an artist. His father’s blood ran through him and with it came the need to create. Or in this case, restore.
* * *
PALLAS RARELY SCHEDULED more than one wedding on a weekend. It was simply too difficult to set up everything and then break it down in time. The only exception was when a wedding party wanted a Friday event—then she could handle a second one on Sunday. Still, even with that option, and the slightly lower cost for choosing “off hours,” most brides and grooms wanted the traditional Saturday night party. Which meant she had most Sundays off.
Bright and early Monday morning she made her way to Weddings in a Box and walked the property. The main building was three-sided, in a U shape with a courtyard in the middle. At the west end was the small lobby with a fairly traditional facade done with a slight Italian villa flair. The north side was finished with stone and resembled a medieval castle. The south side was covered with wooden siding—giving it a ranch-like, Old West, rustic feel.
One building, three options that could easily be fluffed to fit nearly a dozen wedding themes. Quirky, yes, but she loved every fake brick and nonworking window.
She checked for damage to the building and fence—because there was that one time a groomsman had run his car into the gate—and lost or abandoned property. Celebrations went late, liquor ran freely and more than one shoe, bra or pair of panties had been found on the lawn.
What was it about weddings and irresponsible sex? Sure, the bride and groom were likely to get some but that was tradition. Everyone else should wait until they got home—only they rarely did. Fortunately today all she found was a streamer and a few flower petals. No need for protective gloves to pick up those.
She made her way inside and headed for the business office on the second floor. She’d only moved into what she still thought of as Gerald’s office a few weeks before. For the first month after his death—after learning that he’d left her his business—she’d been in shock. For the next two months, she’d been unwilling to make any changes. Last month she’d realized that running from her desk to his fifty times a day was just plain dumb. Gerald wouldn’t have given her Weddings in a Box if he didn’t want her to keep it going. So she’d moved into his office.
Instead of feeling sad, she’d realized that being where she always pictured him had made her feel closer to him. He’d been like a second father to her, and while she missed him every day, she knew he would be happy with what she was getting done.
Now she checked her calendar while carefully avoiding the pile of bills in her in-box. Weddings in a Box might be a happy, interesting place, but it was also hanging on by a financial thread. One that was constantly in danger of snapping. Theme weddings didn’t come cheap, but neither did the venue and the special touches.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. She would be brave tomorrow. She checked her email and saw that two more brides had sent back signed contracts. That was good news. She would review them before—
“Good morning.”
She looked up and saw a man in the doorway to her office. Not just any man—Nick Mitchell.
Several emotions collided. Gratitude for how he’d rescued her on Saturday, slight embarrassment at how she’d stripped him down and fake-tanned him, major embarrassment after she’d figured out who he was and disappointment that she was still going to have to keep looking for a part-time carpenter. Oh, and confusion as to why he was here.
She rose, ignoring the fact that he was the best-looking man she’d had in her office in oh, forever, and smiled. “Hi. How can I help you?”
He leaned against the door frame. “I thought we could have that interview now.”
Because she’d accidentally scheduled the last one right before a wedding. Only there was no way he would want to work for her now, was there? “I really appreciate how you helped me out on Saturday.”
“You’re welcome. It’s not every day a guy gets to be a Roman soldier.”
“Unless you work here, then it happens way too often.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about how everything played out.”
“I’m not. It was an experience I can talk about for a long time.”
“I’m relieved you’re not mad. Alan said you were a nice guy. He’s generally a good judge of character.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You’re not threatened by Alan?” Because a lot of straight guys were.
“Not even close.” He flashed her a grin. “I work with a chainsaw. It takes a lot to threaten me.”
“That certainly puts things in perspective.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot and decided to just say it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s no point in us having an interview. When I set up our appointment I hadn’t done more than pencil in a name on my calendar. I looked you up yesterday.”
One eyebrow rose. “Google or Bing?”
She smiled. “Both, and they said the same thing.” Her smile faded as she remembered everything she’d read. Nick Mitchell wasn’t anything close to an out-of-work carpenter. He was a world-renowned artist who had won awards. Yes, he worked with wood, but on a completely different level. It would be like asking a successful race car driver to teach someone to drive.
“I don’t know what my friend Atsuko was thinking when she gave me your name. You’re some famous artist guy and I’m a small-business owner who needs some repairs done. On the cheap.” She tried not to wince over the last word because someone like Nick Mitchell wouldn’t understand what it was like to scramble for every penny to keep her business open.
“But I appreciate you coming by,” she added. “And you being a good sport about the whole fake tanning thing.”
“It was fun. I enjoyed myself. The tanning was...interesting.”
“Not an experience to be repeated?”
“Um, no.”
She stood by her desk, waiting for him to leave, but he didn’t seem in a hurry to go.
“What did you want done?” he asked.
Why did he care? “Nick, I’m serious. I was going to pay a few dollars above minimum wage. That’s all I can afford.”
“Is it the wood panels?”
“Yes, but—”
He nodded toward the hallway. “Let’s go see them.”
She was more than a little confused, but okay. They went down the stairs and through the large, empty ballroom toward the storage areas on the side. She pulled open the big doors and flipped on the lights, then waited while Nick examined the panels hanging in place.
The rectangles of wood were huge—tall and wide, completely carved on one side. As she watched, Nick moved to the first one and placed his hands on the wood. He half closed his eyes as he traced the carvings with his fingers. Pallas had the oddest sense of watching something intensely personal, which was uncomfortable and more than a little fanciful.
“What do you know
