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students used habitually.
    He took out a roll of peppermints and began chewing one as he studied the foundry. The place was a scar on the hillside, he decided. Ugly brick and metal jagging up, spreading out, with towers puffing smoke. He wondered how closely they skirted EPA regulations, then reminded himself that wasn’t his problem, or his mission.
    Tossing his ponytail behind his back, he slung the strap of the portfolio over his shoulder and headed in the direction of a low metal building with dusty windows.
    In the heeled boots, adding a little swish was a matter of course.
    Inside was a long counter with metal shelves behind, stuffed with fat ring binders, plastic tubs filled with hooks and screws, and large metal objects that defied description. At the counter on a high stool, a woman sat paging through a copy of Good Housekeeping.
    She glanced up at Ryan. Her eyebrows shot up instantly, her gaze skimmed up and down. The slight smirk wasn’t quite disguised. “What can I do for you?”
    “I’m Francis Kowowski, a student at the New England Institute of Art History.”
    Her tongue was in her cheek now. She caught the scent of him and thought of poppies. For God’s sake, what kind of man wanted to smell like poppies? “Is that so?”
    “Yes.” He moved forward, letting eagerness come into his eyes. “Several of my classmates have had bronzes cast here. That’s my art. I’m a sculptor. I’ve just transferred to the Institute.”
    “Aren’t you a little old to be a student?”

    He worked up a flush. “I’ve only recently been able to afford to pursue . . . Financially, you see.” He looked miserable, embarrassed, and touched the clerk’s heart.
    “Yeah, it’s rough. You got something you want cast?”
    “I didn’t bring the model, just sketches. I want to be sure it’s forged just exactly to my specifications.” As if gaining confidence, he briskly opened the portfolio. “One of the other students told me about a small bronze that was done here—but he couldn’t remember who’d done the casting. This is a sketch of the piece. It’s David.”
    “Like in Goliath, right?” She tilted her head, turning the sketch around. “This is really good. Did you draw it?”
    “Yes.” He beamed at her. “I was hoping to find out who did the casting on this so I could make arrangements for him to do my work. It was about three years ago, though, according to my friend.”
    “Three years?” She pursed her lips. “That’s going back a ways.”
    “I know.” He tried the puppy look again. “It’s vitally important to me to find out. My friend said that the piece was beautifully done. The bronze was perfect—and whoever did the foundry work used a Renaissance formula, really knew his craft. The sculpture was like museum quality.”
    He took out another sketch, showed her The Dark Lady. “I’ve worked desperately hard on this piece. It’s taken all my energies. Almost my life, if you can understand.” His eyes began to shine as she studied it.
    “She’s great. Really great. You oughta be selling these drawings, kid. Seriously.”
    “I make a little money doing portraits,” he mumbled. “It’s not what I want to do. It’s just to eat.”
    “I bet you’re going to be a big success.”
    “Thanks.” Delighted with her, he let tears swim into his eyes. “It’s been such a long haul already, so many disappointments. There are times you could just give up, just surrender, but somehow . . .”
    He held up a hand as if overcome. Sympathetically, she popped a tissue out of a box and handed it to him.

    “Thank you. I’m so sorry.” He dabbed delicately under his tinted lenses. “But I know I can do this. I have to do this. And for this bronze, I need the best you’ve got. I’ve saved enough money to pay whatever you charge, extra if I have to.”
    “Don’t worry about extra.” She patted his hand, then turned to her computer terminal. “Three years back. Let’s see what we can find out. Odds are it was Whitesmith. He gets a lot of the work from students.”
    She began to click and clack with inch-long red nails, and shot him a wink. “Let’s see if we can get you an A.”
    “I appreciate this so much. When I was driving up here, I just knew this was going to be a special day for me. By the way, I just love your nails. That color is fabulous against your skin.”
    It took less than ten minutes.
    “I bet this is the one. Pete Whitesmith, just like I figured. He’s