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want to lose the flavor of the house in the remodeling.”
    â€œYou seem to have it all plotted out.” Was she really so cool? he wondered.
    â€œI hope so.” Shane pressed the clipboard to her breasts as she looked around the room. “I’ve applied for all the necessary permits. What a headache. I don’t have any natural business sense, so I’ll have to work twice as hard learning. It’s a big chance.” Then her voice changed, became firm and determined. “I’m going to make it work.”
    â€œWhen do you plan to open?”
    â€œI’m shooting for the first part of December, but . . .” Shane shrugged. “It depends on how the work goes and how soon I can beef up my inventory. I’ll show you the rest of the place. Then you can decide if you want to take it on.”
    Without waiting for his consent, Shane walked to the rear of the house. “The kitchen’s a fairly good size, particularly if you include the pantry.” Opening a door, she revealed a large shelved closet. “Taking out the counters and appliances should give me plenty of room. Then if this doorway is widened,” she continued as she pushed open a swinging door, “and left as an archway, it would give more space in the main showroom.”
    They entered the dining room with its long diamond-paned windows. She moved quickly, he noted, and knew precisely what she wanted.
    â€œThe fireplace hasn’t been used in years. I don’t know whether it still works.” Walking over, Shane ran a finger down the surface of the dining table. “This was my grandmother’s prize. It was brought over from England more than a hundred years ago.” The cherrywood, stroked by sunlight, gleamed under her fingers. “The chairs are from the original set. Hepplewhite.” Shane caressed the heart-shaped back of one of the remaining six chairs. “I hate to sell this, she loved it so, but . . .” Her voice was wistful as she unnecessarily straightened a chair. “I won’t have anywhere to keep it, and I can’t afford the luxury of storing it for myself.” Shane turned away. “The china cabinet is from the same period,” she continued.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œNo.” 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.”
    â€œIt sounds more interesting than reciting names and dates.”
    â€œMaybe. 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.
    â€œThen 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.”