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“The china cabinet is from the same period,” she continued.
    “You could keep this and leave the house as it is if you took a job in the local high school,” Vance interrupted. There was something valiant and touching in the way she kept her shoulders straight while her voice trembled.
    “No.” Shane shook her head, then turned back to him. “I haven’t the character for it. It wouldn’t take long before I’d be cutting classes just like my students. They deserve a better example than that. I love history.” Her face brightened again. “
This
kind of history,” she said as she walked back to the table. “Who first sat in this chair? What did she talk about over dinner? What kind of dress did she wear? Did they discuss politics and the upstart colonies? Maybe one of them knew Ben Franklin and was a secret sympathizer of the Revolution.” She broke off laughing. “That’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to teach in second-period eleventh-grade history.”
    “It sounds more interesting than reciting names and dates.”
    “Maybe. Anyway, I’m not going back to that.” Pausing, Shane watched Vance steadily. “Did you ever find yourself caught up in something you were good at, something you’d been certain was the right thing for you, then woke up one morning with the feeling you were locked in a cage?”
    The words hit home, and he nodded affirmatively.
    “Then you know why I have to choose between something I love and my sanity.” She touched the table again. After a deep breath, Shane took a circle around the room. “I don’t want to change the architecture of this room except for the doorways. My great-grandfather built the chair rail.” She watched Vance walk over to examine it. “He was a mason by trade,” she told him, “but he must have been handy with wood as well.”
    “It’s a beautiful job,” Vance agreed, admiring the workmanship and detail. “I’d have a hard time duplicating this quality with modern tools. You wouldn’t want to touch this or any of the woodwork in this room.”
    In spite of himself he was becoming interested in the project. It would be a challenge—a different sort than the house he had chosen to test himself on. Sensing his change of attitude, Shane pressed her advantage.
    “There’s a small summer parlor through there.” Indicating another door, she took Vance’s arm to draw him with her. “It adjoins the living room, so I plan to make it the entrance to the shop, with the dining room as the main showroom.”
    The parlor was no more than twelve by twelve with faded wallpaper and a scarred wooden floor. Still, Vance recognized a few good pieces of Duncan Phyfe and a Morris chair. On the brief tour, he had seen no furniture less than a hundred years old and, unless they were excellent copies, a few pieces of Wedgwood. The furniture’s worth a small fortune, he mused, and the back door’s coming off the hinges.
    “There’s a lot of work here,” Shane commented, moving over to open a window and dispel the faint mustiness. “This room’s taken a beating over the years. I suppose you’d have a better idea than I would exactly what it needs to whip it into shape.”
    She watched his frowning survey of chipped floorboards and cracked trim. It was obvious to her that his professional eye missed little. It was also obvious the state of disrepair annoyed him. And, she thought, faintly amused, he hadn’t seen anything yet.
    “Maybe I shouldn’t press my luck and take you upstairs just yet,” she commented.
    A quizzical brow shot up as he turned to her. “Why?”
    “Because the second floor needs twice the attention this does, and I really want you to take the job.”
    “You sure as hell need somebody to do it,” he muttered. His own place needed a major overhaul. Heavy physical work and a lot of time. This, on the other hand, needed a shrewd craftsman who could work with what was already there. Again, he felt the pull of the