The Mighty Quinns: Devin by Kate Hoffmann

“They might be hard to find.”
    â€œActually, there’s a bin of them out in the carriage house,” Elodie said. “I can show you.”
    Susanna nodded and the two of them walked off the porch and circled around the corner of the house. “Do you just do repairs on leaded glass or do you have a studio?”
    â€œA studio?”
    â€œYes, a place where you can work and sell your art. I used to run a gallery in New York and we did very well with our glass artists.”
    â€œMy studio is our old chicken coop,” she said. “Nothing fancy.”
    They retrieved the bin of glass scraps and to Susanna’s surprise, she found a match for the broken bevels in the window. The woman began to relax a bit more, and Elodie tried her best to keep the conversation light, but interesting. Susanna appeared to be about four or five years older than Elodie, but her pretty face was worn by the difficulties she’d had in her life.
    Elodie couldn’t help but feel a measure of guilt. So many people had suffered after her father had run the mill into the ground and then pillaged his employees’ pensions. “Do you sell your work anywhere?”
    â€œI mostly do commissions,” she said. “Church windows, primarily. I can’t afford to make anything that might not sell. I guess that’s what separates the craftspeople from the real artists.”
    â€œStill, I’d love to see your work,” Elodie said.
    â€œI have a couple of windows in my truck,” she said. “I could show you. They’re for a Unitarian church over in Asheville.”
    â€œSounds great,” Elodie said.
    Elodie helped her gather up her tools, and Susanna grabbed the broken window before they headed out to the street. She drove a battered panel truck, and Elodie could read the remains of the former owner’s business—an automotive supply shop that had closed years ago in downtown Winchester.
    Susanna opened the back door of the truck, rolling it up until the interior was exposed. She jumped up, then offered a hand to Elodie. The temperature inside was stifling, but once Elodie saw the windows, she forgot all about the heat.
    â€œYou did the design on these?” she asked, peering at the windows through the protective crating.
    â€œI did.”
    â€œThese are lovely. Stunning. You may not think it, but you
are
an artist.”
    Susanna laughed softly. “No, I’m not.”
    â€œYes, you are. You ought to start believing it. If I saw this work in New York, I’d try to get you to do a show for our gallery. I’d call a few of our patrons and convince them to sponsor you. I’d make sure you had everything you needed to do your best work.”
    â€œI—I don’t understand,” Susanna said. “How do you make that happen?”
    â€œI just do. I know that your business pays the bills,” she said. “But maybe it’s time to make room for your art.”
    Susanna shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m barely making ends meet as it is. I’m not sure there is any room in my life for art.” She drew a deep breath, then held out her hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Winchester.”
    â€œYou can call me Elodie,” she said, taking her hand.
    â€œElodie.” Susanna paused. “You’re not anything like I thought you’d be.”
    Elodie blinked in surprise. “What did you expect?”
    â€œSomeone...different. You know, kind of snooty. I didn’t expect you to be so real. Normal. Nice.”
    â€œI hope we can be friends,” Elodie said.
    Susanna nodded as she locked the back door of the truck. “I’ll put your window at the top of the list,” she said. “And I’ll be here tomorrow morning to reglaze that big one.”
    She waved as the truck pulled away from the curb, and Elodie smiled. For the first time since she’d returned to Winchester, she felt