“Ever hear of Baryshnikov? Davidov?” She was too used to the knee-jerk reaction to be particularly offended. “I’d put a well trained dancer in his prime up against any other athlete you name in a test of strength and endurance.”

“Who wears the tutu?”

She sighed, only because she was perfectly aware this was the sort of bias she’d be facing in a rural town. “For your information, male dancers are real men. In fact, my first lover was a premier danseur who drove a Harley and could execute a grande jeté with more height than Michael Jordan can pull off for a slam dunk. But then Jordan doesn’t wear tights, does he? Just those cute little boxers.”

“Trunks,” Brody muttered. “Basketball trunks.”

“Ah, well, it’s all perception, isn’t it? The bathrooms stay separate. New stalls, new sinks, new floors. One sink in each low enough for a child to reach. White fixtures. I want clean and streamlined.”

“I got that picture.”

“Then moving right along.” She gestured toward the stairs at the back end of the corridor. “Third floor, my apartment.”

“You’re going to live here—over the school?”

“I’m going to live, breathe, eat and work here. That’s how you turn a concept into reality. And I have very specific ideas about my living quarters.”

“I bet you do.”

Specific ideas, Brody thought an hour later, and good ones. He might have disagreed with some of the details she wanted on the main level, but he couldn’t fault her vision for the third floor.

She wanted the original moldings and woodwork restored—and added that she’d like whoever had painted all that gorgeous oak white caught, dragged into the street and horse-whipped.

Brody could only agree.

Portions of the woodwork were damaged. He liked the prospect of crafting the replacement sections himself, blending them in with the old. She wanted the floors sanded down, and coated with a clear seal. He’d have done precisely the same.

As he toured the top rooms with her, he felt the old anticipation building. To make his mark on something that had stood for generations, and to preserve it as it was meant to be preserved.

There had been a time when he’d done no more than put in his hours—do the job, pick up the pay. Pride and responsibility had come later. And the simple pleasure they gave him had pushed him to better himself, to hone his craft—to build something more than rooms.

To build a life.

He could make a difference here, Brody thought. And he wanted, badly, to get his hands on this place and make that difference. Even if it meant dealing with Kate Kimball, and his irritating reaction to her.

He hoped—if he got the job—she wouldn’t be one of those clients who hovered. At least not while she was wearing that damn perfume.

Then they were back to bathrooms. The old cast iron tub stayed. The beige wall hung sink went, and Brody was directed to find a suitable white pedestal sink to replace it.