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worth taking that chance? Or would I be better off to just let this whole thing go and turn the other cheek? I think about all the work I put into this place and start feeling nauseated when I realize what it would mean to fail.
    It would mean that I was wrong. Wrong about myself when I thought I could do this. I can live with a lot of things, but I can’t live with that. Not now. Not after quitting my job, renting out my house, and moving all the way down here. I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Then I sit down by the toilet and take a few deep breaths. After a few minutes, I get myself together and stand up and look in the mirror. I look like a damn wreck, so I go get my makeup bag and dump all of the contents into the sink. After touching up my face, I comb my hair and reapply a coat of hair spray.
    “I can do this,” I say, popping my freshly glossed lips. “I just have to be nice, and that was my plan to begin with, so what of it? Those women are nothing but dried-up nuggets of stinking idiotic horseshit, so maybe good things will come my way if I’m nice to a pack of hags who don’t deserve it.” I take a deep breath, put everything back into my makeup bag, and promise my reflection that I can function like this.
    I walk upstairs to my studio and start thinking about what I might do for the art festival submission. It takes me only a minute to decide that I should paint the marina next to the Blue Oyster Restaurant, because it really is one of the prettiest sights I’ve ever seen. Plus I might score some points with the selection panel for doing something local. I carefully position a medium-sized canvas on my easel, pick up a pencil, and sketch out the buildings, the boats, and the water, but my mind isn’t on it. Forcing myself to stay on task, I take out my paints and bring the marina to life.

5

    T he following Monday, I’m putting the finishing touches on a cartoonish red crab that I painted just for fun when the doorbell chimes and scares me to death. After tossing my brushes in the sink, I wash my hands and head downstairs. I’m still wiping my hands with a towel when I round the bottom of the stairs and feast my eyes on what can be described only as a big sexy beast of a man. I stop walking and just stare.
    This fellow is obviously involved in some kind of construction, because his boots and jeans are dusty, as well as that neon green SALT LIFE shirt he’s wearing. His dark blond hair is curled over the back of a camouflage Alabama baseball cap, and his eyes are so brown they’re almost black. I throw the towel off to who knows where, brush a hand through my hair, and do my best to look cool and nonchalant as I walk to meet him in the center of the gallery.
    “Miss Jones, I presume,” he says, holding out a large, chiseled hand. I’m shaking his hand, reveling in his manly, outdoorsy scent, when he says, “You just smeared paint in your hair.”
    “Oh,” I say coolly, “that’s how I like it.” I smile. “Please, call me Ace.”
    “Well, Ace, I’m Kevin Jacobs, Ramona Bradley’s nephew, and I’m here to pick up a picture or something?” He cocks his head sideways and smiles, and I almost fall on the floor from cardiac arrest because he’s so damn attractive that it almost hurts to look at him. I think about Birdie Ross and how she’s always telling men they’re “hot to trot” and I can’t help but think she would love this guy.
    “Those two,” I say, pointing to the pictures propped against the wall behind the counter.
    “Well, I just walked right past those, didn’t I?” he says, and I swoon over his deep voice.
    “Lucky for you it’s not too far of a walk back to where they are.” I blush, ashamed of my shameless attempt to flirt.
    “Nice place you got here,” he says, looking around.
    “Thank you,” I say, wishing he’d get those pictures and get the hell out the door before I do something crazy like ask him to whip out his goober.
    “I know