Right.
I pluck the giveaways off the wall, not believing I’m really doing this, and haul them into my office. I have to burrow through a few boxes before I finally get my hands on the packing supplies, and after thirty minutes of wrapping and taping, I’m satisfied they’re ready for transport. I take the pictures out to the gallery and prop them against the wall behind the counter. I feel a small tug of sadness when I realize that I’ll never know what kind of people will end up with these two pieces or the large painting Lenore won, failed to pay for, and subsequently donated to her charity.
I plop down on the stool behind the counter and think one more time about the one-sided conversation I had with Sylvie Best. Or I should say that she had with me. It makes me mad and it depresses me because I’d really made up my mind that I was going to come down here, make a fresh start, and be nice. And I can be nice all day long as long as people don’t start any shit with me, but if someone starts some shit, especially some stupid shit, well, that whole being-nice thing has to go.
I look around the gallery and ask myself if it’s worth it. Could Sylvie and Lenore really ruin me here in Pelican Cove? Is telling them off 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
The 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 your fiancé, Mason,” he says, and my giddiness evaporates like ice on hot asphalt.
“Yeah,” I say, feeling like a dirtbag.
“Yeah,” he says, flashing that thousand-watt smile. “He did the closing on my house a few years back and we’ve been fishing buddies ever since.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say, hoping against hope that Kevin Jacobs never shows up at our place for a fish fry or something, because I’d hate to get caught staring at his crotch like I’ve been trying not to do for the past five minutes.
“Over here?” he asks, pointing. I nod, and when he turns around, my cheeks start to burn as my mind becomes consumed with X-rated thoughts about Kevin Jacobs.
“Well, I guess I better get these things and head on down the road.” He picks up the first picture and turns to go. I walk over and stand behind the counter, staring at his ass until he’s out the door. I try to act busy when he comes back in a second later, but there’s nothing on the counter except that basket of brochures, so I piddle with those like a moron.
“Saved the big one for last,” he says, smiling as he picks up the painting.
“That’s my policy,” I say, and then snigger and snort as my cheeks continue to burn.
“Is it, now?” he says and laughs out loud.
“I do what I can,” I say, then realize that I am making no sense whatsoever. I walk over to the door to put some distance between us so I don’t jump on him like a fat kid on a cream cheese brownie. “Let me get this door for you.”
I walk outside and hold the door open, hoping the sun might insta-bake some sense back into my head.
His arm brushes my boob as he steps out the door and, even though I know better, I tell myself it was not an accident. He carefully places the bigger painting in the back of his truck with the smaller one and then secures them with what looks like ski rope while I stand there and stare at his ass some more. He turns around and walks back to where I’m standing, still holding the door open.
“Lettin’ your cold air out, sweetie,” he says.
“It was too cold in there anyway,” I say, letting the door go.
“Well, I’m all for warming things up,” he says, cocking his head sideways again.
And before I even know what’s going on, I blurt out, “I bet you are.” Then I toss my head back and start cackling like I’ve just heard the greatest joke in the history of the world, and he starts laughing, too. I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s not laughing with me.
“You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Maybe,” I say and realize that he has got to leave before I start peeling off my clothes right here on the sidewalk. “Thanks for coming by and picking those up.” I nod toward the pictures sticking out of the bed of his truck.
“It was my pleasure,” Kevin Jacobs says, and I bite my lip so I don’t blurt out something awful about pleasure. He does that two-finger salute-wave like country boys do and says, “Nice to meet you, Ace.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Kevin,” I say, holdin
g his gaze for a second too long.
“See you around,” he says, turning to go.
“Bye!” I holler and get myself back inside where it’s cool. I run to my office, grab my phone, and call Lilly.
“Hey, Ace McKenzie,” she says when she answers. “What’s going on down in sunny Florida?”
“Don’t call me that! We’re not married yet,” I whisper, even though there’s no one in the building but me. “Lilly, I have just seen the sexiest man on the face of the Earth.”
“Are you looking at a picture of my boyfriend, Dax?” she asks and starts giggling.
“No, you goofball, this guy’s old enough to be Dax’s daddy, but he is so damn sexy! He just came in to pick up some pictures I donated to charity and I swear he was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen with my own two eyes.”
“Ace, you are crazy as hell,” Lilly says.
“I think I have a crush on him!”
“Well, that’s okay,” she says, laughing. “There’s not a thing in the world wrong with that. What does he look like?”
“He’s this big country boy built like a brick shithouse and he drives a jacked-up pickup truck.”
“A brick shithouse with a jacked-up truck, huh?” Lilly muses.
“Yes, and the truck was filthy. Like he just got back from mud riding or hunting.” Lilly laughs, and I continue. “Lilly, this is serious! I was drawn to him like some kind of wild animal or something. It’s not right!”
Lilly laughs and makes fun of me for getting all hot and bothered over a guy built like a brick shithouse. “Try to get a picture of him next time you see him and text it to me, because I have got to see what this dude looks like,” she says, still laughing. “I’ve never heard you carry on so!”
“Lilly.” I hesitate for a second. “It’s not funny! I’m getting married. I’m in love! I’m perfectly happy! Why was I, like, instantly attracted to him? It worries me. I mean, I was standing here picturing him naked.”
Lilly laughs again. “Ace, that’s how men think all the time. It just has to be a superhot guy for us to think that way.”
“He wasn’t superhot—” I cut in.
“It doesn’t matter,” she says calmly. “It’s not like you’re going to have a fling with him just because you think he’s attractive. Don’t worry. It’s perfectly normal.”
“Me wondering how big his penis is is not normal!” I say.
“I wonder that about everybody,” she says casually.
“Well, you’re a pervert!” I say, laughing and telling myself to get over it. “So, what’s been going on with you?” I ask, desperate to talk about something else.
As she fills me in on all the Bugtussle gossip and drama, I get this odd feeling like I’m homesick yet happy to be gone all at the same time. I chalk the confusing emotions up to Kevin Jacobs coming in and kicking over my think-right buggy. Thirty minutes later, I hang up the phone and see that I missed a call from Mason and start freaking out wondering whether he could’ve possibly overheard any of the conversation I just had with Lilly. I look at my phone again to make sure I didn’t accidentally merge the calls and see he sent me a text telling me he’ll be late coming home. Since it’s already after five, I decide to lock up and call it a day.
When I get home, I leash up Buster Loo and head down to Pelican Trails Park, which is right around the corner from where we live. The intense summer heat has started to subside, which makes early evening a very pleasant time to walk. I let Buster Loo pick a trail and we head off on a walkway lined with gigantic shade trees dripping with Spanish moss and clusters of big leafy bottle palms rustling in the evening breeze. After a few minutes, Buster Loo starts getting beside himself, and I see why when we round the bend and come upon a pair of pelicans bobbling in the creek. I reel him in to try to calm him down, and then turn around because I see more birds on up the way and I don’t think his little doggie nerves can handle it.
As soon as we get back to the house, Mason calls and asks if I’d be interested in meeting him at Credo’s Wild Wings and I tell him I’d love to. I hop in and out of the shower, throw on some clothes, and head out the door for the short walk down to Credo’s.
During dinner, Mason seems distracted and tired. I ask him what’s going on and he says that he and Connor took a case today that put him in a bad mood. He doesn’t want to elaborate, so I perpetrate small talk as we sip cold beer and wait for our hot wings. I casually mention Kevin Jacobs, and Mason tells me that he caught his first shark on a fishing trip with Kevin. I tell him about my plans to submit an application for the West Florida Festival of the Arts, and he smiles and tells me he thinks that’s a great idea. I can tell his mind is elsewhere, so I pipe down after our food arrives. When we get back home, we split a bottle of wine, then head upstairs and have some hot, lovely sex.
During which I think about Kevin Jacobs.
6
On Tuesday, I wake up before dawn and realize I’ve had what Lilly calls a “sexy dream” about Kevin Jacobs. Mason is still sleeping, and my guilty conscience drives me to the kitchen, where I set about making omelets. All I can think about while I stand there chopping onions and peppers is how immediate and intense my attraction was to Ramona Bradley’s good-lookin’ redneck nephew.
Thirty minutes later, I’m taking toast out of the oven when Mason bustles down the stairs. He’s on his cell phone and looks ridiculously handsome in his suit and tie, but I can tell by his expression that he’s already in a foul mood. He pours himself a cup of coffee, waves off the omelet sitting on the counter, and leaves without kissing me good-bye. I tell myself it’s a work-related oversight and his actions have nothing to do with the magic wearing off our relationship or my mad crush on Kevin Jacobs or anything ridiculous like that.
I eat my omelet and half of his, then decide to go for a walk on the beach to try to clear my head. After kicking off my flip-flops and trudging through the powder white sand, I wade into the water, where I stop for a moment and admire the magnificence of the blue-green expanse. I step back into the firm, wet sand and start walking toward the pier. I put Kevin Jacobs out of my mind and start thinking about how much my life has changed in the past few months.
I went from being a high school art teacher in little-bitty Bugtussle, Mississippi, to owning my own art gallery in the prestigious coastal community of Pelican Cove, Florida. I moved from a comfy little two-bedroom bungalow with a big, beautiful yard into a huge three-story stucco structure with a tiny, professionally manicured lawn. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had much time to think about this new life of mine, but walking down this peaceful seashore alone with my thoughts, I start to feel lonesome.
I pick up a seashell and think about Mason and our impending nuptials. The one and only detail we actually have worked out is that we want to have a small ceremony on New Year’s Eve followed by a big party; we just don’t have any idea where that’s going to happen.
Despite the fact that I agreed to narrow it down to three places and let him pick the one he liked best, it bothers me that he has no interest in making any suggestions other than the deck at Credo’s Wild Wings. He’s the one who’s lived here for the past several years. He’s the one who’s been out and about on the social scene. He’s the one with all the friends. Not me. I have only one.
When I reach the pier, I toss my shell out into the surf and start walking back. I allow myself to think for a moment about the sex dream I had about Kevin Jacobs and get terribly embarrassed by how graphic it was. I tell myself to let it go, that there’s nothing wrong with having a silly little insta-crush on a guy who is very obviously attractive. Hell, what woman wouldn’t react that way to him?
I put him and the dream out of my mind, yet again, and let the rhythmic sound of the waves wash all my worries away.
When I return home, I find Buster Loo sunning himself in the backyard and decide to join him on the small square of picture-perfect grass. We play fetch for a while before he barks two times at the sky and runs inside
. I take a hot, steamy shower, get dressed, and walk out the door feeling good again.
I get to the gallery and have just walked into my office when the doorbell chimes and I turn around to see Mason.
“Hey, baby,” I say, walking out to meet him. “How are you?”
“I forgot something this morning,” he says, smiling. His ice blue eyes glow in the sunlight as he puts a hand behind my head and presses his lips against mine.
“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks burning. “What did I do to deserve that?”
“Well, I had a lot on my mind last night, and I was running late this morning and left without kissing you good-bye.” He smiles and I bask in his attentive gaze.
“Aw,” I say, laughing. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, baby. I was just on my way to the courthouse and thought I’d drop by and give you a quick smootch and apologize.” He pulls me into a hug.
“Not necessary, but much appreciated.”
“Well, I’ve got to run. I just wanted to come by and tell you that I don’t care if you have to chase me down the driveway—don’t let me leave the house again without kissing you good-bye.”
“I don’t know about chasing you down the driveway,” I say. “I could fall and hurt myself.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, now, would it?” he quips as he turns to go.
“Hey! Would you like for me to bring you some dinner tonight?” I say, hoping he’ll say that won’t be necessary because he’ll be home by then.
“Connor’s wife is taking care of it tonight, but it would be great if you’d join us, and maybe you can bring dinner tomorrow night.”
“Sure thing,” I say, trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Great,” he says. “I’ll call you!”
Not long after he leaves, I have a few people come in and look around. Some make pleasant conversation. Some don’t. After they leave, I get bored and start feeling lonely again. I decide to close up shop and go grab some lunch.
7
I’m sitting in the drive-through at Bueno Burrito, reading the news on my phone, when I hear a long honk from the car behind me. I look up and see that the car in front of me has moved forward, so I move up, too, but the honking doesn’t stop. I look in my rearview mirror and see a hefty woman in a light blue station wagon leaning forward on her steering wheel and flipping me off with both fingers. I feel my pulse quicken but keep reading the news, careful to hold my phone up so I can see when I need to drive forward, because the woman behind me is obviously in desperate need of burritos.
Happily Ever Madder : Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (9781101607107) Page 4
