"That's the worst part. I can't give her what I had. Two parents in a loving home. I know how important my father was in my life. For a girl, it's protection, a feeling that nothing can harm you. For a son . . ." She trails off.

"It's the same," Rufus says. "My father died when I was nine."

"And I lived in fear that mine would die because they were so old when I was born," I blurt out. "They were over forty. My father was almost fifty!" I don't know why I'm saying this. "I'm sorry. It's not the same. They died when they were in their eighties."

"No, no, that's okay." Rufus smiles at me.

"Since you lost your father so young, is there anything you know of that I can do for my daughter?" Christina asks.

Rufus sits back and thinks. "No one ever asked me that." He picks up the serving spoon and fork and, despite our protestations, gives all three of us second helpings.

"This is your best yet, boss," Pedro says appreciatively.

"Thanks." Rufus gets up and puts the pan in the sink. He turns, crossing his arms over his chest. "Christina, the only thing I can tell you is to talk about your husband. A lot. Don't think you're going to ruin the mood by bringing him up, because when you've lost your father so young, you want to remember every detail, and it seems the entire world is trying to make you forget." Christina looks at Rufus gratefully.

After we clean up, Rufus takes us on a tour of the warehouse. Christina and I are amazed at the scope of their work. Besides the green windows he showed us earlier, Pedro is also restoring a rose window for St. Francis Xavier Church in Chelsea while Rufus finishes a series of backdrops for a touring opera company. At the moment they are also restoring a small chapel in Connecticut. Their company takes on only projects that interest them, Rufus explains, and that use their various skills in glasswork, painting, and woodworking.

Rufus walks us out to the car, opens the door, and helps Christina in, giving her a friendly peck on the cheek. Then he turns to me and shakes my hand. I get into the car. "We really didn't get to talk business," he says through the window.

"Doesn't matter," I tell him. "What we did talk about was more important."

"I thought so." His face breaks into a wide grin. "But what about your project?"

I give Rufus the file on Fatima Church. "It would be wonderful if you could paint the frescoes, and Pedro could redo our stained-glass windows. We need a shrine for the Blessed Mother. A new altar. There's so much to do. When can you come and see our church?"

"December."

"December! That's five months away!"

"You need time to do your research and design, don't you?"

"Yes, but-"

"It's fine," Christina says. "Father won't let us begin the actual work until after the Fatima feast day, and that's October thirteenth."

"See there? We're right on schedule." Rufus smiles.

I watch him go back into the warehouse. As the door closes behind him, I remember a story my mother used to read me about a giant who roamed the earth-his feet were so big that when he walked, his footsteps made valleys in the dirt. Some people are bigger than life. Rufus McSherry is one of them.

"So, what did Rufus think?" I ask Eydie, having called her the moment I pull in the driveway after dropping off Christina.

"He was intrigued. He thought you were funny."

"Do you think he'll take the job?" I press.

"He said he wants to see your design. Then he'll come and see the church. So get started. And it had better be good. He likes a challenge."

I feel my heart sink. "Eydie, listen," I confess, "I've been having some trouble."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm having some sort of artistic crisis. I can't seem to decide which way to go or what to do."

"Well, that's the easiest problem in the world to solve!" she says.

"How?" I sound like a pitiful sap.

"Go to Italy," she commands. "It's what we all do when we're stumped. Go to Italy, look around, and steal, steal, steal! Steal everything from the molding to the marble to the layout. If you're going to succeed, go to the source. You'll find the answer there."

I look over at Capri, fast asleep in seat 5A on TWA Flight 17 from JFK to Milan. How different it is to cross the Atlantic with Capri instead of Eydie. With Capri, I feel like a brother, making sure we're at the right gate, and that she has magazines and a book for the long flight. With Eydie, all I needed were cigarettes and the liquor cart. Time flew as we discussed art. This flight feels like a stint on a Conestoga wagon going west. Too long and too bumpy.

A great artist, I can't remember who, said that when you are blocked, you should return to your point of origin. Luckily, my artistic and spiritual origin is the Golfo di Genova, the vast sapphire-blue gulf that feeds into the Ligurian Sea. Eydie was right. As soon as we landed, I began to feel inspired. I had promised Aurelia that Capri and I would celebrate our fortieth birthdays in Italy, so while Capri shops for shoes, I'll shop for ideas to renovate the Fatima church.

I mapped out the trip with Capri. She wants to go to the beach during the day and out for dinner and dancing at night. I'm not looking for a tan or rumba lesson. I want to be hit over the head with inspiration.

Capri and I have always known we share Italian lineage from Santa Margherita. But she recently discovered that both of our families, the Castones and the di Crespis, were thrown out of La Spezia, a city south of our Santa Margherita, in some political brouhaha involving a harbor tax. The Castones were in the boat business, and the di Crespis were fishermen, so they banded together to fight city hall. Alas, they lost the fight and migrated north to this quaint, small cove and started over.

"I'm in heaven," Capri says as she greets me in her room. Her terrace faces the ocean while mine looks down the cliffs of Santa Margherita. "I don't feel forty at all. Happy birthday to me."

I notice that she isn't wearing her glasses. Her eyes are a beguiling chestnut brown with green flecks. "What happened to your glasses?"

Capri blushes. "You noticed. They came out with a new thing-soft contact lenses. They don't scratch the cornea like the hard ones. My ophthalmologist said to wait until we landed here to put them in, because they could dry up on the airplane."

"Wow." Capri is really attractive without her glasses, or maybe she's more relaxed because she can see clearly. Whatever it is, the results are a sizable improvement.

"I know. Big difference, right?" Capri beams.

We ordered up a light supper on the balcony outside her room. Capri ordered ravioli stuffed with fresh peas and mint drizzled in olive oil, grilled shrimp rubbed with garlic, and a cassis gelato. We have a cold, crisp white wine from the local vineyard. She toasts me, I toast her. We don't do much talking, just a lot of eating. There is a knock at the door. The minute I open it, three waiters in tuxedoes blow past me with a whipped-cream cake topped with red roses and sparklers. "Buon compleanno!" they shout. Capri is delighted as I snap pictures of her grinning from behind the dazzling sparklers. One of the waiters gives Capri a card: "Happy birthday. I love you, Mom."

"Nobody loves you like your mother," I say.

"And nobody can suffocate you like your mother." Capri yanks the sparklers from the cake. "I know she means well. But oy vey. I'm sorry, I don't mean to complain. Thank you for taking this trip with me, and helping me celebrate my birthday."

"It's my pleasure."

"We've always been close."

"Yes, we have. Your family had the money and mine had the taste."

"I should warn you. Even though we told her there wasn't a chance in hell, Ma still hopes we'll get married. As I was leaving for the airport, she said, 'I wouldn't mind it a bit if you and B eloped over there.' "

"Did you tell her to mind her own business?"

"What would be the point? Besides, she's starting to accept some changes. I showed her the apartment, and she liked it. As much as she'd like anyplace I move into that wasn't the Villa di Crespi."

The air is filled with the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine that shimmies down the outside wall on tangling vines so dense you can't see the stone wall underneath. If I learn one new thing on this trip, it will be draping. In Santa Margherita, the flowers seem to grow to accommodate the shapes underneath, nothing blooms in neat rows; no gardens look manicured. It's wild, messy, and Italian, and I love it.

"I don't miss New Jersey one bit," Capri says as she leans over the balcony and looks out onto the gulf. She wraps her pink silk shawl with the pale blue fringe around her shoulders. The doorbell rings.

"They must be here for the dishes," I say, walking over to answer the door a second time. When I open the door, a slim, fortyish Italian around five feet six with black curls and thick eyebrows extends his hand. "Ciao. You are Bartolomeo di Crespi."

I've never heard my name pronounced so perfectly. "Yes, I am. And you are?"

"Eduardo Pinetti."

"Eddie Pinetti?"

"Oh, don't make jokes." Capri breezes past me and pulls Eduardo into the room. "He's making a joke," she explains to him.

"Oh, I see." Eduardo smiles.

"Do you two know each other?" I ask.

"Kind of. Florence, who does the books at the Parsippany branch of the bank, met Eduardo when she was here on vacation. So we wrote to each other and decided to meet when I visited."

"Oh, you have a . . . date?"

"Yep." Capri smiles. "You don't mind, do you, B? You told me you wanted to turn in early."

"I don't mind." But I sound annoyed.

"Eduardo's going to take me dancing."

"Wonderful."

"You are welcome to come too." Eduardo looks at me. I can tell he doesn't mean it.

"No, no, you two go. Have fun. I have lots to do tomorrow."

"Oh, good, because tomorrow Eduardo's going to take me out on his boat. He's going to show me the homes along the gulf."

Capri grabs her purse and takes Eddie's hand. "Sleep tight, B. Have some cake!"

They practically prance out the door. I pull my chair up to the table and stick my fork into the word buon. I taste it. The icing is light and sweet. I pour myself a glass of cold wine and toast the moon overhead, which happens to be the perfect shade of powder blue. This is obviously the land of lucky love, so of course the spinster with dry eyes is going dancing while the bachelor with stomach muscles tighter than the springs on a trampoline sits in a hotel room and eats cake.

I finally call Capri at noon, having waited an hour for her to show up at the restaurant for brunch. I feel bad when I call, but I don't want to fritter the day away waiting for Ginger Rogers to come to. When she answers the phone, I hear Eduardo in the background. Moral standards fly out the window in Italy. It's as if the perfume in the air, the hot sun, and the wine conspire to turn a rational person into a wanton sex kitten. Capri, obviously, is no exception.

I leave the hotel and head for the small winding street that leads to town. The houses are painted pale blue and tangerine with white trim, looking like marzipan fruit set in whipped cream. In the distance, at the end of the main street, I can see the church of Santa Margherita. Eydie told me that I would find inspiration there, and I'm hoping she's right.

I pass the cemetery, which looks more like a real estate development than a place of final rest. The ornate mausoleums are built closely together, like fancy townhouses. The people of this town have enormous egos, especially when they are dead. The marble and gold-leaf accents give the burial site the look of a small kingdom loaded with miniature palaces. While some are large enough to include gardens, others have their own breezeways with altars. Most boast shrines, busts of family members carved in relief in doors and on gates. Some are stucco and painted Mediterranean hues of butter yellow, periwinkle blue, and moss green. Some of the doors are carved wood, some include panes of stained glass. Some of the mausoleums have simple wrought-iron gates that lead to a statuary where the dearly departed reside in style on either side of a flowing fountain. I wish I could read all the messages carved outside the crypts. There are blessings and warnings and paintings of the departed. The pharaohs of Egypt have nothing on the Ligurian Italians when it comes to opulent burial.

I climb the steps to the entrance of the cathedral, which makes our church in OLOF look like a Christian Science reading room. The Greco-Roman exterior is stucco painted a ripe peach that shimmers in the Mediterranean sun; the ornate trim is painted a shimmery pearl. Stately Tuscan columns anchor the main entrance under a wedding-cake pediment, while tall pilasters surround the smaller doors. Overhead, a second story looms with a glorious statue of Saint Peter with two obelisks. When I look up, I see vivid shades of coral and white against the blue sky, reminding me of an open seashell.

Inside, I feel as though I've been rolled in luscious Florentine paper, a mosaic of ruby red and dark green with flecks of metallic gold. The frescoes, filled with scenes of noble saints being followed by a flock of Italians (must be the Crusades), are painted in authentic detail in a palette tinged with soft orange, heather blue, and faded purple. Every inch of the walls and vaulted ceiling is filled with images of heaven and earth and angels and sinners. It's as if the artists ran out of space to say what they were feeling, so they painted their message from the baseboards to the vaulted ceiling.

At the far end of the cathedral I can see the Blessed Lady in an indoor grotto. She wears a flowing blue robe, and a gold halo-a ribbon of stars-is suspended over her head. The rough stones beneath her feet dance in the light of votive candles. I am so drawn to her that I blow right past the altar to the shrine. The artist took natural gray and black fieldstones in varying sizes and mounted them on the wall haphazardly to look like the wall of a cave. Shards of stone jut out from the wall, their edges coated in shimmering sand.

The statue itself is propped on a stone ledge about twenty feet high. Behind her the wall is painted in gold leaf, which gives the illusion that she is suspended in midair like an angel.

Below her, kneeling in prayer, is a carved stone statue of Santa Margherita around the age of eleven. I reach up and touch the hem of her garment. I must not be the first to do this, as there's a worn-away spot in the marble where I imagine many others have reached to touch the young saint. It gives me great comfort to know that others have had the same need, to somehow get close to this scene, to be part of it. Did they come seeking intercession? Healing? Inspiration? The majesty of a grand church like this one can be off-putting, when it's good old connection that a sinner really needs. The groove in the stone feels like the palm of a hand extended in comfort.

As I push my hands away from the wall, I feel something cool. I look down at my hands and then closely at the wall. Water trickles from the high rocks like a glassy ribbon, then disappears into a crevice behind the statue of Santa Margherita.

I kneel at her feet and begin to pray. I don't even know what this small girl with the tiny nose is famous for. A tall metal candelabra loaded with long white taper candles that burn at different heights looks like a picket fence in disrepair. I get up and light a candle that has gone out and make the sign of the cross. "Show me the way," I ask. But it's funny, in this moment I think I may have found it. Eydie was right. All the answers are in Italy. I have found mine in the Cathedral of Santa Margherita, while Capri has found hers in a speedboat tooling around the Gulf of Genoa.

I don't bother to unpack when I return home. I am filled with inspiration and can't wait to get to work. I call Two and Christina and tell them that I need them in my office as soon as possible. I am a man possessed by Gothic architecture, baroque statues, and the smiling faces of the rococo putti. I have the picture of the Cathedral of Santa Margherita in my mind, and I don't want to lose it before I can apply what I saw to our church. I don't want a single impulse to slip away. Christina takes notes while I sketch. The final days of August give way to the first crisp breezes of fall as we toil with our research.

Two types up notes and makes us lunch and, sometimes, when we work late, dinner. Amalia comes over after school as I thrash around the office thinking, creating, and sketching what I hope will become the greatest church in New Jersey. The Villa di Crespi has become a creative factory of ideas and possibilities. I'm operating at full tilt, and I love it.

Christina and I take a day trip to the stonemason's for samples of indigenous New Jersey rock. I want to use local materials in the renovation, so we spend a lot of time collecting wood samples, marble, and fieldstone.

"Look at these!" Two comes through the door with a large, open cardboard box.

"What have we got?"

"Fieldstone from Wainscott. Look at the color."

I hold up a sample. "Hmm. Dentyne." The stone is the exact shade of chewing gum.

"Too pink." Christina looks up from her notepad.

"Not as an accent in the grotto. Especially if we're going gold behind the Blessed Mother. I might be able to use this in the foyer, though, as a backdrop for the holy-water fonts."

"Nice," Christina approves.

"Unc, I dropped off the wingback chair at the Shumans'."

"Did you put it in place for her?"

"Oh, yeah. She loved it. Raved about it. I was wondering . . ."

"What?" I look up at my nephew.

"Could I do some sketches for you on Lina Aldo's house? You're so busy with the church, I thought maybe I could try out some ideas on you."

I think about it for a moment. I want to lecture him on how long it took me to become a decorator, education included, but I think better of it. "That's a great idea. Why don't you do a design board and room plan, and I'll look it over."

"Thanks, Unc." Two grabs the mail and goes to the post office.

"Are you sure you want the competition?" Christina smiles.

"It's all in the family. Wouldn't it be something if Two actually took an interest in the House of B? It's an Italian uncle's dream come true. I want to pass along more than my cuff-link collection. To see the House of B continue with the next generation would please me."

CHAPTER SEVEN.