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landed on her plate with a loud clatter. Her father didn’t move a muscle, but his face hardened to a colorless granite. Even Roxy’s eyes seemed to dull in consternation as she stared at the iced tea beside her plate.
    “What in the Sam Hill has Nick Marcello got to do with it?” her father bit out.
    Brooke met her father’s eyes and swallowed hard. “He’s in charge of artistic development for the renovation.” She turned to her mother, saw that the same expression had altered her face as well. “Mom, I haven’t agreed to take the job yet. I didn’t even know he was involved until I got into town today, and when I saw him this afternoon, I told him that I’d have to think about it.”
    “Think about it?” her mother repeated. “You actually have to
think
about it? After all that’s happened? After all he’s put us through?”
    “Don’t even think about starting that up again, Brooke,” her father said.
    Brooke took a deep breath and warned herself that losing her temper would serve no purpose. “Dad, nothing is starting up again. I’m not going to embarrass anybody. I was interested in the job because it’s a fantastic career opportunity. My boss, Mr. Gonzales, strongly encouraged me to do it. That’s absolutely the only reason.”
    Her mother leaned toward her in disbelief. “You
can’t
be considering taking this job, Brooke.” The statement sounded too much like an order, and Brooke’s white-knuckled fingers clamped more tightly over the edges of her chair.
    “Mom, a job like this could really launch my career. It’s the kind of thing stained-glass artists work toward all their lives. That has to be considered.”
    “She’s going to take the job,” her mother uttered, shooting a glance back to her father. “She’s going to work with him, and it’ll all start up again.”
    “Nothing
is going to start up!” Brooke said. “I’m a grown woman now, and he’s not my teacher anymore. We aren’t involved or even interested in each other, and we never have been. Don’t you think, after seven years, I ought to have the chance to work in my home town, holding my head up? Haven’t I earned that?”
    “That’s not something you can earn,” her father said. “Once your reputation is taken away from you, you can’t get it back.”
    “Dad, that isn’t—”
    “Just eat,” her mother blurted out, her eyes misting with anger. “It’s been sitting long enough. We’ll talk about this later.”
    Roxy’s chair scraped back from the table and she got to her feet. “I’m not hungry,” she said. And before anyone could protest, she left the table.

CHAPTER    
    T HE REMAINDER OF THE MEAL WAS short and stressfully quiet, and Brooke managed to choke down at least half of the dinner that had once been her favorite. She told herself she wouldn’t cry and wouldn’t engage in a screaming argument with her father and mother, like the one she’d had when she was eighteen.
    Without a word she helped her mother clear the table, then went to look for Roxy. What was bothering her?
Surely not the thing with Nick,
Brooke thought. Roxy had been too young to understand when the scandal erupted. Still, Roxy’s aloofness troubled her.
    She knocked on her sister’s bedroom door, and at Roxy’s uttered “What?” opened it and stepped inside. Roxy was sitting on the wide bench in front of her window, hugging her knees to her chest.
    Brooke looked around the small room that revealed the stages of Roxy’s growth: a tattered teddy bear on a shelf next to several ballet trophies, a framed photo of her dancing in
The Nutcracker,
a stack of books on a tableranging from Shakespeare to Pat Conroy, a pair of toe shoes hanging from a hook on the wall. She looked at her sister, wishing that words came more easily and that she knew how to dispense with the awkwardness between them. “Sorry about the scene at the table,” Brooke said.
    Roxy’s gaze drifted out the window. “What did you expect?”
    Brooke