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  “Thanks,” he said, his modesty coming as naturally as his smile, though she sensed his pride in his eyes. “A guy’s got to make a living.”

  “Give me a break,” Brooke said. “This isn’t just making a living.”

  He sighed and regarded the paintings with a subjective twinkle in his eyes. “No, this is more than that. It’s just…what I do.”

  “It’s making me a living,” Helena threw in, her raspy laugh rattling the room. “And frankly, darling, I can’t imagine what I’m going to do if you don’t plan to produce anything until that dreadful church is finished.”

  “There are other artists, Helena,” he said.

  “Not like you, darling. Not like you.”

  CHAPTER

  THEY HAD BEEN ON THE ROAD for ten minutes before Nick said, “So, are you able to see past the teacher in me now?”

  Brooke inclined her head pensively to one side and watched him as he drove. “Those paintings were fabulous, Nick. I mean it.” She let her gaze travel to the other cars whizzing by. “I just wish you hadn’t told Helena you were my teacher. She had just mentioned that there was some kind of scandal in your past. I think she knew I was the one the minute you told her that.”

  “So what?” Nick asked. “It isn’t like it’s some secret. Everybody in Hayden knows. Besides, Helena loves that sort of thing.”

  “I know.” Brooke tried to smile, but found it difficult. “She also told me about the other women in your life. She’s done quite a bit of speculating about your love life.”

  “Hasn’t everybody?” Nick asked.

  Brooke watched the wind flutter through his hair and squelched the urge to ask about those other women she hadn’t even considered until today. Instead, she asked the second most pressing question on her mind.

  “How do you do it? Really, Nick,” she said. “How have you been able to stand living in Hayden all these years, when you could have lived here, in a bigger city, and had respect and admiration—and where no one would have known or cared that you got fired for a bunch of lies when you were teaching?”

  He laughed lightly, as though he’d asked himself the same question a thousand times. “There are more good people in Hayden than bad. I grew up there. I’ve never been one for running away from my problems.”

  Brooke recognized the indictment of her actions. “Like me?” she asked.

  Nick kept his eyes on the road as he answered. “You did what you thought you had to do,” he said in a flat voice. “I can’t fault you for that.”

  She turned to face him in her seat, trying to make him understand. “Nick, those people are vicious. Maybe I’m not as strong as you. But the hostility…it’s everywhere, in everybody in town. Like I killed each of their firstborn children, and they’re determined to have their revenge.”

  “You’re looking at the wrong people,” Nick said. “Some of my closest friends, some of the people I love most in the world, are right there in Hayden. Good people.”

  “Good people who love gossip,” she whispered. “Good people who don’t care who they hurt.”

  “Good people are good people,” Nick said. “I hope this time you’ll stay around long enough to see that.”

  They visited three sources for the glass and lead they needed for the windows. By the time they were finished, they were both ready for a late lunch.

  They stopped at a little diner on their way out of town and found a booth. As they studied the menus, the waitress came to their table. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Marcello and Brooke Martin.”

  Brooke looked up at the woman, startled, as if she’d been caught at something. She looked familiar, but Brooke couldn’t place her.

  “Sharon Hemphill,” Nick said after a pause, and he stood and gave her a one-armed hug.

  Brooke stared at the woman who had changed so much since high school. She was bone thin, and had bleached her hair blonde, but her face looked older than her age, and she had dark circles under her eyes. “Sharon. I didn’t recognize you,” Brooke said.

  “No one does. My mother finally got me skinny. It was her lifelong dream.” She said it with such sarcasm that Brooke recognized the pain behind it. “So.. .are you guys ready to order?”

  Nick and Brooke exchanged looks. “Sharon,” Nick said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what are you doing working here? Your parents are the wealthiest people in Hayden.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” she asked. “My parents cut me off. Threw me out when they found out I was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Nick asked. “Sharon, I didn’t know.”

  “Of course not. I left town so no one would. Couldn’t take the chance of soiling my parents’ lily-white reputations. My mother hasn’t even seen my baby. She’s two now. I’ve got to make a living, support my daughter somehow. Tips are good here. Lots of truckers stop in since it’s so near the interstate.”

  Brooke’s stomach tightened, and she found that she wasn’t hungry anymore. The way Abby Hemphill had treated—was treating—Brooke suddenly seemed so minor compared to what she had done to her daughter…and her granddaughter.

  “They had hopes of me marrying some upstanding rich jerk from one of the families they approve of. Instead I got tied up with the mechanic who serviced their Mercedes. The stuff nightmares are made of, as far as my mother is concerned.”

  “Did you marry him?” Nick asked.

  “No. He wasn’t interested, and neither was I. So it’s just Carrie and me.”

  “Sharon,” Brooke said, “why don’t you take a break and join us?”

  Sharon looked back over her shoulder, then slipped into the booth next to Brooke. “Guess I can spare a minute.” She glanced over at Brooke with a grin. “So what are you two doing in St. Louis? I thought my mother ran you out of town, Brooke.”

  Brooke looked down at her hands. “She did, but I came back to work with Nick on the windows of St. Mary’s.”

  “Oh, boy, I bet my mother’s throwing fits over that.”

  “Actually, she is,” Nick said. “I don’t suppose you have any hints on how to appease her.”

  “Easy,” Sharon said. “Just give her everything she wants. Do everything she says. Treat her like the queen dictator. Oh, and Brooke will probably need to leave town again. In fact, it would be best if both of you did.”

  Brooke smiled. “Other than that?”

  Sharon’s face grew hard, and her eyes went dull. “Tell you what. Watch my brother. He’s a great model for getting along with her. He toes the line, bows down, does everything she tells him. He’s the perfect son. Married well, ran for city council and won. Stands up straight, wears the right clothes. Keeps up appearances.”

  Quickly, Sharon got back up, and Brooke saw a glint of tears in her eyes. “You people must be hungry. We have great burgers.”

  They ordered, and Sharon scurried off to get their food.

  Brooke looked across the table at Nick. “That’s about the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Abby Hemphill strikes again.”

  “She’s ruthless. I’m not sure either of us is strong enough to take her on.”

  “Think again,” Nick said. “I’m not going to let her win. Jesus said, ‘In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.’“

  “But did He mean even Abby Hemphill?”

  “Even Abby. I have nothing to fear. Our work will glorify God in a mighty way, and I’m determined to do it. There are people praying for us, Brooke, and I’m praying. Prayer works. You’ll see.”

  Sharon brought their burgers, then rushed off to serve some truckers at another table. They ate quietly, then said good-bye to Sharon and went back to the Duesenberg. It was mid-afternoon when they got back from St. Louis and parked the Duesenberg in Nick’s garage, where Nick chose to leave the delicate old car mostof the time. They got into Nick’s old Buick and headed back to St. Mary’s. Though the construction crews’ trucks still filled the parking lot, the
Lincolns and Oldsmobiles driven by the women of the Historical Society were gone.

  “Alone at last,” Nick said as he cut off his engine.

  “The workroom is all ours,” Brooke said, a smile finding its place on her face again. “Now we can get some real work done.”

  But as they climbed out of the car, Abby Hemphill pulled her shiny new Mercedes in beside them.

  “Abby.” Nick’s greeting was strained as she got out of her car. “The ladies have gone home. I think you’re finished here.”

  “Not quite,” she said. “I just came by to inform you and your mistress that I intend to make a motion to stop the work on the windows tonight at the church business meeting. I’m going to have your commission for this job revoked. I have witnesses that you’ve been behaving inappropriately on the congregation’s money…locking yourselves all day behind closed doors, disappearing for hours at a time…together. Checking into hotel rooms…”

  “What?”

  “Wait a minute!”

  Brooke and Nick’s outraged responses were simultaneous, but Mrs. Hemphill forged full speed ahead.

  “The meetings are open, so if you care to fight for your jobs, I can’t deny you the right to be there. It’ll be held in the conference room at City Hall.”

  “You bet we’ll be there,” Nick shouted.

  Brooke’s heart rampaged in her chest, and something close to panic threatened to choke her. “Mrs. Hemphill, I hope you have proof to back up these lies,” she cried. “Otherwise, you’re setting yourself up for a whopping case of slander!”

  “Oh, I have all the proof I need, young lady,” Abby Hemphill said.

  And then, leaving them both stunned, she got into her car, slammed the door, and screeched out of the parking lot.

  CHAPTER

  THE EVIDENCE THAT MRS. HEMPHILLpresented at the meeting was flimsy at best, but in the minds of those present it seemed highly indicting.

  Things began badly when Mrs. Inglish spoke to the church “on behalf of the Women’s Historical Society,” and related how Brooke and Nick had abandoned their workroom and locked themselves in Nick’s tiny office “for hours on end,” adding that she wouldn’t venture to guess what they were doing in there since she was “too much of a lady to imagine such things.” And referring to her notes as though it had been her task to log their goings and comings, Mrs. Inglish outlined the number of times they had left the church and disappeared “without a trace.”

  Brooke sat in her seat, her mouth clamped shut in anger as the accusations were fired at her. Nick bit his lip and continuously shook his head, but he remained silent as well.

  Then Mrs. Hemphill pulled out her heavy artillery, and Brooke felt as if the bottom of the world had dropped out.

  “Pastor Anderson,” Abby Hemphill said in a tone as authoritative as a courtroom attorney’s. “I would like to submit a copy of a hotel bill that shows that Brooke Martin checked into the Bluejay Inn last night, then checked out two hours later.”

  The members buzzed with disapproval, and Brooke’s mouth fell open in mute fury. Her spine shot ramrod straight. She sensed Nick looking at her, and she feared he would try to touch her to calm her, an act that would make her snap completely. He didn’t.

  Before Brooke’s rage erupted, Horace Anderson, the sixty-year-old pastor who’d seen this town through all of its peaks and valleys, stood up. “Abby, I’m sure this is going somewhere, but I can’t imagine what all this has to do with Miss Martin and Mr. Marcello designing stained-glass windows.”

  “Exactly, Pastor,” Abby Hemphill said. “It has nothing to do with stained-glass windows. But it has everything to do with wasting the church’s money.”

  “Abby, I’ve known Nick a long time. I know his character. Before we go on with this gossip, I think we should give our victims a chance to defend themselves. Nick, Brooke, would either of you like to address these charges?”

  “You bet I would.” Nick came to his feet before Brooke could. He braced his hands on the chair in front of him, leaning in Mrs. Hemphill’s direction. She lifted her nose and crossed her arms, regarding him with try-to-weasel-out-of-this smugness. His voice was as spuriously gentle as the wind in the eye of a hurricane. “You succeeded in smearing Brooke Martin’s reputation and running her out of town once before, Abby. I’d like to think we’re all a little older and a little wiser now, but I see some things never really change.” He sighed and stood up straight, folded his arms and shook his head. “Pastor, Brooke and I were closed up in my office because the workroom that we would have preferred to work in was full of the ladies of the Historical Society. We simply moved to the office to work and closed the door to block out the noise of the construction work. It’s deafening. Now, if you’d like evidence of the hours of work we’ve put in so far, you’re welcome to come by the church tomorrow and get an update.”

  Nick left the chair and began pacing around the room, looking each of his accusers in the eye, daring them to look away. “As for our leaving today, we went to St. Louis to check out our suppliers and to get some bids on the supplies for the windows. Those are some of the things that go along with designing stained-glass windows of this magnitude. However, I don’t plan to account to you people every time I get in my car or close my door.”

  “My point,” Abby interrupted, “is that these two people have a scandalous history that I don’t think anyone here needs to be reminded of. My fear is that they’re using this project as a means of finishing what they started. He hasn’t addressed the issue of the Bluejay Inn, yet, has he?”

  “I can’t address it, Abby!” Nick shouted. “I wasn’t there! And as far as Brooke is concerned, I think she’ll agree that it is none of your business!”

  “No, wait a minute!” Brooke stood up, drawing all eyes to her. She felt like an eighteen-year-old girl again, even though she’d pulled her hair back in a chignon and worn a pair of black slacks with a white blouse. Her appearance was far from the artsy style she usually embraced. She’d left her jewelry at home, except for a pair of white studs in her earlobes. The effect was severe, she hoped. Not at all vulnerable. Her voice wavered with restrained wrath when she spoke. “I would like to address the motel issue.”

  Abby set her chin in her palm. “Go right ahead, dear,” she said. “I can’t wait.”

  Brooke offered the woman a sad, pitying smile. “I’m sure you can’t. But I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you, Mrs. Hemphill. The truth is that I had a disagreement with my family and decided that it would be best if I didn’t stay at their house last night. I checked in, stayed awhile, and when they came and asked me to come home, I did. It’s that simple.”

  “Then your parents were the only ones who visited you in the hotel room?” Abby asked as if she didn’t believe a word.

  “Absolutely,” Brooke said. She turned to the other council members, her brows oppressively drawn together. “Why is it that I feel like I’m on trial here? Why am I having to defend everything I’ve done since I came into this town? Hayden is my home too. I came into this project against my better judgment, because I wanted a chance to work on something that meant something.” She turned to Horace, who listened with a deep, ponderous frown. “You asked me to come here, Pastor. I didn’t ask for the job. If we’re wasting our time on this, tell us now. I’ll just get right back to Columbia and pick up with my life.”

  “No, wait a minute,” Horace blurted, halting her with an outstretched hand. “That isn’t what we want. I personally want you to do what you were hired to do.” He rubbed his weary eyes and looked around at his congregation. “Look, if they provided sketches of the windows and made some kind of presentation to show us what they’re planning, would that put your minds at ease?”

  Some of the members agreed that it would, so the pastor turned back to Nick and Brooke, who now stood side by side, allies against the world. “All right then. This time next week, bring us eight or ten sketches, and I’m sure we won’t have any more discussion about revoking th
e budget.”

  “Eight or ten?” Abby asked. “There are twenty windows. Let them bring sketches of all of them.”

  Nick and Brooke looked at each other, astounded, then turned back to the council. “All of our sketches?” Nick asked. “Each window has four parts. We’re talking about eighty panels. We can’t sketch all of those in enough detail to convince you people in one week!”

  “We start with crude drawings called cartoons,” Brooke tried to explain. “They look like puzzles. Unless you’re used to looking at such things, you won’t—”

  “Do the best you can,” Horace said. “We’ll have to go by whatever you can show us.”

  Nick sighed and gazed at Brooke with troubled eyes, as if silently asking her if she was ready for the round-the-clock workit would take to prepare such a presentation. Her answering look told him she was.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll do the best we can.”

  The hallway was dark when Nick and Brooke left the conference room, leaving the church members to conduct other business. Light spilled from the doorway of a room being cleaned a few doors down, filtering just enough light for Brooke to see Nick. She slowed her step and looked up at him, unable to stop the tears from filling her eyes. “They think we went to a motel together,” she said. “As long as we live, Nick, whatever we do, whatever choices we make, right or wrong, they’ll see us that way.”

  “I know it’s hard for you, Brooke. But not everyone believes it. Horace didn’t.”

  “Most of them do.” Her tears began to flow and she covered her mouth with her hand and turned away from Nick. “It isn’t fair.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Nick touched the back of her shoulder, and this time she didn’t shrug him away. “We can’t let it cripple us,” he whispered. “That’s what Abby Hemphill wants.”

  “Why?” Brooke turned back around, wiped at the tears in her eyes. “What have we ever done to that woman? Nick, we can’t do all this in one week. It’s physically impossible. Eighty panels?”