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For the next hour, both Nick and Brooke tried to concentrate, but even with the door closed they could hear the incessant humming of power saws and electric sanders, of banging and crashing, of cursing and yelling over the noise. The office was becoming cramped and hot as they tried to spread out, and with each new panel they sketched, it became more cluttered.

  When they’d been at it for over two hours, Brooke threw down her charcoal. “This is never going to work,” she said. “We need our workroom. That’s what it’s there for.”

  “They should be finished today,” Nick said. “Things will be more normal tomorrow.”

  “In the meantime, we aren’t really getting anything done. It’s a mess in here. I don’t know what I’ve done and what I haven’t.”

  Nick leaned forward on his desk and propped his chin in his hand. “Look, why don’t we just use the time to go to St. Louis to start getting bids for the glass and lead?”

  Brooke looked at the stacks of papers that depicted some, but not all, of the panels. Even the ones they had roughed out didn’t have details or exact colors—just the basic themes and ideas. “How can you order glass and lead when you don’t know how much you need yet?”

  “I can give them a ball-park figure and get some bids going, and when we’re ready, we can give them exact amounts. Today’s as good a day as any.”

  Nick’s offer was sorely tempting, but something inside held Brooke back. Idly she fingered the chains at her throat. “We can’t afford to waste time, you know,” she said. “I could take some of this home and work on it there while you go to St. Louis.”

  “You’re the expert. I need you with me.”

  A smile tugged at one side of her lips. “Don’t give me that. You taught me, remember?”

  “True, but you’re the one who’s been doing it for a living. You’re way ahead of me.”

  Brooke shook her head. “Never. In my mind, you’ll always be the teacher.”

  Nick’s flip expression faded, and he looked down at his hands for a moment, then flicked a speck of dust off of his sketch. “I wish you could stop thinking of me that way. I haven’t taught in years.”

  Brooke averted her eyes when he looked at her. “I wish I could too.” She came to her feet, dusted off her pants as if she could shake away the growing sense of intimacy. “But maybe it’s best that I do. It keeps the boundaries clear.”

  Nick’s eyes were penetrating, waiting for her to look at him without defense. “Do you really need those boundaries, Brooke?”

  Brooke tossed a wisp of hair back from her face. “We all need boundaries, Nick. They’re like the lead work on the windows. They help support us. They keep us from buckling and cracking with the weight of whatever we carry around.”

  Nick nodded and looked down at his hands again, as if some script he needed to get through the day was hidden there, in the lines of his palms. Finally he got to his feet, too suddenly, too brightly, and clapped his hands together. “Well, all right, then. Let’s just take those boundaries and go to St. Louis. What do you say we take the Duesenberg?”

  Aware that those boundaries were blurring with each hour, Brooke followed a few steps behind him as he led her past the workers and out into the sunlight.

  Abby Hemphill stepped over a dusty power tool that someone had neglectfully left lying at the entrance to the church and looked around for the culprit. Who do these men think they are? she wondered vaguely. From the way they slouched around, chomping on sandwiches and guzzling canned soda, you would think they owned the place.

  It was a terrible day when one had to face the fact that the town’s oldest church had been turned into a loafing place for every idiot with a saw, as well as a rendezvous point for Nick Marcello and that girl. It was a mockery to the solemnity of such a sacred institution.

  Across the large room and through the corridor, Abby saw some of the ladies from the Historical Society. Straightening her hair and pristinely dodging cords and machinery, Abby made her way to the room where the ladies had congregated. “Well,” she huffed when she reached them, “it certainly is refreshing to see that not everyone is wasting time.”

  The women looked up, all smiles and cordial greetings. They, at least, gave her the respect she deserved.

  “It’s lunch hour for the construction crews,” Martha Inglish told her. “We were just thinking of going out to get a bite ourselves. But we couldn’t decide whether we could spare the time. Our two artistes—” she pronounced the word with great sarcasm “—are getting a little annoyed that they have to share work space with us. We thought if we hurried we could finish this today.”

  “The Historical Society’s duties should come first,” Abby proclaimed. “Don’t let them bully you.”

  “Oh, they aren’t bullying us,” Mrs. Inglish said. “In fact, we’ve hardly seen them in the last two days, since they’ve taken to locking themselves in his office. And we wouldn’t dream of interrupting them.”

  The women snickered, but Abby didn’t find it at all amusing. “Locked in his office? Are you serious?”

  “Well, not now. They left about two hours ago.”

  “Have you actually seen them working? Cutting glass or whatever it is they do?”

  The women all agreed that none of them had seen any work being done. “They just talked and whispered a lot—when we could hear them at all,” Martha said. “Who knows what’s been going on in that office?”

  “That does it!” Abby spun around and started out the door. “I’m going to put a stop to this today!” She marched out like a woman with a divine mission.

  CHAPTER

  THE DUESENBERG’S ENGINE IDLED conspicuously at the red light in downtown St. Louis, drawing admiring stares from the drivers around them. Nick had pulled the top down before they’d left Hayden an hour ago, and the wind and sun had infused more energy and liveliness into his tired face.

  The driver next to them, a businessman in a gold Mercedes, rolled down his window and leaned over to the passenger side. “Nice car!” he called.

  Nick grinned. “Thanks.”

  The man dug into his pocket for a business card and stretched to hand it to Nick. “If you ever want to sell it, give me a call.”

  Nick took the card and noted that the light was still red. “Sorry. This baby’s not for sale.”

  The light turned green, and the man shook his head regretfully. He gave the car a last look and drove off with a wave.

  Brooke laughed and squinted over at Nick as the sun and wind hit her face. “You didn’t even ask how much he was willing to pay,” she said. “Aren’t you even curious?”

  Nick tossed the card to the floor. “Nope. Whatever it is, it’s not enough. Some things just don’t have a price.

  Brooke glanced at Nick as he drove. The act of driving made him seem more relaxed, more at home than she’d ever seen him. It was as if the Duesenberg held his power, his worth, his confidence. “Was the grandfather who left you this car a rich man?” she asked.

  Nick made a sharp turn, laughing. “No, not by any stretch of the imagination. My grandfather was a cobbler.”

  “Then how could he afford a Duesenberg?”

  Nick pulled onto a street with bottlenecked traffic and idled for a moment. “He didn’t buy it,” he said. “One of his best customers for twenty years owned this car. Grandpa made everything that man put on his feet, and the man had a deep appreciation for the quality in his work. When he died, he left the car to my grandpa. He wrote in his will that my grandfather was the only man he knew who understood the true meaning of the word ‘quality.’ This car came to represent Grandpa’s philosophy. It was his most prized possession.”

  A poignant smile touched Brooke’s lips. “And he left it to you,” she said.

  “And he left it to me,” Nick confirmed. “Before I was old enough to drive. He told me that he wanted me to depend on it like an old friend. So that’s what I’ve done.” He smiled as the memory played a sweet melody in his eyes. In an exaggerated Italian accent a
nd with elaborate hand gestures, he said, “He told me, ‘You put-a care and-a love into everything you do, Nicky, and that’s-a quality. It don’t matter about money. You do everything like you’re doin’ it for the Lord. He’ll reward you. That’s what this car stands for.”

  Brooke sat back and set her hand on the door, looking at the car from a new perspective. “What was your grandfather like?” she asked.

  Nick’s soft sigh was a whisper, and his eyes twinkled. “Grandpa was the only one in my family who saw my talent as a gift instead of a curse. He gave me my first box of paints when I was six years old. He was something.”

  Brooke’s heart swelled at the look of love in his face. She suddenly realized that if anyone ever looked at her with such sweet, unconditional love, she would probably abandon all reason and devote herself to him completely. “You miss him, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he whispered. “I miss him. But I have this car to remind me of him, and all my zany memories. He’s not gone, really. And I’ll see him again.”

  Brooke let her gaze drift out the window. She didn’t know if she believed in heaven, but she didn’t want to interrupt his musings by saying so.

  “I was with him when he died,” he said. “He took my hand and started quoting the Twenty-third Psalm. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’ And he didn’t fear. Not at all. When he finished quoting that, he opened his eyes wide and touched my face. Then he said, ‘Nicky, God’s Word says that we do not-a grieve as those who have no hope. We will meet again, my boy.’ And he squeezed my hand as hard as he could, and looked somewhere off behind me, and whispered, ‘I’m gonna see Jesus!’ And then he died.”

  Brooke watched him, aware that he’d just shared one of the most intimate moments of his life with her. She didn’t know what to say.

  “I want to die the same way,” Nick said. “Without fear, looking forward to being with Jesus, and telling those behind me that there should be more joy than grief.”

  “Was there?” she asked. “More joy, I mean?”

  “I cried,” he said. “Cried my eyes out. But then I got to thinking of my grandpa in heaven, without the arthritis that made him limp and those brittle bones and the diabetes and high blood pressure and age…And Jesus there, teaching him unfathomable things, answering the questions he puzzled over, like why there had to be a Satan, and what he wrote in the sand that time…”

  He spoke as if he believed in Jesus as more than just a mythical figure. She’d never known anyone who thought of Jesus in that way.

  He smiled and glanced sideways at her as the traffic began moving again. “He would have liked you.”

  “I would have liked him,” Brooke said, feeling as though she already knew the man who’d had such a profound impact on his grandson’s life.

  She looked around as the car pulled into the parking lot of an art gallery.

  “What are we doing here?” she asked.

  “I want to show you something.” He cut off his engine, letting quiet surround them. “My grandfather always used to say that I could be whatever I aspired to be and that others would see me as I saw myself. Well, I think maybe it’s time I showed you how I see myself, so that you’ll stop seeing me as a teacher. You know, I haven’t taught in seven years, and I’ve had to make a living somehow.”

  “I know you have,” Brooke said.

  He grinned with genuine amusement. “What exactly do you think I’ve been doing?”

  “Well, you’ve…I guess you’ve been—” She caught her breath and felt the sting of embarrassment. “You’re an artist, of course.”

  “Well, at least you do realize that,” he said. “But you obviously don’t know if I’m a good one, or what that means in terms of who I am. To you, I’m still good ol’ Mr. Marcello.”

  Brooke laughed. “Nick, you were never ‘good ol’ Mr. Marcello.’“

  “Whatever,” he said, opening the door and getting out. He came around the car and opened her door. “I brought you here to show you who I really am.”

  Tingling with anticipation, Brooke got out of the car—carefully, lest he ban her from riding in it again—and followed him into the small gallery. It was a well-known place, with a shining reputation among art lovers in Missouri, a gallery Brooke had once secretly hoped would feature her own work someday, before she had decided to specialize in stained glass.

  The gallery was quiet, though alive with the feel of exquisite art. Pieces hung from the slate-gray walls and graced lighted pedestals, which had been placed carefully throughout the rooms. Two patrons spoke in quiet tones to the gallery owner, a tall, wiry woman in billowy silk pants and an oversized silk blouse. Nick offered her a wave when they were inside.

  “Nick!” she called, shattering the stillness. “It’s been weeks! Darling, come over here right now and meet some of your admirers. We were just talking about you.”

  Brooke glanced up at Nick and noted his calm smile as he ushered her toward the people. Nick looked more alive and at home than she had ever seen him.

  “My admirers?” he asked as he approached the couple. “Helena loves to exaggerate.”

  “No exaggeration this time,” the man said, shaking Nick’s hand. “We were just asking how to reach you for a specially commissioned project.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Winston, this is Nick Marcello,” Helena said.

  Nick set his hand on Brooke’s back. “I’d like you to meet Brooke Martin,” he said. “She’s my partner on my most recent project. I’m afraid I’m pretty tied up with it for a while.”

  The couple, from the “money is no object” strata of society, didn’t settle for his polite rejection. Instead they went on to ply him with promises and offers, until Brooke decided to explore the gallery and allow them to talk privately.

  Feeling emotionally stimulated by the caliber of art she saw, Brooke wandered among the walls of paintings and sculptures until she found a collection of paintings hanging like visual poetry on one side of the gallery. Without looking for the signature in the bottom corner, Brooke knew instinctively that the collection was Nick’s. The colors reached out with a contemplation of life that was distinctly Italian in passion and fervor and conviction.

  “He’s wonderful, isn’t he?” Helena said in a deep, smoky voice as she walked up behind her.

  Brooke glanced at her over her shoulder. “Yes,” she said, her voice laced with a reverence she hadn’t intended. “I didn’t know he had anything on exhibit.”

  “Nick?” Helena asked, surprised. “You’ve got to be kidding, darling. Without him, I might as well close this gallery down. He’s been one of my staple artists for years now.”

  “Really?” Brooke turned back to the paintings, studying one that gave her an odd sense of joy deep in her soul, just in the way that he painted the source of light in the upper corner, as if it came from heaven itself.

  “That’s the one that couple likes most,” Helena whispered, stepping closer to Brooke. “His work has such a rich, soulful feel. Sort of makes you want to step into it and live there.” She grinned and cast a sidelong look at Brooke, her brow quirking up with her obvious appraisal. “So, tell me. Are you the lady in his life? He’s so private it’s hard to tell if there is one.”

  Brooke smiled. “No, not at all,” she said quietly. “I’m a stained-glass artist. We’re working together, that’s all.”

  Helena sighed with dramatic disappointment and crossed her arms, her long, manicured fingernails tapping on her sleeve as she leaned back thoughtfully against the wall. Her tone was quiet when she spoke. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that there was some sort of scandal in his life a few years back.”

  Brooke chose to let that comment hang. She stepped down the wall, carefully absorbing the mood of each of the paintings, seeing…feeling vividly the romance Helena spoke of.

  “How well do you know Nick?” Helena asked her, breaking into her reverie.

  Brooke tore her eyes from
the paintings and faced the tall woman. The gallery owner’s expression was neither condemning nor competitive, only curious. “I knew him for a while a few years ago,” she evaded. “But we were commissioned to do the windows…”

  Helena’s grin revealed that she wasn’t buying the story. “No, darling. I asked how well you know him. Not how long.”

  Brooke tried to match the woman’s smile, but knew that hers was strained and unnatural. “Not well at all.”

  “Oh, well,” Helena said, stepping away from the wall to look at Nick’s paintings again. “I was hoping there was a romance brewing here. Something smoldering he’d want to paint about. You have such style. I figured if Nick had a type, you’d probably be it.”

  Brooke dipped her face and wished she had something to do with her hands. She crossed her arms. “I…I don’t know about that,” she said.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Helena went on. “It isn’t that I’ve never seen him with anyone. He’s brought an occasional date to the parties I’ve thrown.”

  “You two aren’t over here exchanging criticism about my work, are you?” Nick asked from behind them.

  Brooke turned and saw him leaning against the wall, regarding her with a poignantly fragile look on his face. “Of course not.”

  “We were discussing the themes that inspire you, darling,” Helena said, and Brooke’s eyes darted back to the paintings as she struggled to look preoccupied. But she could feel Nick’s eyes on her, gently appraising her.

  “My themes, huh?” he asked.

  “Brooke tells me you two hardly know each other.”

  Brooke met Nick’s eyes and felt his gaze penetrating too deeply, searching her with an artist’s eyes that filled in all the colorless places. “I was her art teacher a few years ago,” he explained. “She was my best student.”

  Helena’s eyebrows lifted in sudden understanding, and she turned back to Brooke, studying her with a new, more critical eye. “I see.”

  Brooke lifted her chin, trying not to look so self-conscious. “Nick, your work is wonderful. I had no idea.”