? Or the window that illustrates it?”

Another elder—a tall, thin man of about fifty—took the microphone from Greg. “I’ll explain how. I’ve been a member of Glory Community for forty years, and that picture has always baffled me. When I was a kid, I thought The Pearl of Great Value was a baseball sitting on a pedestal. When I got older, and my teachers explained the parable, I couldn’t understand why the man was selling all his stuff to buy a white blob. I’ve never seen anything spiritual in the illustration.”

Andrew noted that Greg was nodding as the thin man spoke and that other elders were about to jump into the discussion. Surely one of them would describe Greg’s notion as ridiculous.

A third elder—a man with thick white hair, who looked to be in his seventies—raised his hand. Andrew acknowledged him promptly. “Yes, sir. Do you have a question?”

“A comment, Dr. Ballantine. My name is Aaron DeWitt and I’m going to be both frank and honest. The parable itself is difficult for people to understand—at least it is for me. I don’t know what to make of Jesus’ words. Brandon, my nine-year-old grandson, talked to me about The Pearl of GreatValue last night. He wants to enter the art contest and asked me what the parable means. I failed miserably trying to explain why the Kingdom of Heaven is like a man searching for a pearl of great value.

“I’m not happy that our window was destroyed, but I consider the damage providential. To build on what Greg said, we now have an opportunity to choose a parable that illustrates one of Jesus’ teachings that the whole church will find meaningful.”

Several people began to clap. A moment later most of the audience was enthusiastically applauding the elderly elder.

Andrew peered over his shoulder at Gordie. His eyes were open wide, his expression startled, as if he’d been watching a horror movie. Andrew didn’t dare to look at Sharon, who must’ve been even more appalled by what had just happened.

Get back on your horse! Change their minds.

He smiled at Aaron DeWitt. “Stained-glass windows are often symbolic—they require that the viewer think about their meaning. That’s part of the delight of stained-glass as an art form. Please remember that your windows are true works of art, not merely illustrations of Bible stories.”

“Begging your pardon, Dr. Ballantine, but I’ve been thinking about The Pearl of Great Value window for longer than you’ve been alive. That’s enough time for even a non-artist like me to figure out that the illustration is muddled rather than symbolic.”

Andrew managed to maintain a neutral face as the white-haired man earned a fresh round of applause.

Andrew waited for quiet to return and then said, “When Sharon introduced me, she told you that I have a good deal of…experience with historic painted-glass windows. Well, one thing my experience tells me for sure is that when Daniel Cottier created the windows back during the middle of the nineteenth century, he designed the five of them to work together. The window destroyed by the fire was part of a larger artistic treasure. You are its stewards—the people responsible for maintaining the artistic integrity of Glory Community Church.”

“Maybe so,” Greg said, “but I see things, the primary purpose of our windows is to educate the people who sit in this sanctuary. I’m less concerned with keeping art historians happy than I am with enhancing the lives of the members of Glory Community Church.”

Andrew heard Gordie groan behind him. He ignored the plaintive sound and pressed on. “I’m confident that Daniel Cottier had much the same thought in mind when he drew the cartoons for the five windows. He understood the power of art to convey Christian truth. It’s not by accident that Cottier is regarded as one of the great stained-glass artists of all time.

“I strongly recommend against a counterfeit design—especially when we have the ability to reproduce Cottier’s original window. Doing anything less would be equivalent to throwing away a masterpiece.”

“I agree!” a woman said. Andrew spotted her sitting in the third pew. She wasn’t an elder, but she seemed to be on his side. He pointed at her.

“I’m not a member of Glory Community Church,” she said. “I represent the Glory Historical Commission—the municipal agency responsible for protecting Glory’s architectural landmarks. I can’t speak for the other commissioners, but I’d be opposed to giving this church our okay to abandon an important part of Glory’s cultural heritage.

“And let’s not forget that many visitors include Glory Community Church’s stained-glass windows on their itinerary of sights to see. It would be a shame to diminish one of Glory’s leading tourist attractions by replacing an acknowledged work of art with an imitation.”

Several people in the audience booed. A fourth elder leapt to his feet. “The elders of Glory Community will do what we think is best for the church.”

A new round of applause was accompanied by several flashes as the photographer took more pictures, but this time Pastor Hartman silenced the audience. “Everyone—please remember that this is a special meeting of our elders, not a political rally. I believe that we were discussing Daniel Cottier.”

A fifth elder rose, a bearded man whom Andrew had met at the tea party. Andrew recalled the man had introduced himself as the owner of an art gallery in Glory. Certainly, he would understand the importance of honoring Daniel Cottier’s artistic conception.

“Cottier is justly famous for the fine work he did,” the man said, “but merely because an artist is well-known doesn’t mean that he hit a home run every time he went to bat. I think Cottier blew it when he designed our fifth window. You consider The Pearl of Great Value a masterpiece, Dr. Ballantine, but to most of us it’s a rather mediocre window—a confusing illustration that we can easily do without.”

Before Andrew could respond, Greg took charge. “Some of us had hoped to make a decision tonight, but it’s clear to me that the Elder Board has a lot more thinking to do. Therefore, I move that we postpone the vote on restoring the window so that each of us can fully consider what we’ve heard from Dr. Ballantine and the other speakers—along with any other advice WinReC has for us.”

Someone seconded the motion. Andrew scarcely paid attention as Daniel Hartman orchestrated a quick vote. The motion to postpone passed unanimously.

Andrew felt a hand grasp his arm. He turned and looked into Sharon’s stunned eyes. “I’m sorry, Andrew,” she said. “I had no idea so many elders…” She hesitated.

He finished her sentence. “…hated my great-great-great-grandfather’s window.”

She shrugged. There seemed nothing more for either of them to say.

He smiled at her. “I’m going to walk back to The Scottish Captain. Don’t even try to change my mind. I need some time alone—and I don’t care about my cardiac surveillance system. If my heart was going to go berserk, it would have happened five minutes ago.”

She shrugged again.

He walked toward the narthex, doing his best to forget the grim look on Sharon Pickard’s face.

She apologized to me, but we both know that I let her down.

FIVE

Sharon bicycled south on Broad Street toward The Scottish Captain, her head down, her collar up. A stinging wind blew off Albemarle Sound, causing the “Christmas—a Season of Glory” banners suspended between the power poles to twist and sway above her head.

And then it began to rain.

Sharon pedaled faster, wishing that she’d driven to tonight’s meeting. She soon found herself laughing out loud. Frigid rain drops trickling down her neck provided the perfect finale to an especially difficult Wednesday.

The day had begun with a call from Agent Keefe, who informed her that the forensic tests were complete and there was absolutely no doubt that her dessert had poisoned Andrew Ballantine. Moreover, her fingerprints had been found on the dish that contained the oleander toxin. His parting words were, “Would you like to change your account of what happened at the tea party?”

Unfortunately, when she threw her cell phone against the wall, the circuitry hiccoughed, resetting the memory and erasing all the numbers stored in the internal address book. And then after breakfast, she had to listen to three sets of moans and groans from the other members of the Window Restoration Committee when she organized a last-minute meeting to recover from last night’s unexpected brouhaha at Glory Community Church. To top the misery off, she’d spent her free time that day trying to decide who was right—Andrew or the elders—and had confused herself even more in the process.

The Pearl of Great Value had become a Pain of Great Intensity—mostly because both sides of the argument were logical and reasonable.

On one hand, Andrew Ballantine had raised sensible issues of artistic merit, cultural legacy and historical stewardship.

On the other hand, the cantankerous elders who disliked the old window had provided equally compelling evidence that the illustration—and the parable—didn’t “work” for them.

And so, what should have been a quick get-together in the sanctuary to rubber-stamp a straightforward suggestion had turned into a battle of competing values—both equally worthwhile.

Where’s King Solomon when we need him?

Sharon hefted her bike up the Captain’s three front steps and leaned it against the porch railing. She brushed the raindrops off her hair, took a moment to examine the stunning imported Christmas wreath Emma had hung on the front door, then rang the bell. The door swung open; Emma Neilson handed her a towel.

“I guessed you’d be pigheaded enough to bicycle all the way from Queen Street on a bleak evening,” Emma said.

“Not pigheaded—merely crabby. I wanted to exercise off some of the annoyance of a really rotten day.”

“Give me your jacket—you’re dripping on my rug.” Emma added, “Your day’s not over yet.”

“I can’t stand much more excitement. What’s going on?”

“You may find this hard to believe, but Gordie and Ann have taken different sides.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. He’s become a clone of Andrew Ballantine, while Ann now supports the elders who spoke last night.” Emma chuckled. “It started the moment they arrived. They’re expressing their exasperation with each other by wolfing down the oatmeal raisin cookies Calvin made for us. I shamed them into leaving one or two small ones for you.”

She put her hand on Sharon’s shoulder. “Before we go in…I’m dying of curiosity. Rafe doesn’t tell me anything about the investigation. How’s Agent Keefe doing?”

“Not very well, if I read his tone of voice right. I seem to be his best, and only, suspect.”

Emma grimaced. “I know that Ty is smarter than that.”

“Maybe. But if he doesn’t make any progress soon, I’ll turn myself into a detective.”

Emma laughed. “Now that I’m married to Rafe, I have to try to dissuade you. What can you accomplish that he can’t?”

“Beats me…but I was at the tea party, he wasn’t.”

She walked with Emma into the small rear parlor, the room at the Captain that Sharon loved most. Emma had filled the parlor with antique Victorian furnishings that created a time capsule from England in the 1880s: Overstuffed sofas and wing chairs, mahogany buffet and pivot-top game table, a red, beige and green Oriental rug, and an unusual collection of mid-nineteenth century oil lamps.

Tonight, the vintage furnishings seemed embraced by an unpleasant heaviness. The frustration oozing from Ann and Gordie was strong enough for Sharon to feel. Ann sat alone on a purple damask-covered settee, peering unkindly at Gordie; he had staked out a leather-upholstered side chair and was glaring back at Ann over the steaming mug he held in both hands.

“Hi, gang,” Sharon said cheerfully. “Thanks for giving up another evening.”

Both Ann and Gordie replied with indifferent shrugs. Emma rolled her eyes then made a “what do we do now?” face.

“Okay guys,” Sharon said. “Snap out of it. We have to help the elders find a way around the disagreement. The last thing we need is a fight of our own to slow us down.”

“There’s only one proper thing for the elders to do,” Gordie said. “They must follow the sage advice offered by Andrew Ballantine and rebuild the window that inspired Glory Community Church for more than one hundred fifty years.”

“If that’s the ‘proper thing,’” Ann said, “the church might as well save its money and leave the plywood panels in place. They’re as effective at communicating Jesus’ teaching as the original window was.”

“Phooey!” Gordie said.

“Double phooey!” Ann replied.

“Heavenly Father,” Sharon said, “we thank You for the considerable progress this committee has made. We ask for the wisdom and patience to complete our assignment.” She paused. “And we have one more request…Although we come together as Your children this evening, please help us to act like adults. In Jesus name we pray. Amen.”

Emma echoed a loud “Amen,” Ann snickered, and Gordie managed to stifle a chortle.

Progress! Sharon thought. The more they laugh, the less they’ll bicker. She dropped into a wing chair and said, “We seem to be the middle of a muddle.”

“I’ll say!” Gordie replied. “Poor Andrew Ballantine was sandbagged by a surprise attack last night. That wouldn’t have happened if the WinReC member best situated to appreciate the elders’ foibles had seen fit to warn us in advance of their…ah, concerns.”

Ann poked her tongue out at Gordie. “Working at the church doesn’t make me an expert on what the elders are thinking. You’re our historian—why didn’t you know that so many church members have been unhappy with the window for decades?”

“I’m glad you asked! In all my years as a member of Glory Community Church, I didn’t hear a single grumble about The Pearl of Great Value—the parable or the window.”

“Mommy! Ann and Gordie are fighting again,” Emma said in a singsongy voice.

“Put a sock in it—both of you!” Sharon said. “Forget about last night. We have to look to the future and come up with a compromise that both camps can live with—a middle ground position that keeps everyone happy. Including Andrew Ballantine.”

“Simple to talk about, hard to achieve,” Emma said. “I don’t see a merry middle ground in this mess. The elders seem to have two choices—restore the original window or switch to a different parable and design a new window. Either way, some folks will be unhappy when they come to church.”

Emma passed the cookie plate to Sharon. There was one oversize cookie left. She broke it in two and took the slightly smaller piece. Half of one Calvin Constable creation was as rich as three store-bought cookies.

“And on the subject of Andrew…” Emma handed Sharon a mugful of hot spiced cider. “He’s upstairs in his room. Shouldn’t our consultant be a part of this conversation?”

Sharon gazed at the mug so that she didn’t have to look into Emma’s eyes. The thought of Andrew less than a hundred feet away made her want to race up the stairs, even though her pride wouldn’t let her. Not after what he’d said to her today. “We’ll involve Andrew later,” she said. “I’d rather the WinReC think about a compromise on our own first.”

Emma’s skeptical expression shouted her disbelief, even though she was too polite to press Sharon for giving an improbable answer to a simple question. Thank goodness for that. No way could she explain her real reason for not inviting Andrew.

He’d shown up unexpectedly at the hospital that morning and invited her to breakfast in the cafeteria. He’d seemed surprisingly upbeat considering the events of the night before. They chattered about Glory, and Christmas shopping yet to be done, and the likelihood of a white Christmas in coastal North Carolina and even about the enemies he hadn’t realized he’d made—people who might have come to Glory and poisoned him. But then she’d made the mistake of talking about compromise.

“Compromise with what?” he’d said brusquely, an indignant frown spilling across his face. “Are you suggesting that the church negotiates away the artistic integrity of a renowned window created by a great artist?”

“That’s not what I mean by finding a middle ground.”

To her surprise, his scowl faded and he gently touched the top of her hand. “Sharon, forgive me for snapping at you. I’m still mad at myself for what happened at the meeting. I wasn’t prepared to defend The Pearl of Great Value, but I will be the next time I meet with the elders. I’ll spend today, and tomorrow if necessary, building my case. I owe that much to the lovely window.”

“Actually—I’ve been thinking about the scrapbook you described to the elders.”

“I wish I’d brought it with me to Glory. It would help you understand why I feel the way I do about the windows James Ballantine built.”

“How many of the windows in the book were designed by Daniel Cottier?”

“More than fifty. Why do you ask?”

“Well, with fifty-plus windows in the book, it’s probable that Daniel Cottier designed stained-glass window cartoons for more than five different parables. After all, Jesus spoke thirty-three parables and roughly the same number of parable-like proverbs.” She’d smiled at him. “I looked that up—on the Internet.”

Andrew didn’t return her smile. “So why not let the elders browse through the scrapbook and choose another Cottier window that they like better than The Pearl of Great Value?”

She tried not to look sheepish. “That seems a workable solution to me—a Cottier window with a parable that our elders will support.”

He shook his head in annoyance. “There are a thousand reasons why dropping in a different Daniel Cottier design is a terrible idea. To begin with, it won’t match the four other windows. A new design will likely introduce changes in the shapes of the glass segments, the colors and the surface textures. Cottier designed Glory Community’s five windows as a set.”

“I see.”

“No. I’m afraid that you don’t see. The name of your team is the Window Restoration Committee. ‘Restoration’ means returning something to its original condition. That’s what you set out to do—and that’s what I agreed to help you do.”

She’d watched Andrew leave, wishing that she’d argued more forcefully for some sort of compromise. She may have proposed a “terrible” idea, but he’d been too stubborn to invent an alternative that would work. “You gave in quickly,” she murmured to herself, “because you didn’t want him to abandon Glory and rush back to Asheville. And because those confused emotions of yours have become even more puzzling.”

Her initial attraction to Andrew was certainly based on his physical appearance. He was a startlingly handsome man. That gave way quickly to a more sensible appeal based on his charm and intellect. But now something new had arrived on the scene. The way Andrew believed in the old window shouted that he was a man of considerable integrity. And integrity was only a hop, skip and jump away from trustworthiness.

It may be that Andrew has the fidelity you thought you’d never find again.