ChapterOne
Lily satin the sand and sketched the early morning critters. Seagulls swooped and called to each other as crabs peeked hesitantly from their havens in the sand. This was the only time she was able to work on what she loved most. Art.Life art, as she called it, and predawn on the remote sandy beach of Cape Hope in the Florida Panhandle was her idea of life at its finest, even if her big sister, Connie, considered itisolating.
Bicycle breaks squealed from the boardwalk behind her, but she ignored them, knowing her sister had only come to scold her for sneaking away when she had real worktodo.
With a light touch, Lily smeared the edge of the charcoal line to soften it as she sketched the debris that had washed up on shore. The chunk of wood appeared to be a crab favorite with all the little critters skittering over the bark. Shells and pebbles littered the sand. Just beyond the driftwood, a glass bottle rested on its side, abandoned and forgotten. Her wish to find true love had been tossed aside like that bottle, after being crushed into tiny pieces like the grains of sand at her feet. Not that she wasbitter.
“Lily!” Connie’s voice startled the crabs and they scurried back into their quicksand homes at thewater’sedge.
Lily sighed and placed her charcoal pencil in the tin container resting on the sand beside her. Sealing it shut, she dusted the sand from her sketchbook before closing it. She stole one more second of peace and squeezed the sand between her toes as though trying to root herself to the spot. The warm, cushy feeling made her smile. Even if she’d lost the guy and the happily-ever-after, she still had her first truelove—art.
A seagull swooped down in an attempt to steal her muffin, but Lily quickly folded the paper back around it. “Ah, maybe next time. I’m on to you now.” She stuffed it in her bag thenstood.
Connie kicked and slid and complained her way over the sand dunes to Lily’s side. “Are you seriously out here again? How many ocean sunrises can you possiblypaint?”
Lily rolled her eyes. “I’m not painting. Do you see an easel or canvas?” She brushed the dirt from her capris and grabbed her flip-flops.
A breeze picked up, sending Connie’s skirt everywhere but where it belonged. “Are you ready to go back to New York yet? I’m tired of this heat and the tiny cottage…” She looked up and down the deserted beach then back at Lily. “And the lack ofpeople.”
“You mean lackofmen.”
Connie only shrugged, a family trait. “So, I’m human. I likecompanionship.”
“Well, if I had my way I’d live here forever.” Lily trudged up the sand dunes, tossed her flip-flops into the basket attached to the front of her old-style bike, and rode back to her cottage a couple ofblocksaway.
Connie arrived a minute after her. “Why do you go down there when you can sit on our back deckinstead?”
“Because I hope my sister won’t find me and tell me I need to stoppainting.”
Connie sighed. “If I had half your talent, I’d be in New York right now selling mypaintings. Besides, if you really wanted to hide, you wouldn’t go to the same spoteverytime.”
The front screen door creaked in protest as she opened it, and she made a mental note to ride out to the bigger town of Cape San Blas to get a can of WD-40 to oil the hinges. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee, an obvious bribe, and the sight of her easel told her it was time to get to work. “It’s a perfect spot. I love it there.” She shot Connie a sideways, playful glare. “No onebothersme.”
“You know you love me,” Connie said, folding her arms across herchest.
“Fine. I guess I do owe you for coming here with me.” Setting her sketchbook and tin on the counter, she asked, “So, what’s the ordertoday?”
“Landscape,” Connie said in anenthusiastictone.
Lily grabbed a mug, poured her coffee and plopped down in the chair. “Again? Let me guess, New York Cityskyscrapers.”
“No, you’ll love this. Seriously, you can’t even complain.” Connie poured coffee into her own mug then leaned against the counter. “The man wants to pay two thousand dollars for you to paint his house. The picture is sitting on the bookshelf over there. Isn’t thatgreat?”
“Ugh.” Lily let her head drop back and banged it against the wall behind her. “Whyme?”
“You told me you wanted to make enough money to open your own gallery so you didn’t have to commission pieces anymore. That’s the whole reason we came here. Well, that and so you didn’t have to see that monster of an ex again. That’s what I’m trying to do.” Connie tugged her sleeve, handed her the photo, and sat down on the arm of Lily’s chair. “I know you like sketching emotional pieces, but that won’t pay the bills. At least, notrightnow.”
“I know. I know.” Lily held up the picture, eyeing the atrocity she had to paint. An over-the-top, gaudy mansion with weird-looking garden gnomes and half-naked statues stared back at her. It looked like French country had attacked the South and the only ones who survived were the hillbillies disguised asgnomes.
With a sigh, she stood and went to her easel. She mixed colors on her palette and began to paint, not putting much heart in it. Not that it mattered. The man who owned such a disaster of architecture wouldn’t know art if he was hit over the head by one of his gardengnomes.
“You know, if you hate it that much, we can go back to New York,” Connie said as she watched Lily work. “There are other galleries, otherartists—”
“No.” The rise of panic bubbled up to the surface. “I’m not ready. Besides, Stephon’s influence is far-reaching.”
“Please, his name is Steve, and he’s no more European than Grandma Mildred. The man’s a fake. He used you then tossed youaside.”
“Doesn’t matter. His influence in the art community there is so deep-rooted, I’d never be able to get into anyone else’s gallery. No one would hire me.” Lily sighed. “Let it go. If you want to return to New York, then go. I won’t beupset.”
