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tell nobody? Pop would bust a gut, and Grandma would fake a heart attack or something. Ma would just martyr up like Joan of Arc.”
    Nick laughed. “Come on, I can’t stand the suspense.”
    Sonny took a deep breath, apparently struggling with some monumental confession. “Well, I’ve been, sort of…playing around with paints and stuff.”
    The confession was uttered with as much shame and guilt as if he’d admitted to a drug addiction. “You mean, you’ve been painting? Like I do?”
    Sonny stood up, running his fingers, blotched with dried paint, through his hair. “Yeah, just like you, Picasso. Only not as good. Not anywhere near as good.”
    A glint of pleasure and surprise illuminated Nick’s eyes, and he sat up straighter and scanned the room. “Well, let me see.”
    “No, I can’t,” Sonny said, suddenly wilting. “It’s pretty terrible, really.”
    “Sonny, let me see,” Nick told him. “I’m not a critic.”
    A self-conscious smile tugged at Sonny’s lips, and he crossed his arms and stared at Nick for a long moment. Finally, he went to his bed, got down on one knee and pulled a wet canvas out from under it, along with the collapsible easel he’d hidden there. Mechanically, he set it up.
    In vivid color, Sonny had captured the house he lived in, stroking its character and history in every line and hue, from the crooked mailbox on the front corner to the laundry line strung up on the side. His chin propped on two fingers, Nick studied the painting with a lump of emotion in his throat, then turned back to his nephew. “Why didn’t you tell me you could do this?”
    Sonny gave a half laugh. “Guess I thought if I didn’t tell nobody, I’d get tired of it after a while and lose interest. No harm done.”
    Nick knew that feeling. “It doesn’t go away, though, does it?”
    Sonny sank back down to his chair. “Pop thinks I’m gonna finish Vo-Tech and keep working with him as an electrician. His pride’s all caught up in it. I don’t really have a choice, you know?”
    “No,” Nick said. “I
don’t
know. Everybody has choices.”
    “Aw, man, that’s easy for you to say. You’re already doing it. Nobody’s ridin’ you about it.”
    Nick’s laughter came as a surprise to them both, for nothing about the subject was funny. “You think my pop liked what I did? When I went to college to study art, he swore I was just loafing. I was supposed to work in the shoe store with him. The family business. He was going to rename it Marcello and Son Shoes, just for me. To this day Ma says she’s glad he didn’t live to see what I’ve done with my life. Like I’ve gone to work for the Mob or something.”
    “No,” Sonny said with a wicked grin. “In this family, that would be a lot more respectable than being an artist.”
    “You’re right.” Nick looked back at the painting, wondering at the raw talent smoldering just below his nephew’s tough-guy façade. “Look, have you had lessons or anything? Any kind of training?”
    “Just what I learn from books,” Sonny said. “But what I wouldn’t give to learn more.” His eyes lit up, as if sharing his secret with Nick had set him free, and he’d just discovered the power to ask for help. “Nick, you could teach me, couldn’t you? I mean, you were a teacher.”
    “You got it,” Nick said without hesitation. “Only problem is, I’m about to be working long hours for a while at the church. But if you want, you can use my studio anytime you want. I’ll give you a key.”
    “You mean it?” Sonny asked, his eyes as wide as a kid’s half his age.
    “Yeah. And the reason I came up is to ask you if you’d want to work with me this summer on the windows. If Brooke agrees to work with me, she and I are needed for the most complicated part of designing. There’re a lot of things that we need help with.”
    Sonny’s eyes sparkled with surprise and a touch of amusement. “Brooke? Not the one…”
    Nick swallowed and held out a hand