Free Emerald Windows by Terri Blackstock Page B

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.
    A bby 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 Marcelloand 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