One morning the McKinleys were invited to a luncheon at the Presidio, and Sullivan was the only guard needed, for the first couple would be well protected on the military base. Mrs. McKinley’s sister accompanied them, which meant Caroline was free as well.

“There is a museum worth seeing,” she said as she sat next to him in the parlor car after breakfast. The toe of her slipper peeked out from beneath her hem and tickled his ankle.

“I am impervious to temptation,” he said, wishing a frisson of electricity hadn’t just shot through him, but he didn’t move his leg.

“They have a Vermeer on display.”

That was all he needed to hear. “Let’s go.”

Most of their group had already departed for the Presidio, so he and Caroline went to the museum alone. The Vermeer was near the back in a position of honor. It was The Milkmaid, another of Vermeer’s famously quiet scenes of domestic tranquility. A sturdily built woman poured milk into an earthenware bowl, shades of ochre and umber giving the picture a somber tone. The kitchen scene was dim, but pale light from the window above lent quiet dignity to the maid’s chore.

“It reminds me of the Vermeer in the Corcoran, the dreary one of the lady reading the letter,” Caroline said. “This one is dull too, but beautiful. It makes me want to step inside the painting for an hour or two.”

“Yes,” he agreed, for the painting quietly paid tribute to the dignity God imbued into seemingly mundane acts of daily service.

A family of tourists came lumbering toward the Vermeer. “Why did the artist bother painting such a homely woman?” the father asked as he drew alongside them.

“She’s not homely, she’s flat-out ugly,” a boy said.

“She’s not too ugly,” the mother defended. “I’ll bet she’s making a bread pudding, and this picture is making me hungry. When can we go to lunch?”

“Come on, two more rooms,” the father said. “We paid to see everything, so let’s get moving. This is great art we’ve paid to see.”

“I still say that woman is too ugly to be in a painting,” the boy said as the trio moved into the next room.

Nathaniel tried not to smile as he stared at the Vermeer, but he was dying to know Caroline’s opinion.

“What do you think?” he asked when they were alone again. “Is she too ugly to be in a painting?”

Caroline took a moment before responding. “She has a dignity and strength that shines through even three hundred years after Vermeer painted her. I can tell by the way she handles that pitcher that she knows what she’s doing, and she makes me embarrassed that I can’t cook.”

He laughed. “Me too.”