“Sounds good.”
Harper checked her watch. “I’d better get back to the front desk before more patients arrive.”
After she left Ethan’s office, she said hello to a woman who’d come into the clinic and answered a phone call. Despite what had brought her here, Harper knew she was right where she needed to be.
Owen stoodin the middle of his glass studio, surrounded by the bowls and vases he’d made. Since he’d left the police department in Detroit, his studio had become a sanctuary of heat, light, and color. Here, he could shape beauty from the molten glass and try to forget the tragic mall shooting that had brought him home to Sapphire Bay.
Steve, a friend he’d met at a PTSD support group, studied a bowl that was sitting on a shelf. “This one is incredible. How did you get the bubbles inside the glass?”
“The same way you blow up a balloon, but I use a metal pipe to fill the glass with air.” Owen took another bowl out of the annealing oven. He’d placed six bowls in there last night to cool slowly. If he’d left them on the bench, he would’ve ended up with a pile of cracked glass and nothing to show for the hours it had taken to create them.
As he turned the bowl in his hands, a deep sense of pride filled his chest. This batch was even better than the ones he’d made earlier in the week.
Steve picked up a cobalt blue vase. “How many pieces are you selling at the summer festival?”
“About forty, if I can finish them in time. I want to try something different, too, but I’m still figuring out how I can do it.”
Steve’s expression grew thoughtful as he returned the vase to the shelf. “Does being back here and doing this help?”
“It’s different,” Owen admitted, his eyes scanning the studio. “I needed to leave Detroit and living close to Flathead Lake is great. Working in my studio gives me something to focus on.”
Steve nodded, his eyes holding a knowing look. “Are your mom and dad happy to have you back in Sapphire Bay?”
Owen took the last bowl out of the annealing oven. A lump rose in his throat at the thought of the support his parents had given him. “After the shooting, they were worried about me. It’s better for everyone that I’m here.”
The studio fell silent. The word ‘shooting’ hung in the air, bringing back memories of sirens and horror. It was a past that still clung to Owen, a shadow he worked tirelessly to escape. He gestured toward his work. “But this is grounding, especially when something turns out better than I thought. The only downside is my parents being a little too overprotective. Especially when I forget to tell them where I’m going.”
Steve had searched Sapphire Bay, along with most of Owen’s friends, when his parents couldn’t find him. In normal circumstances, Owen’s mom and dad wouldn’t have panicked. But he’d been going through a rough patch, and they were concerned about his mental health.
“Don’t be too hard on them,” Steve said softly. “They worry because they care. I wish my parents felt the same way.”
Steve’s journey to Sapphire Bay wasn’t as straightforward as Owen’s. He’d arrived with a life that a war had torn apart, and a family who hadn’t understood what he was going through.
Owen glanced through the window at the quiet street. In a few hours, the sun would set across the lake, filling the clear blue Montana sky with burned orange and purple streaks—the same colors he tried to replicate in his glass.
After spending most of his adult life as a police officer, he didn’t know who he was anymore. His uniform had defined him, given him purpose, and a sense of pride. When he’d resigned, he’d lost a part of himself—and he didn’t know if he’d ever find it again.
“This place is home,” he said quietly. “It’s where I remember who I was before I joined the police force. Before life got complicated.”
Steve looked around the studio. “After what you’ve been through, I’m amazed you’ve created all of this.”
Owen’s gaze lingered on the furnace and the other second-hand equipment he’d found at auctions and online. “If I hadn’t found glassblowing, I wouldn’t be here.” Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile. “Besides, the summer festival’s a good distraction. It’s... normal.”
Steve nodded. “While we’re talking about the festival, we need to decide what your booth will look like. I had some ideas about how we can protect everything from the elements and curious festivalgoers.” He placed his sketchpad on the workbench. They examined the drawings, comparing the advantages of his latest design over the standard booth Owen would be given.
When Pastor John asked Owen if he wanted to sell his glass at the festival, he wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. He already sold his vases and bowls at a local store, at the Christmas tree farm, and from his website. Making enough stock to supply his regular customersandthe people who’d be at the festival would almost be impossible.
But John could be persuasive. With the opportunity of promoting his glass products to a larger audience and raising money for the church’s programs, he’d signed up for a booth. It had meant working day and night, but he’d built up his stock and had more than enough to sell.
When they’d settled on a design for the booth, Steve stood up, stretching his back. “Now that we’ve got that organized, I’ll meet you at the old steamboat museum at six o’clock tomorrow night. We’ll build display shelving that’ll be the envy of the festival.”
Owen grinned as he walked Steve to the door. “As long as the organizers are happy for me to modify the booth, I’ll hold you to that.”
Steve laughed. “The design might be so successful that I can start a business making high-end shelving units.”
Owen wouldn’t discount anything Steve said. He had a way of turning something ordinary into a work of art. It was just a pity he wasn’t ready to show anyone what he did in his workshop.
With a final wave, Steve headed outside, leaving Owen alone with his thoughts. He took a moment to appreciate the quiet; the way the fading light played off the glass, turning each piece into a small beacon of hope.
