Emerald Windows (10 page)

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 and 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.”

“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
   

T
HEY 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.”