Her father, a dashing, aristocratic Frenchman whose work had dazzled the city’s art connoisseurs before his untimely death, would have shuddered at the bourgeois assignment. Her mother, owner of the Bay area’s finest art gallery, would probably cringe at the dull practicality of the finish details.

But drawing restroom updates and adding more diner space to Cove Lanes was the only kind of work available in this compact northern California town on the Pacific coast. She knew she should be grateful for the crumbs the local contractors had tossed her way since she’d arrived a year ago, though she understood why they were so quick to give her this particular share of their business: builders wanted to build, not fuss over paperwork.

Yes, she understood-more than any of them realized. As much as she enjoyed the process of design, of crafting neat, two-dimensional schemes that would be transformed into three-dimensional works of art, it was nothing compared to the thrill of helping to shape her creation on the job site. The buzz and clang of equipment, the smell of sawdust and solvents, the skeleton and organs and nerves and skin of studs and plumbing and wiring and siding-every step was fascinating and exciting and hers. Every detail and decision was hers to choose and make, and the sense of power and control was addictive. Every line and corner and arc sprang from her imagination, and watching it all rise from the ground was a rush beyond compare.

She switched on her music system and selected her favorite Miles Davis album-something cool to match the day, a bluesy tune to match her mood.