them were to her liking. They were formal poses taken before props of Grecian columns or painted backdrops, whereas Marianne preferred capturing people out in the real world. Sometimes it was pictures of workday routines that were the most moving. Last year she had photographed girls working in a fish cannery down by the wharves, and those pictures had been submitted to the Bureau of Labor to argue for better enforcement of child labor laws. Three of those girls were only fourteen years old, and seeing their young faces drawn with exhaustion was more persuasive than any dry government report.
She still had a few minutes before Abel left the darkroom, so she took a well-thumbed novel from her handbag. Opening the book, she was soon transported to the arid landscapes of seventeenth-century Spain and the adventures of long-ago people.
“Hello, Aunt Marianne.”
She caught her breath as her gaze flew up to the man standing beside her chair.
“Hello, Luke,” she said, trying to block the thrill from her voice but probably failing. He’d come looking for her. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Not after the roses, and especially not after the way he was currently gazing down at her with roguish delight. “Thank you for the roses.”
“You’re welcome. May I join you?”
There was an empty chair beside her, and he filled it the moment she nodded.
“Have you recovered from the ice?” she asked.
“Fully. How’s the dog?”
“Bandit is doing well, and my nephew thinks you are the bravest man in the city. How did you know I would be here?” Her heart still pounded at Luke’s unexpected arrival, for he was as attractive as she remembered.
“Rumor has it that the photographers who work at Interior get their photographs developed here on Friday mornings, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to seek you out.” There wasn’t much room in the crowded lobby, so he was pressed close to her side, and energy and excitement immediately hummed between them.
“I’m glad you did,” she said, seeing no reason to be coy.
His gaze dropped to the book on her lap, and he tilted to read the spine. “Don Quixote?”
“It’s my favorite novel,” she said.
Luke slanted her a disapproving glance. “But you’re reading a terrible translation.”
“I am? I didn’t know there was more than one.”
“Don Quixote has been translated into English eleven times in the last two hundred years,” Luke said. “The twelfth will be out later this year, and it’s the best.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m the translator.”
She burst into laughter. “No!”
He grinned. “Yes!”
“Why are you bothering to translate a book that’s already been translated so often?”
“Because the other translations are lousy. I’ve read them all, and know I can do better.”
It was such an arrogant thing to say, but it was impossible not to smile at his unabashed boasting, and if he had read eleven different translations of Don Quixote, he must love the novel as much as she did.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he continued. “This translation is shamefully close to my heart, and aside from my editor at the publishing company, no one knows about it.”
The fact that he shared the secret with her triggered a tiny thrill. “Why haven’t you told anyone about it?”
“It’s embarrassing.” He blushed madly as he spoke, so apparently he was genuinely sensitive about it. This was a man who risked his life to save a stranger’s dog but was embarrassed about his secret translation project. “It’s not a traditional translation. I’ve modernized it. I’m not as long-winded as Cervantes, and English is a very different language than Spanish. I’m afraid I took some literary license. A lot, actually.”
Marianne’s brows rose. “Are you allowed to do that?”
He shrugged. “I’m doing it. The other translations are so literal. A word-for-word translation sounds unnatural in English. I want the text to heave with emotion. I don’t want Don Quixote to be sad, I want him to rend his garments and howl in despair. I want blood and tears on the page. It’s going to be a controversial translation. A lot of people will hate it.”
“Blood and tears on the page? My, we are extravagant today.”
He preened at her comment. “We are extravagant every day,” he admitted. “Passion is what sets the world ablaze and drives men to strike out for the horizon and discover new worlds. It makes me get up in the morning looking for a new dragon to slay or an antiquated text begging for the breath of new life.”
She couldn’t wait for his Don Quixote translation. If he wrote