The Boss's Proposal by Kristin Hardy Page B

“One of my many talents.”
    â€œI can hardly wait to discover more. You’d come in really handy in Manhattan.” He ran a hand down her arm.
    Just then, Glory turned toward them, switching off the welding gun and setting it aside. In a practiced move, she pulled off her helmet, then removed the earbuds from her music player. “Wow, is it one-thirty already?”
    â€œCloser to two,” Max told her.
    Glory shoved her thick gloves in the pocket of her welding apron. “No wonder I’m hungry. I’ve been out here since about ten. I was supposed to getfinished and cleaned up before you got here, but…” She wiped her hands on her jeans and stuck one out toward Dylan. “Glory Bishop.”
    â€œDylan Reynolds,” he said, shaking it.
    Glory studied him a moment, flicking a glance at Max. “So,” she asked Dylan, “you’re running the show?”
    â€œIn a way.” He turned toward the water trough. “Are you attaching anything or just cutting away metal?”
    â€œCutting. It looks like hell now but it’ll be gorgeous when it’s done. Although it won’t do a damned thing to hold water, will it?” She grinned. “Oh well, you know what they say about eggs and omelettes.”
    Dylan looked up from the water trough. “I like the pieces in the field. The white ones, especially, make quite an impression. They’re like a celebration.”
    â€œAh, the dancers,” Glory said. “That’s because I started making them on the first really warm day we had after a nasty winter.”
    â€œIf you can make inanimate materials show joy, what about hope or strength?” he asked. “Do you have ideas about how to do that?”
    â€œYou mean for the hospital? It’ll depend on what I come away with after I visit the place and talk to the people. I don’t like to get too far ahead of myself. I have been thinking about it, though. I’ve made some sketches.” Glory swiped her forehead with her arm. “Hey, guys, I’m dying in all this gear. Is it all right if I run in and change really quick? I’ll get the sketchesand bring us something cool to drink while I’m at it. No, stay out here in the shade,” she advised, as they moved to walk in with her. “There’s no AC inside. At least out here, you’ve got a breeze. Look at the sculptures, if you want. They beat the hell out of portfolio photographs. A couple of pieces down here are portraits,” she added as she darted up the front steps to the house. “See if you can figure out which one is Max.”
    Dylan watched the house’s front door slam and turned toward the gate to the field.
    â€œYou aren’t really going to go out there, are you?” Max asked.
    â€œWith a challenge like that, how can I not?”
    The grass in the pasture was calf high, dotted with tiny pale yellow and lavender wildflowers. A fat bumblebee buzzed on a zigzag path as though drunk with the heat. Nearby, one of Glory’s mobiles sat high above them on a metal post. Only one of its vanes moved in the quiet air, shifting lazily an inch or two to the side. Farther on, red metal cubes the size of milk crates were piled into an irregular stack like the building blocks of some careless child.
    Dylan turned to glance at Max. “I assume this isn’t you, right?”
    When she just stuck out her tongue at him, he grinned and kept going.
    Ahead of them, a piece of rough carved granite rose up and curved slightly into a crude point. The edges of a series of blue glass discs projected out of it,each a few inches below the next. With the overhead sun, the discs cast blue shadows over the rock, making it look like streaming water, as though it were the front of a wave.
    â€œNot you, either, but nice,” Dylan said, turning to her.
    Max slanted a look at him. “How do you know any of them are me? She could’ve just been