Christina, taking notes, and Gian Angelo, giving his impassioned sermon, walk in circles around the altar. He points, he gestures, he shouts. Christina scribbles, occasionally interrupting him and repeating what he has said, or asking a question. After fifteen minutes of diatribe, he sits down in the priest's chair, crosses his legs, and looks at us.

"Gian Angelo says that the original construction of the church is excellent," Christina reports. "Good bones, he says. The statues are junk, from molds instead of carvings. The only thing he would keep is the rough-hewn cross over the statue of Mary. He says it is Sicilian and hand-carved. He likes the fresco. While it was painted by an amateur, he feels that it was done with heart, and that counts for more than technique. His final recommendation is to modernize the church, making it more accessible. Dispose of the Communion railing, the confessionals, and the baptistery. Replace the pews. The pitch of the pews is uncomfortable, so he says we should get new ones. These are monuments to another time in history, when secrets and shame were part of the doctrine. A church, he says, should serve the people instead of appearing grand and isolating, and he suggests we look to the Jewish synagogues and Quaker meetinghouses, where the rooms are multipurpose and not solely for religious services, for inspiration."

"Interesting," Eydie says.

"Ask Gian Angelo what he would do to make this place stand out from all the other traditional churches in New Jersey."

Christina asks Gian Angelo. He listens and then rolls his eyes.

"He says you should hire Rufus McSherry."

Eydie pats my hand. "It's time to go and see Rufus."

After I said good-bye to Gian Angelo, Eydie, and Christina, I came home to a light supper of sardines on toast, a holdover from my trip to England. It's a balmy summer night with a cool breeze, so I decide to take a walk on the beach. The beach behind the Villa di Crespi is public, but it's a thin stretch of rocky shore with coarse sand, so I only get passersby, never any sunbathers. In the distance, looking south, I can see people on the beach where it widens out and the sand is soft, but from here they are as small as bright confetti. Occasionally the wind brings the sound of a radio or laughter my way, but mostly it's quiet, except for the lapping of the waves.

As a matter of habit, I stop and pick up seashells that interest me, and I always put the ones I really like in a lovely Baccarat bowl in my living room. It's my way of remembering that I once was young and carefree.

In a way, the worst thing that can happen to an artist is to get what he wants. I dreamed of renovating the church, and was elated when I got the job. But it didn't take long for me to realize that I might not have it in me to deliver what I know the place can be.

It must be how a soprano feels when she can see the notes on the page-she can hear them in her head, but when the moment comes and she opens her mouth, she can't hit them. There she is, paralyzed in front of the orchestra, knowing she can't do justice to the aria. This is how I feel about Fatima Church. I have the ideas, but will I find the artisans to fulfill my design?

This job is not like decorating a home or a business. It isn't about suiting one client, it's about providing a place for all kinds of people to find inspiration and peace. A church is a host to the highest dreams, deepest fears, and greatest sorrows of the believer. One building has to be all things to all people who gather there. Perhaps this is why I can't crack it. I can't feel what it is I am supposed to be doing. I desperately need inspiration.

The sun is setting, leaving behind a trail of white clouds that looks like a window shade raised to let in the last of the light. As the sun melts into the black horizon like a scoop of orange sherbet, dusk settles around me, and I feel truly alone. This is one of those moments when I wish I had a lover to share my life. It would be nice to be supported and quell this self-doubt in the eyes of someone who believes in me. This must be why people get married. They're afraid of the dark.

Driving through the streets of Bay Ridge with Christina, I realize the neighborhood is a lot like OLOF, except our kids swim in the town pool instead of cooling off in the spray of fire hydrants, and there are more Irish people. Here we see that great American mix of the working-class Irish and Italians, which yields one of the most striking color combinations in all of humanity: raven-haired brunettes with blue eyes. The emotional combination is equally compelling-explosive tempers and quiet shame.

Rufus McSherry works in a warehouse on Seventy-second Street off of Third Avenue on a dead-end street called Bennett Court. Our Martinelli cousins live a couple of blocks over and invited us for a barbeque later, which translates to a bacchanalia of roasted lamb on a spit, a twenty-pound turkey, and several side dishes featuring eggplant, rigatoni, and artichokes. And that's before the tub of homemade ice cream.

"Do you have the photographs?" I ask Christina as we stand at the entrance door of the warehouse.

"Everything, including Gian Angelo's recommendations."

"I'm surprised he didn't take you back to Italy with him."

"He wanted to."

"How old is that man?" I press the buzzer marked McSherry.

"I don't know. Eighty?"

"Good God. When is it enough?" I ask.

"When is what enough?" a voice booms out of the intercom. Christina and I are startled.

I press the button on the intercom and answer, "I was speaking about an eighty-year-old man who still chases women."

"My kind of guy," the voice replies.

"I am Bartolomeo di Crespi."

"Come on up."

The buzzer is loud. I push the heavy steel door open and hold it for Christina, who looks at me as though we're on a fool's run. There is a long, narrow stairwell with no railing that goes up one floor and reaches a landing with a bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. We ascend in the August heat without complaint, but I am about two seconds away from turning down these rickety stairs and jumping back into our air-conditioned car.

"Rufus McSherry?" I ask the man hovering at the top of the stairs.

"No, I am Pedro Alarcon, his apprentice," the man says. He reaches out to shake my hand. Pedro is around thirty-five, with black hair, golden-brown skin, and a pleasant face. He is about five feet seven, with a square jaw, black eyes, and a small nose with a wide bridge. He shakes my hand and then Christina's. "Follow me, please."

Christina and I follow him through a small room filled with paint cans, sacks of concrete, boxes of marble rubble, skeins of small wires, flats of wood, and bags of dry plaster. Then we step inside the workroom. I inhale the smell of oil paint and varnish, a delicious combination that says art is being created.

The warehouse is a massive floor-through room that has been broken down into several work areas. The ceiling, over thirty feet high, is a series of old slanted skylights with steel casings. Some are propped open, letting direct sunlight and a welcome breeze peel through. The floorboards, wide planks of pine, warped from wear, creak loudly when we walk on them.

There is a row of worktables with recessed tops along one wall. This is where the stained-glass windows are made. Christina and I observe Pedro as he pours epoxy resin into the mold trays lined up on the table. He pours the clear liquid, lets it set for a few seconds, then gently shakes the mold, allowing it to settle. We peer over his shoulder, mesmerized by the process.

"This is an ancient technique," Pedro explains. "I don't make windows like the Italians. They are beautiful but too sleek. I like the Mexican way. We use sand and heat to make glass. No tubes for blowing the glass, we use our hands. The results are thick blocks of glass, layered in the molds to give them heft and texture. So my windows are primitive."

"They're very sturdy," Christina comments.

"A good window should last a hundred years. And it does"-he smiles-"if I do my job."

I look down into the mold where a series of geometric shapes emerges beneath the resin, like bamboo pushing through the surface of a pond. The mold is filled with square chunks of emerald-green glass anchored by a thick hem of clay.

"That's beautiful," Christina says.

"I hope my windows are like poems. I don't want to tell you what they mean. You should decide for yourself." Pedro points to the mold. "See the shapes? Some might see an angel, and others a butterfly. It's up to you."

Pedro goes back to work as we turn to a canvas stretched over forty feet in width and about twenty feet in height. The mural of a vivid blue sky with crisp white clouds could be the backdrop of any scene in a Tiepolo painting, but there is a twist. A shard of pink sunlight breaks through the clouds like an unfurled satin ribbon. The sky could have been painted by an old master, but the ribbon is strictly modern. The combination makes me smile.

"Imagine waking up to that every morning," Christina says approvingly. "Now, that's inspiring."

"Where would you hang it? You'd have to live in a gym," I tell her, not wanting to take my eyes off of it.

"Like it?" the intercom voice says from behind us.

I nearly jump out of my skin; Christina takes my arm. We turn around. "You like startling people, don't you?" I tell him.

He throws his head back and laughs. "Love it. I'm Rufus McSherry." He extends his hand first to Christina. She looks positively doll-like next to this strapping Irishman. He's around forty, over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and massive arms (from all that climbing around on scaffolds, I'm sure). He has the biggest hands I've ever seen; Christina's hand disappears inside his paw. His wavy hair has some red in it (hence his name!), but some gray too, which makes it seem more brown than rusty. He could use a haircut since it grazes his shoulders in that young Abraham Lincoln way. A shave wouldn't be a bad idea either. His face is big like the rest of him, with a pronounced jaw, a good straight nose with a bulbous tip, and a nice mouth with strong white teeth.

His deepset brown eyes sparkle with mischief. He squints most of the time, then his eyes snap open when he's interested in something. When he looks at Christina, it's as if his eyeballs are on springs. He tilts his head and studies her. From the way she is standing on her toes and smiling up at him as she tells him about herself, I deduce that there is more going on in this room than an artistic consultation.

I point to the mural in progress. "At first I thought Botticelli. But when I study it, I see Tiepolo. You like him?"

"A lot." Rufus smiles.

"There isn't a better blue in all of art, I don't think. What's it for?"

"It's a backdrop for the opera."

"Which one?"

"The Barber of Baghdad."

"I never heard of it."

"Peter Cornelius. It's lousy. German. This is the sky outside his room, where the general lies dying. I wanted to give him something to live for. Are you hungry?"

I don't know why everything this man says gives me a shot of adrenaline, so I take a deep breath to calm myself.

"Actually, I am." I look at my cousin.

"Christina?" Rufus smiles at her. She nods that she's hungry, but I think she would agree to be painted green and hung from her feet on Fourth Avenue if this man asked her to. "Well, come on back."

"What about Pedro?" I ask.

"I'll call him when the food is ready."

As we follow Rufus, which is a little like the Lilliputians when they followed the Giant to the edge of the world and fell off to their deaths, Christina turns around and looks at me; she smiles. It's the old Christina suddenly-she seems happy for the first time in months. Rufus pulls aside some old velvet drapes to reveal a kitchen. After Christina passes through, I see that his eyes are studying her fine figure. When I finally catch his gaze, I give him an icy look, which makes him laugh.

The kitchen is clean but sparsely furnished. There's a Formica-topped table and matching silver chairs, diner-style, a stove, a sink, and a refrigerator. The pots and utensils are top-of-the-line. "Here, sit." He pulls a chair out for Christina and then shows me where to sit. "Here, Bart, uncork this wine." He goes to the stove, where steam rises from a large pot of boiling water.

Christina laughs but then stifles it. "Bartolomeo hates to be called Bart."

"Why?"

"Tom Mix movies," I explain. "Black Bart and all that."

"What should I call you?" Rufus asks.

"B."

"Okay, B." He puts mismatched wineglasses on the table. "I'm going to make us spaghetti carbonara, okay?"

"Sure." Christina looks at me like my mother used to-with a big smile that means Be nice.

Rufus throws a pound of linguini into the water and stirs. Then he takes down a large cast-iron frying pan from the shelf and puts it on the stove over a low flame. He goes to the refrigerator, takes out a stick of butter, and throws it into the pan. He grabs an onion from a wire basket on the windowsill, hacks off the edges, pulls off the skin, and slices it thinly right into the pan (without crying). He takes four eggs and a carton of cream out of the fridge, cracks the eggs into a bowl, and beats them lightly, slowly adding the cream. He sets the mixture aside, pulls a package of bacon from the fridge, and cuts it open with a steak knife. Removing six slices of bacon, he cuts them into small pieces over the butter and onions in the pan. They sizzle and smell divine. He stirs the pasta again, scooping one strand out and sucking it into his mouth. (I could do without the slurp.) "Al dente."

Rufus dumps the vat of pasta into a colander in the sink. He gives the colander a good shake, then plops the noodles into the frying pan with the butter and bacon. He carefully folds in the eggs and cream, stirring constantly. The pasta turns a lovely golden color. He reaches into the fridge again and pulls out a wedge of fresh Parmesan. Turning off the heat, he grates the luscious cheese onto the hot linguini.

"That smells great," Pedro says from the door. As he washes his hands at the sink, Rufus pulls plates from the shelf and places them in front of us. Pedro brings paper napkins, large spoons, and forks. Rufus grates fresh black pepper over the pasta and transfers the pan to the center of the table.

"B, why don't you serve that up?" Rufus gives me a large spoon and fork.

He goes back to the refrigerator and pulls out a casserole dish and places it on the table. He has stuffed long, thin peppers with shards of anchovy and doused them with olive oil.

"Rufus, stuffed peppers are one of my favorite dishes," I say. "My grandmother used to make them."

"Mine, too."

"An Irish grammy made stuffed peppers?"

"My mother's people are Italian. Altezza. From Puglia."

"Pedro, where are your people from?" I ask.

"It's a small town in Mexico. La Paz."

"Buon appetito!" Rufus raises his glass, and we toast.

I have never eaten linguini served straight from the pan. My mother was so persnickety about the way a table was set she never even allowed a milk carton on the table when we ate breakfast. Everything had to be in a proper receptacle: bread in a basket, milk in a pitcher, pasta in a serving bowl. But here, straight from the skillet, each buttery bite is more delicious than the last. I wonder if it has to do with the olive oil that glazes the iron pan. It seems to give the sauce more flavor. Or maybe it's just Rufus. I can already see that he's the man who invented robust, from his stature to his art to his pasta. I want to know everything about him. The wine is a hearty Chianti, a perfect complement to the bacon and onions.

"Are you married, Rufus?" I ask.

"No. Are you?"

"No."

"The last bachelors in America," Christina says. "Who knew you'd find them eating linguini in a Brooklyn warehouse?"

"I'm not married either," Pedro offers.

"Congratulations," I say.

"How about you?" Rufus asks Christina.

For a split second I think, If you thought she was married, why were you flirting with her like she was the last girl you'd ever lay eyes on? But I keep this to myself. After all, we're guests.

"I was married. Happily married for thirteen years. My husband died a little over a year ago. His name was Charlie. Our daughter, Amalia, is twelve."

I can't know for sure, but I believe this is the first time Christina has mentioned Charlie without crying. "She's a pip, that Amalia," I say cheerily, hoping to change the subject.

"That's tough." Rufus looks at Christina. "How are you doing with it?"

Christina shrugs. "I don't know how to answer that." Pedro and I look down at our plates and roll the pasta on our forks.

"Try," Rufus urges gently.

"Well, it's very strange." Christina sits back in her chair. "When I was married, I used to wonder what would happen if my husband left me."

"You said you were happy," Rufus says.

"Very happy. That's probably why I worried about the worst thing happening. I couldn't imagine life without him. We had our fights, of course, and our tough times, but mostly it was great. A peaceful life. We really treasured that, and we knew if something bad happened, we would stick it out."

"We come from very resilient people," I say proudly.

"The biggest problem is that I don't know what to do." Christina takes a sip of wine. Rufus stares at her intently, willing her to go on. "I mean literally," she continues. "When Charlie was alive, there was a routine in our home. There were expectations, and they were met. There was fun. Sometimes the three of us would go out all day, and we'd come home and collapse on the couch and offer each other money to go get things because we were so tired. Charlie would offer, you know, a dollar to Amalia to get him a beer; if the phone rang, I'd offer Charlie fifty cents to answer it. That sort of thing. Our own weird family dynamic. And now it's gone. And I don't know how to invent something new. It seems impossible."

"How's Amalia?" Rufus asks. "Besides being a pip."