Rufus has had dinner out at least three nights a week since he arrived, all made with loving care by the women of OLOF. He's been wined and dined by the officers of the sodality and various parishioners who heard him speak after Mass about the renovation. When they're not hosting him for dinner, the ladies compete by leaving Rufus Tupperware containers of their best dishes on his doorstep. The cult of Rufus McSherry has replaced Roman Catholicism as the inspiration to love one another in our community.

"Do you have a girl, Rufus?" I ask as he's suspended overhead on a scaffold, stripping layers of paint from a section of rib vaulting.

"Do you?" he asks me.

"I asked you first."

He climbs down the scaffolding, and it reminds me of King Kong swinging off the Empire State Building. Anything this man touches seems smaller in proximity to him.

"No one in particular." He fishes a bandana from the back pocket of his jeans.

"You know you're the local catnip now."

He throws his head back and laughs. "I guess the parade of homemade pies is proof, right?"

"Let me tell you something. The women around here like tall and they like Irish. And in OLOF there are very few tall and just a couple of Irishmen, so you're now officially Mr. Delish."

"Thank you for boiling my attributes down to two characteristics that I have no control over. But what's your story, B? A good-looking Italian guy like you. Why aren't you with someone?"

"Who said I wasn't?"

"Good point. Maybe you're just discreet. Of course, I understand you were engaged once. For what, about twenty years?" He chuckles.

"Well, I wouldn't call that the real thing, Rufus. It was an arrangement made without my consent when I was a baby."

"Oh, I get it. Like royalty. You were promised."

"Exactly!"

Rufus replaces the lids on various cans of dry pigment that will make paint when he paints the fresco. Today he tested colors on the wall, making streaks of blue, from the palest aqua to the deepest azure. "I had it once, B."

"You were married?"

"No, in love."

"How did you know?"

"That's easy. I would have done anything for her." He fishes in his pocket for his cigarettes and hands me one. He lights his own and then throws me the matches while he steps back and squints at the stripes of color on the wall.

"What happened?" I ask gently.

"She died."

I take a breath. "How?"

"She got sick. And there was nothing they could do."

"What was her name?"

He takes a moment to answer. "Ann."

"What was she like?"

"You know, it's funny. I don't think of her face. I think of how I felt around her. But she was pretty. A brunette. Tall."

"Tall people should go together. The same with short. I don't like those Jack Sprat couples where the man is over six feet and he marries a four-foot door knocker. It's ridiculous."

Rufus laughs. "Man, you've got standards."

"Someone has to. This world has gone to hell. And if you haven't noticed that, then shame on you."

Rufus sits down on the steps of the altar.

"How long has it been?"

"Three years."

"Has there been anyone since?" I ask.

"Boy, B. You're a font of questions."

"I'm sorry."

"I like women, so yeah."

"But nothing has come close to Ann?"

"Nope." He smiles. "It helps though, to have a little female companionship."

"It does? I'd think it would be the opposite. You'd always be reminded of Ann and compare others to her." I usually don't play amateur psychologist, but there's something about Rufus that makes me want to ask the questions and hear his answers.

"It doesn't work like that. Well, maybe for women. But for a man, there's so much comfort to be found in the company of a woman. I would never turn away from that. I need it. It's not like anyone can replace Ann, but I need to live, to be present here and now. You know what I mean?"

"Being with a woman makes you feel alive?"

"No, to me it is life. I don't mean that in a cavalier way. I like how a good woman can make it all seem easy."

"How are we doing?" Christina calls out from the back of the church.

"Ring a bell or knock, would you?" I chide. "I'm having a private conversation here."

"Sorry, B." Amalia follows Christina, carrying a Tupperware container of brownies.

"Hi, Rufus," Amalia says, giving him the container. "I made you these. I put chocolate chips in the batter, so they're really good."

"That's sweet of you. Thank you."

"Even the thirteen-year-olds adore you, Rufus. Where's mine, Amalia?"

"You're always on a diet." She shrugs.

"So some celery sticks would have been nice."

"Okay, I'll remember that for next time." Amalia rolls her eyes.

I turn to Christina. "We're going to Aurelia's for dinner tonight. Want to come? She made that endless pot of sauce with enough meatballs for a potluck."

"We can't. We're going over to the Menecolas'."

"It's awful, B," Amalia complains. "They play the TV too loud and put anchovies in the salad. I hate it."

"But they're family," Christina says kindly. "Well, let's go."

Christina smiles at Rufus, who looks back at her with something like flirty affection. I can't tell for sure. After all, Lonnie and Toot have been schtupping under my nose, and I didn't get so much as a whiff of it. So maybe I'm seeing something that isn't there. Amalia and Christina close the church door behind them. "Chris is a great girl," I say.

"She is."

"So?" I press.

"So what?"

"Is there something between you?"

"Now, B. Do I look like a guy who kisses and tells?"

"No."

"Then let's leave it," Rufus says, tactfully changing the subject. "You know, the painting of Our Lady of Fatima on the wall here isn't a fresco."

"It isn't? What is it?"

"It's a painting. The artist adhered a canvas to the wall and then did a treatment over it."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. I haven't taken it down yet. I just peeled a corner at the top. That technique was used when churches changed the art around a lot."

"That's the only art that ever hung in this church," I say, wondering what Michael Menecola had up his sleeve.

That evening Rufus and Pedro drive over to Aurelia's and I follow in my station wagon. It's wonderful to spend time with the guys. It occurs to me that I've been surrounded by women all my life. At home it was Ma and Toot, at school Capri, on weekends Christina, and then when I became a decorator I mostly dealt with women clients. It feels good to have Rufus and Pedro around. I'm surprised Rufus and I have become so friendly, and relieved that there's finally another man in town who is as passionate about art as I am. I really enjoy our conversations, and I try not to think about how I'll miss him when he leaves.

I park behind Rufus in Aurelia's driveway. Rufus and Pedro follow me up the front steps and through the front door, which Aurelia always leaves open for me.

"This is a palazzo," Rufus says as he looks around.

"French Norman. And don't miss the Monet in the living room. All the art is real. There's more paintings hanging in here than there are at the Met." The guys follow me into the foyer, where they take a good look around. We hear shouting from the kitchen.

"Ma, I don't understand!" I hear Capri yelling.

"I won't have it!" I hear Aurelia shout back. "I simply won't have it!"

"Wait here," I tell Rufus and Pedro. Pedro looks lost as he holds his bottle of wine for the hostess. I walk past the dining room where the table is set with a tablecloth, flowers, china, and crystal, into the kitchen, where the argument between Capri and Aurelia has escalated.

"How could you do this to me!" Aurelia is sitting at the table, her face buried her hands. Capri stands behind a chair, holding it for strength.

"I haven't done anything wrong," Capri insists.

"What is the matter, ladies?" I ask from the doorway.

"Go away, B," Capri cries.

I turn to go. "No, stay," Aurelia orders.

"What's going on here?" I demand as I pivot to face them.

Aurelia points at her. "She took up with the spic!"

"Are you speaking of our friend Pedro?" I ask evenly. I motion to Aurelia to lower her voice so Pedro won't hear the slur. She ignores me.

"And it's all your fault!" Aurelia directs her rage at me. "You brought these . . . these people here."

"He's a good man and a talented artist, Aurelia. Pedro is a stained-glass window expert, a true craftsman. He's brilliant."

"Don't start with me, B. I don't want my daughter with a Mexican."

I begin to speak when Pedro appears in the doorway. "Mrs. Mandelbaum?" he says.

"Pedro, please," Capri says to him softly. "Go."

"I want to talk to you, Mr. Alarcon!" Aurelia walks toward him.

"Mother!" Capri tries to stop her.

"This is my house and I will say whatever I please." Aurelia turns to Pedro. "I want you to stop seeing my daughter."

"I'm sorry you feel this way," Pedro says quietly.

"I didn't raise her to do this."

"To do what, ma'am?" Pedro says respectfully.

"You know exactly what I am talking about, young man!" she thunders.

"You raised me to be alone," Capri says. "It's like I've been pickled! I've been waiting forty years for someone to open the jar and let me out! You betrothed me to Bartolomeo, for godsakes. Talk about limbo."

She makes an engagement to me sound like a death-row sentence, but now is not the moment for my ego to be assuaged. "I'm sure we can work this out," I say diplomatically.

"It's too late." Aurelia turns to Pedro. "You're sleeping together! For shame!" She points her finger at Capri. "Your father would be so ashamed of you. I want you out. Both of you. Get out of my house!"