Chapter 7
Tuesday morning,
Webb’s Studio
Savannah unlocked Webb’s Studio, her newly opened second business location. She felt a powerful sense of accomplishment. A few months ago, she had risked her hard-won financial security in favor of opening an artists’ studio warehouse for intermediate and advanced students. The refurbished space had been more expensive than she had originally planned, but now it was filled and had a short waiting list.
Two locations were occasionally a scheduling challenge, especially since she would be spending more time at the original shop with the flameworking class starting up. She relished challenges but loved the security of routine as well.
“Good morning, Arthur. How are you feeling today?” she asked when she noticed one of her usual students.
Arthur Young peeked out the open doorway of his work cubicle. His brown hair was beginning to thin and he dressed in his typical khaki cargo shorts with a snug-fitting blue golf shirt. He wore boat shoes without socks. Arthur played second-chair cello in his previous career with the Florida Orchestra. His medical issues had derailed his dream of achieving coveted first-chair status.
“I’m having a great morning. No tummy troubles and I’m just about finished with the stained-glass panel I’m making for my lovely bride.”
“How is Nancy?”
Arthur’s brown eyes drooped, and he turned both hands palms-up. “She’s still fussing about how long my recovery is taking. She wants me back in the orchestra, clawing my way up to first cellist. I’m not sure I want to get back into the gossip, drama, and fierce competition of claiming first-chair honors. Irritable bowel syndrome doesn’t always take a straight line to perfect recovery. It was a miracle I managed to hang on to second-chair last season.”
“When do you think you can go back?”
He hung his head. “Nancy doesn’t want to hear this, but I don’t think I’ll ever perform again. That’s why I’m working so hard on this beautiful panel. I’m going to enter it in a contest.” He beamed a mischievous smile. “I think she’ll enjoy being the bride of an accomplished stained-glass artist.”
Savannah beamed. “You have a good heart, Arthur.” She suspected that Nancy reveled in the status of being a musician’s wife. “That may work. You’re a clever fellow—Nancy is a lucky woman.”
“Thanks, but in our many years together, I know the real truth of that. I’m the lucky one.”
Savannah folded her arms. “Arthur, I have a ginormous favor to ask.”
“Anything, ask away.”
“You may have heard about the hit-and-run accident yesterday.” Arthur nodded. “Well, Jacob witnessed it and is experiencing a dreadful reaction. He won’t be around to manage the studio for at least a few days. Could you take over for him?”
“Of course. Sure, I’d be happy to.” His quick glance at the studio’s bathroom betrayed Arthur’s confident response.
Savannah raised both hands into a stop position. “You don’t have to worry about the phone. I’m going to forward all calls to my cell. Jacob has more than enough supplies in stock here for the next week, so all you’ll really have to do is just be the point of contact for the other artists.”
“I can handle that.” He swallowed hard. “I’m sure of it. Excuse me.”
He dashed over to the restroom and quickly pulled the door closed.
Savannah palmed her forehead. That may have been a mistake. He’s fine except when he’s not. He’ll just have to tell me he can’t do it. I have no other choice—the other artists are too ditsy. It’s a challenge just to get them to pay their studio rent.
She raised her voice. “I’m going back to Webb’s Glass Shop, Arthur. Call if anything comes up.” She stood in front of the bathroom door. “Are you going to be all right?”
“Sure, sure.”
Shaking her head, Savannah headed over to Webb’s Glass Shop.
He’s right. If he can’t handle this, how on earth will he ever perform with the Florida Orchestra again? She thought for a moment about Arthur’s society-obsessed wife. Nancy is not going to be happy. I wouldn’t want to be around an unhappy Nancy.
* * *
At Webb’s Glass Shop, Savannah parked and went through all the little procedures needed to get the shop ready for customers and students. As soon as she unlocked the front door, her cell phone rang. It was Jacob’s mother. “Hi, Frances. How’s Jacob?”
“This is not good, Savannah. He’s not speaking at all.”
“Oh, no. That’s horrible.”
“His therapist has diagnosed selective mutism with a short-term memory loss. He wrote his answers on a pad of paper. He doesn’t remember the accident at all.”
Savannah matched her calm tone. “Is it permanent?”
Savannah knew that Frances spent a lot of time in court handing down sentences to juveniles convicted of major crimes. As a result, she had extensive experience delivering bad news to terrified parents. Savannah felt that Frances was treating her the same way.
“Jacob’s therapist doesn’t think so, in his case. His brain is fundamentally wired in a different way and it’s very likely that his speech will return. She doesn’t hold out much hope for his memory. Anyway, he needs quiet and rest for a few days and we’ll go on from there.”
“Thanks for letting me know so quickly. I appreciate it.”
“I’m not sure if he’s capable of resting at this point. He is anxious about not following his daily routines. This is going to be a challenge. I’m staying home today, but I have an important hearing tomorrow that I can’t postpone.”
“Tell Jacob not to worry about losing his job. He will always have a job at Webb’s. Everything is going along just fine. His current restoration project has a hard deadline, but I’m going to call the customer and see if there is some wiggle room. I can finish it, of course, but Jacob prefers to work an entire piece all by himself.”
Frances chuckled. “Yes, I can see where he would be possessive. He freaks out when I attempt to help him with his laundry. He takes the clothes I’ve stowed, out of his drawers, refolds them, and then stacks them the only way he thinks is right.”
“I can see that.” Savannah smiled.
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we’ll assess the situation. I would say for now that he won’t be in for the next few days. I’m taking him back to the therapist every day until he can come back to work in the studio.”
“Thanks, Frances.”
“It’s for him, Savannah. He needs to return to Webb’s Studio. He needs his daily routines.”