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