Emerald Windows (16 page)

More applause sounded around the room, and Nick looked up, surprised.

“People don’t convert to Christianity because of stained-glass windows,” Abby Hemphill spouted.

“They can if the Holy Spirit is working,” Horace said. “If the Holy Spirit has a mind to win souls, He can do it through the windows or in the parking lot or even in the bathrooms. And I believe He’s working here. I sense the Holy Spirit in these plans, and I for one don’t plan to squelch it. Any more discussion?” Horace asked. Then, without allowing much time for response, he clapped his hands together. “All right, then, let’s vote.”

As the church members voted, it became apparent that the decision was pretty evenly divided. Brooke’s anxiety grew. But when the voting was done, there were a few more votes in favor of the windows than there were against them.

“Then let the record show that we voted—again—” Horace emphasized the word with vexation, “to allow Nick Marcello and

Brooke Martin to continue to design and create the stained-glass windows for the church.”

With a final bang of his gavel, the meeting was adjourned. An eruption of voices suddenly filled the room, and Nick lowered his face into his hands.

Brooke set her hand on his shoulder and leaned toward him. “Nick, it’s okay. We won.”

“Just barely. Not exactly with overwhelming support.” He looked up at her, self-deprecation evident in every line of his face.

Sonny zigzagged through the crowd and leaned over to slap his uncle on the back. “Hey, Picasso, you really did good.”

Nick covered his face again.

Sonny’s grin faded. “Hey, you’re not upset, are you? I mean, you won. It’s a go.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said. He stood up and started to gather the drawings. “Let’s just get our stuff and get out of here.”

Across the room Brooke saw Abby Hemphill in a corner, surrounded by her cronies, babbling with nonstop fury. She was cooking something up already, he knew. She wasn’t going to let this go easily.

“Congratulations,” the pastor said from behind them.

Nick turned around and shook Horace’s hand. “Thanks, Horace,” he said quietly. “I appreciate your support.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Horace said, his gruff voice taking the edge off the victory. “Just between you and me, I’m concerned that Abby will try to reverse things on the budget end. Abby can be pretty vindictive when she wants to be.”

“Tell me about it,” Nick said, his eyes straying to the angry woman again.

“Horace,” Brooke asked, keeping her voice too quiet for anyone to hear, “do you really think she can change the budget? I mean, can’t she be outvoted?”

“Of course,” Horace said, “and that’s exactly what I hope will happen. But you never know about these things. It depends on which way the wind blows and how loud that woman yells. And when she starts threatening to withdraw her family’s finan
cial support of the church—well, some members of our finance committee depend more on that than on God.”

He left them alone to speak to some of the other council members, and Brooke and Nick only stood staring at each other. “This is a nightmare,” she whispered. “I thought it would be over tonight one way or another, but here we are, no better off.”

Sonny shrugged, not entirely clear what the dismal mood was

about. “Sure, you’re better off. At least we can go ahead with our

work…finish the cartoons At least some of the church mem

bers see that this gig is worthwhile.”

Brooke scanned the faces in the crowd; some of the audience lingered with interest near the panels displayed on the easels. They
did
like them. But others were engaged in angry conversation, and still others snickered, throwing amused glances her way.

She turned back to Nick and saw that he still barely contained his rage as he stacked the drawings and dismantled the easels. She didn’t know what to say to make him feel better. “Nick…”

“Miss Martin?”

She turned and saw a woman at the side door.

“Miss Martin, you have a telephone call. Your sister. She says it’s important.”

“All right.” Reluctantly, Brooke started for the door. But before she left the room, she looked back and saw Nick staring down at the sketches, shoulders slumped.

CHAPTER
   

T
HE MAYOR’S OFFICE WAS ONLY
partially lighted, and the secretary, who apparently was also a church member, said over her shoulder, “I just stopped in to drop off my notes after the meeting, and the phone was ringing. I almost didn’t answer. Good thing I did. She said it was important.” The woman pointed toward the telephone, and Brooke snatched it up. “Roxy?”

“Thank heaven they caught you!” Roxy was barely audible over the line, but Brooke could still hear the quaver in her voice. “I was afraid no one would answer the phone.”

“Roxy, what’s wrong?”

Roxy dragged in a shaky breath, and Brooke could tell that she was crying. “I need your help,” she said. “I’m sort of…stranded.”

“Stranded? Where?”

Roxy cleared her throat. “You know that bar across the street from the Blue jay Inn? The After Hours?”

A sick feeling rose in Brooke’s stomach. What was Roxy doing “stranded” alone at a rough place like that, a place where hoods and hookers hung out, where people got shot or stabbed on Saturday nights. She glanced at the mayor’s secretary, who tried to pretend she wasn’t listening. “Yes, I know the place,” she said.

“Well, could you come pick me up?”

Brooke pushed her questions to the back of her mind. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” she said.

True to her word, Brooke made it to the After Hours Bar within five minutes. She pulled into the parking lot and saw a cluster of bearded men in denim and leather turn and ogle her as she put her car in park. Roxy was nowhere to be seen. She opened her car door and got halfway out, her lights still on and her motor still idling.

“Hey, darlin’, you lookin’ for me?” one of the men from the small crowd called out, and the others joined in with catcalls and vulgar remarks.

Trying to ignore them, Brooke looked around frantically for Roxy. Was she waiting inside? Did Roxy expect her to walk through those men to find her?

She was just about to turn off her ignition and take her chances when she saw Roxy slip from the shadows at the far corner of the building.

The men saw her. “Hey, there she is!”

“We thought you’d gone home, honey.”

“You weren’t hidin’ from us, were you?”

As they moved toward Roxy, she ran toward the car. When she reached it, she yanked open the door and almost fell inside.

Brooke was pulling out of the parking lot before Roxy even had time to sit up and, more importantly, before any of the men had reached the car.

“They’re like animals,” Roxy cried. Her hands trembled as she groped for her seatbelt.

Brooke caught her breath and became aware that she was shaking, as well. “Did they hurt you?”

“No. I’m okay.”

Brooke drove for several miles before she was certain her voice was steady enough to ask the questions that had to be asked. “Roxy, what in the world were you doing there?”

Roxy swallowed a sob, wiped her face, and lifted her chin. “Bill and I…we stopped in for a drink.”

“A drink? Roxy, you’re seventeen! You aren’t old enough to buy liquor. Didn’t they check your ID?”

“No!” Roxy flung back.

Brooke bit her lip, deciding to report the bar at the first opportunity. “Where is this
Bill?”

Roxy didn’t answer for a moment. Finally she spoke, slowly choosing her words. “He…he had an emergency, and had to leave—”

“He took you to a sleazy bar and
left
you there alone?” Brooke shouted. “Is he crazy? Are
you
crazy?”

Roxy glared out the window, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. “I don’t need this from you, Brooke.”

Brooke tried to contain her fury as she navigated the dark streets leading to their neighborhood. “I hope you don’t intend to see him again,” she said finally.

Roxy didn’t say a word.

“Roxy? You don’t, do you?”

Roxy remained silent, staring out the window.

“Roxy, you don’t have to put up with this. You can do better than some insensitive jerk who—”

“You don’t know anything about it!” Roxy screamed. “So just get off my back!”

Despair stabbed Brooke’s heart. “All right, Roxy,” she whispered, pulling into their driveway. “I’ll get off your back. But promise me that if anything like this happens again, you’ll call me.”

“That’s what I did, isn’t it?” Roxy asked, her tone softer than before.

“Yes,” Brooke said. “That’s what you did.”

Roxy got out of the car and started toward the house. The lights were off and Brooke knew that her parents were sleeping soundly, unaware that Roxy was going through some sort of crisis
that Brooke didn’t know how to handle. She locked the car and followed her sister to the porch.

Roxy stopped before she reached the front door. “Don’t tell them, Brooke. Okay?”

Brooke regarded her sister for a moment, saw the desperation in her face. “That’s asking a lot, Roxy.”

“I’ve never asked you for anything before,” Roxy said. “Not until tonight. I need you to promise me that you won’t tell them.”

Brooke saw the red, swollen evidence of misery and heartache in Roxy’s eyes. She had no idea what her sister was going through, but going to her parents would only alienate Roxy further. Instead, Brooke vowed privately that she would find a way to take Roxy under her wing, win her trust, and guide her in the right direction again. Releasing a long, weary sigh, Brooke acquiesced. “All right,” she whispered, though her better judgment warned her against it. “I promise.”

CHAPTER
   

N
ICK BROUGHT THE SKETCHES INTO
his kitchen. He set them down carefully, so as not to tear or bend them. Then, in direct contrast to that gentleness, he slammed his fist on the counter. Leaning over it, he clutched the edges of the counter top, his knuckles whitening with the force of his self-reproach.

What had come over him tonight?

Gritting his teeth, he kicked the cabinet at his knees, then headed into the living room, where he flung himself onto the couch.

He couldn’t believe he had insulted Abby Hemphill in front of hundreds of people. Had he really said her hobby was driving people away? She was right. He didn’t deserve to work on the windows. And what a terrible witness he’d been to all those nonbelievers who’d come just for the spectacle. He had given them something to talk about, all right.

Even Brooke had been disgusted. She had disappeared without a word.

The doorbell rang, and he sat up, looking at the door and wondering if it was a lynch mob come to finish him off.

Bracing himself, he crossed the room and pulled the door open—then started at the sight of his mother, his sister Anna, and her husband, Vinnie. Judging from the expressions on their faces, they might be the lynch mob he’d expected.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he asked. “You guys never visit me. Something’s wrong.”

“Are you gonna invite us in or make us stand out here in the elements?” his mother asked.

Nick ushered them in and closed the door.

“We came to talk to you.” Vinnie’s words were edged with hostility.

“About what?”

“About what you’re doing to Sonny,” Anna said.

Nick frowned and shook his head, wondering if he’d missed something. “What do you mean, what I’m doing to Sonny?”

“Encouraging him in this art business,” his mother threw in.

“How could you?” Anna asked, glaring at him with disgust. “How could you undermine our authority as his parents? Do you know what it’s like to go through adolescence with a child?”

“Adolescence? The kid’s nineteen!” Nick leaned wearily against the wall, telling himself that he was engaging in a losing argument, that he should stay calm. “Look, Anna, if I’ve upset you, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Upset me!” she shouted. “I want to know how you could do this! When you know how bad Vinnie needs him in his business.”

“Anna, you’re overreacting,” Nick said. “The kid has talent. I didn’t do anything to cultivate that. He’s done it himself.”