he lure of the distant and difficult is deceptive.

The great opportunity is where you are.

--John Burroughs

Elizabeth was a wreck.

She hadn't slept more than two hours last night. She'd tossed and turned and sweated. She'd even cried, although whether out of fear or frustration, she didn't know. What she did know was that the Stormy Weather Arts Festival officially started in less than an hour, and she--fool that she was--had agreed to show her paintings to the world.

"Was I drunk?" she muttered, changing her clothes for the third time.

The decision of what to wear was simply too big.

She slumped onto the cold wooden floor in front of the sofa. She couldn't remember when she'd been this scared. She would fall face-first today. And then what? She'd fought so hard for this new life of hers. She'd walked out of her marriage and forged her own path. She'd picked up her old paintbrushes and done the unthinkable: she'd dreamed.

"Get a grip, Birdie."

She went up to her bedroom and changed into an ankle-length black knit dress with a boldly patterned leather belt. She left her hair down (in case she needed to hide behind it) and peered into the mirror.

Her face was the size of a volleyball. Hello, Wilson.

She stifled the urge to groan aloud and focused on one thing at a time. Foundation first. She put on more than usual, then added blush and mascara. By the time she was finished, she looked nearly human again.

The phone rang--as expected, at eight-forty-five. Elizabeth briefly considered not answering it, but knew such an evasion would be pointless. Meghann would probably send the National Guard down to check on her.

"Hello?" she answered, hoping she didn't sound as brittle as she felt.

"I was afraid you wouldn't answer," Meg said. "Are you okay?"

"I'd rather pull out my own toenails than go to the gallery today. I can't believe I agreed to do this."

"God, I wish I could be there. I'm so sorry."

"Actually, I'm glad you're busy. I'll call you when it's over."

"Birdie?"

"Yes?"

"You're my hero. You remember that. I'm so proud of you. Today is going to change your life."

Unfortunately, that wasn't easy to believe right now. "Thanks, Meg."

They talked for a few more moments; then Elizabeth said good-bye and hung up the phone. She scouted through the bureau drawers for the right necklace. Finally, she found what she wanted: an ornate turquoise squash blossom that Jack had bought her when he got the job in Albuquerque. This means good luck, baby, he'd said.

After she put it on, she took one last look in the mirror. Then she went downstairs.

Anita was already there, standing by the front door. She was dressed in a pretty lavender rayon pantsuit. Her snow-white hair was coiled into a huge bun at the base of her neck. "How are you doing?" she asked.

"Shitty. Maybe I won't go. Art should sell itself, right? There's nothing more pathetic than a middle-aged woman crying in public. Oh, God, what if I throw up?"

Anita came forward, grabbed her by the shoulders. "Breathe."

Elizabeth did as she was told.

"In and out, in and out."

Elizabeth relaxed a little. "Thanks," she said, still shaky.

Anita reached down into her pocket, then held out her hand. In her palm lay a small gray stone, polished to a mirror sheen, striated with rust and black and green. "This was your daddy's worry stone. It was always in his pocket. He used to joke that when you were born, it was the size of a bowling ball and he wore it down to the nub."

Elizabeth couldn't imagine her father afraid of anything, let alone carrying a worry stone around in his pocket.

"We're all afraid," Anita said. "It's the going on that matters."

Elizabeth took the stone. It settled in her palm like a kiss. She could almost hear her daddy's booming voice: Fly, Birdie. You can do it. It calmed her down, reminded her of what mattered. "Thanks," she said, pulling her stepmother into a hug.

When she drew back, Anita said, "We'd better get going. We don't want to be late."

All the way to town, Elizabeth concentrated on her breathing. The roads were closed off in a lot of places, but she found a parking place in front of the Hair We Are Beauty Salon.

Echo Beach was dressed for a party. Banners and balloons were everywhere. The weather was surprisingly good; steel-gray clouds and cold breezes, but no rain. Every storefront was decorated in bright colors. A few hardy tourists, dressed in down parkas and knee-high boots, walked along the narrow main street. The beach was littered with people flying kites, dogs chasing Frisbees, and kids building sand castles.

Elizabeth stood on the sidewalk across from Eclectica. A white sign filled the window. It read: meet local artist elizabeth shore.

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"You most certainly are not," Anita said. "You're Edward Rhodes's daughter. There will be no vomiting in public. Now, get movin'."

"Elizabeth!" Marge was standing by the gallery, waving her arms. She wore a drop-waisted raisin-colored corduroy dress with open-toed sandals. Her hair had been tamed into a pair of thick braids. A stunningly beautiful cloisonne necklace hung between her breasts. "Hurry up," she yelled, then disappeared inside.

Elizabeth walked across the street. At the gallery, she stopped. Her feet refused to move forward.

Anita said, "Good luck, honey," and shoved her into the gallery.

Inside, the Women's Passion Support Group was waiting. At her entrance, they burst into applause.

Elizabeth stumbled to a halt. "Hey, you guys," she said, hating the tremor in her voice. "It was nice of you to come."

Mina giggled. "You're our new hero. We're putting you on the passionless stamp."

Joey grinned. "I was gonna buy one of your pictures, but sheesh, my tips aren't that good. I think I'll have you sign a napkin instead."

Then everyone began talking at once.

"Your work is incredible!"

"Amazing! When did you start painting?"

"So cool! Where did you learn to do this?"

Elizabeth couldn't answer any single question, but it didn't matter. Their enthusiasm was exactly the balm she needed to calm her ragged nerves. For the first time in hours, she relaxed enough to be hopeful.

She even allowed herself to dream of success: A wonderful review in the Echo Location... a sellout of her work... a call from a bigger gallery in Portland or San Francisco...

"Elizabeth," Marge said impatiently, as if she'd said it more than once.

"What? Huh?"

Marge came forward, holding a bouquet of roses. "These are for you."

"Oh, you didn't have to do that."

Marge gave her a crooked grin. "I didn't." She handed her the flowers.

The card read: We're mad, but we still love you. Good luck. Jamie and Stephanie. P.S. We're proud of you.

Proud of you. The words blurred before her eyes.

Anita moved closer. "I told them. I hope you don't mind."

Elizabeth wanted to pull Anita into her arms, but she couldn't seem to move. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to cry. "I don't mind," she whispered harshly. "Thank you, Anita."

Her stepmother touched her arm, squeezed gently. "Everything is going to be fine."

Amazingly, with the flowers in her arms and her stepmother beside her, Elizabeth could almost believe it.

Marge began setting out the hors d'oeuvres. Tiny hot dogs wrapped in Kraft cheese strips. Then she plugged in the Crock-Pot. Within minutes, the small gallery smelled like teriyaki.

By ten o'clock, the streets were packed with tourists and locals. A band played oldies in the parking lot of the Windermere Realty office, and every store was crowded with shoppers. A barely-there rain had started to fall.

Out-of-towners bought ice cream cones and kites, sweatshirts and place mats and Christmas ornaments made of driftwood and dried seaweed. They bought wind chimes made of old spoons and photographs of Haystack Rock, and watercolor paintings of the shore.

What they didn't buy was Elizabeth's work.

It became more and more obvious as the day dragged on, as painful as a toothache. Marge stood at the cash register, kachinging up sales. The walls around Elizabeth's work cleared out.

Joey was the first to leave. She said she needed to get to work--a big night at the Pig-in-a-Blanket--but Elizabeth had seen the pity in her new friend's eyes. Joey couldn't stand to watch the slow bloodletting.

Around two o'clock, Fran mentioned something about picking up her kids, and then she was gone. An hour later, Mina went to the market in search of more baby hot dogs, although there were plenty left. The only one who made no excuses was Anita; she sat on a stool in the corner, ostensibly knitting, but Elizabeth knew that her stepmother was really watching her, waiting for signs of meltdown.

Elizabeth stood against the wall, hugging herself so tightly she could barely breathe, standing so stiffly her joints ached. But her smile never faltered.

She'd been stupid to expect anything different. She admitted that tiny disappointment, then tucked it away. This wasn't a mistake she'd make again, and there was no point gnawing over it. What was done was done.

And if she felt as fragile as a damp tissue, that too would pass. As long as she didn't make any sudden moves, she'd get through the rest of this day. Then she'd make it through the night, and the next day, and so on. That was the way of things. Tonight she'd go home, box up her paintings, and try to forget she'd ever bothered.

The bell above the door tinkled. That had been a constant noise all day. She steeled herself to smile at someone else who wouldn't want her work.

Daniel stood there, filling the doorway. Sunlight gilded his blond hair.

"How's it going?" he asked, coming toward her.

"Not good. Actually, that's an overstatement."

He walked past her, stood in front of her work. It was difficult to miss; every other wall was bare. Finally, he turned to look at her. "These are beautiful. You really have a remarkable talent."

"Oh, yeah. I know." She was an eyelash away from losing it. Before he could see how weakened she was, she rushed out of the store.

Outside, she could breathe.

He followed her out. "How about a latte?"

"Great."

They strolled down the busy street together. At the ice cream shop, he bought two cones and two lattes. Then they went onto the Promenade and sat down on a cement bench. Out on the beach, a man was teaching a little boy to fly a kite.

Elizabeth stared at her cone as if the answer to world peace could be found in a scoop of chocolate chip mint.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," he said finally.

"I know." Her agreement sounded hollow, even to her own ears. She couldn't help it. All her energies were bound up in maintaining. There was nothing left over for pretense. "It's more of a free-form depression."

"Did you think it would be easy?"

"I thought something would sell."

He touched her cheek, gently forced her to look at him. "Does that matter so much?"

"No, but, aw, shit." The tears she'd been swallowing all day burst out.

Daniel took her in his arms. He stroked her hair and let her cry. Finally, she drew back, hiccuping, feeling like a fool. "I'm sorry. It's just been an awful day."

"Don't give up, Birdie. You have talent. I knew that the first time I saw you paint. I think maybe you've given up too easily before."

She realized suddenly that she was in his arms, that he was holding her tightly. She felt his breathing against her forehead. Slowly, she looked up.

He took her face in his hands, wiped the tears with his thumbs. "It took guts to show your work today. I know. There's nothing worse than standing naked in public and saying, Here I am."

She stared at his mouth. All she heard was, "Naked?"

"You should be proud of yourself, Elizabeth. Anything else would be a crime." He leaned toward her.

She saw the kiss coming and braced for it. Her heart raced. Oh, God...

His lips pressed against hers, his tongue pushed gently inside her mouth. He tasted of coffee and mint. She slid her arms up around his neck and pulled him closer.

And... nothing. No Fourth of July, no fireworks.

When the kiss was over and he drew back, he was frowning. "No good, huh?" He tried to smile.

Elizabeth was surprised. "I guess I'm more married than I thought."

"Too bad." He stood up and pulled her to her feet beside him. Then he held on to her hand and led her across the street.

They cut through the crowd, threaded their way toward the shop.

Elizabeth realized a second too late where he was taking her. She gripped his hand tightly and tried to stop.

He pulled her forward, not stopping until they reached the open door.

"Come on, Daniel. It's a death-by-hanging in there."

"Then put your neck in the noose; it's what artists do." He smiled down at her. "I expect big things of you, Elizabeth Shore. Now, get in there where you belong."

She squared her shoulders and went back inside.

Marge smiled at her entrance, obviously relieved to see her. "I'm glad you came back."

"I didn't want to." She forced the admission out. When she glanced at the door, she saw that Daniel was gone. "Chicken," she muttered.

"It's always difficult on the artist. I should have warned you."

"Difficult?" Elizabeth said. "Difficult is making hollandaise sauce. This is a near-death experience."

Marge laughed, then immediately sobered. "I'm sorry. I know it's not funny."

Elizabeth actually smiled. "I'm glad my humiliation is amusing. Maybe I'll get hit by a bus later and you can really crack up."

"You'll be okay, Elizabeth. Don't you worry."

The bell above the door jangled.

"Oh, good," Elizabeth muttered. She forced a fake smile.

Kim walked into the gallery. She looked pale and skittery; her gaze darted nervously from side to side. She was dressed in black lambskin pants and a black cashmere turtleneck sweater. Surprisingly, a scarlet pashmina shawl hung draped over one shoulder.

"Welcome to Eclectica," Marge said.

Kim waved a hand dismissively and headed for the back wall. In front of Elizabeth's work, she stopped.

"The artist is right there," Marge said loudly.

Elizabeth came out from the corner. "Hello, Kim. You missed the group."

Kim snapped open her purse, digging through it. "And I so wanted to spend more time with them." She cocked her head toward the wall. "Are these your paintings?"

"Yes."

Kim looked at them. For a split second, her gaze softened, and Elizabeth saw the longing in her eyes.

She knew how it felt, that longing. For years, she'd been locked inside herself, unable to imagine a way out. That was where Kim stood right now.

"I'll take that one," Kim said, pointing to the seascape.

"Sorry, the store has a policy against mercy purchases."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, as you and I knew would happen, I bombed today. The only thing less in demand than my paintings was the tofu-flavored ice cream. And Marge's hors d'oeuvres."

"But what's a mercy purchase?"

"That's when a friend feels sorry for the artist and buys a piece. No thanks. But I really appreciate the gesture."

Kim looked at her. "You think we're friends?"

"Of course we are," Elizabeth said quietly.

Kim smiled suddenly, and the change in her demeanor was remarkable. "Take that painting down and wrap it up. And don't you dare call it a mercy purchase. I want to hang it in my living room. Every time I look at it, I'll remember that it's possible to start over. You'd sell that hope to a friend, wouldn't you?"

It was a lovely gesture; there was no way for Kim to know that it only made her feel worse.

Elizabeth took the painting down from the wall and carried it to the register.

To Marge, she said, "The price on this was wrong. It's--"

"No way," Kim said, barreling up beside her. "Shitheel left me loaded. Let me do this my way."

Elizabeth longed to feel good about this sale, but she couldn't quite make it over the hump. The painting hadn't sold because of its beauty. "Okay."

When Kim was finished paying for the piece, she turned to Elizabeth. "Will you be at the meeting this week?"

"Of course."

"Maybe we could meet for dinner afterward? If you have plans, I completely understand. I know it's short notice."

"I'd love to."

Kim actually smiled again. "Great. I'll see you there."

Elizabeth hung around for a while longer, watching tourists mill through the store. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

The last thing she saw as she left the gallery was the wall filled with her work.

Jack stood at his office window, staring out at the beautiful spring day.

This ought to be the best day of his life. Twenty-four hours ago, they'd offered him the best job in broadcasting: NFL Sunday.

He'd been dreaming of a moment like this for years, maybe his whole life, and yet, now that it was here, he felt curiously numb.

The door to his office cracked open. "There you are," Warren said. "I just heard the news about your photo shoot. People magazine, huh? Pretty hot stuff."

"I'll probably be the oldest guy in the issue."

Warren frowned. "That's it. There's something wrong with you. Let's go."

Jack grabbed his coat and followed Warren out of the building. By tacit consent, they went straight to the pub on the corner and headed for the back booth.

"Double bourbon on the rocks," Warren said when the barmaid appeared.

She looked at Jack.

"Club soda with lime."

"Now I know something's wrong," Warren said. "A club soda?"

"I've been drinking pretty hard lately. It blurs the lines."

"Isn't that the point?"

"I used to think so. Now I'm not so sure." He paused, then said, "Fox just offered me NFL Sunday."

Warren sat back. "Jesus, Jack. Most guys would give their left nut for that job, and here you are, slurping club soda and practically crying. What gives?"

Jack glanced to the left. It wasn't his way to talk about shit like this, but these silences--and the new loneliness--were killing him. And if there was anyone who ought to understand marital problems, it was the thrice-married Warren. "We told the kids about the separation."

"Ouch. That's the reason I've never had kids. How'd they take it?"

"Badly. They cried and screamed and stomped around. Then they went back to school. I've been getting the silent treatment ever since."

"It'll pass. They'll come to accept their new family after a while. Trust me."

There it was, the source of his sleepless nights. New family. "What if I can't accept it, either?"

"What do you mean?"

"I miss Birdie." There, he'd said it.

"You made a bad trade, Jacko, but you're not the first guy to do it. You thought the heat of all this was real, but at the end of the day, all that matters is finding a woman who loves the real you." He looked at Jack. "One who'll be there for you in the bad times. And that, my friend, was Birdie. You never should have let her go."

"She left me."

"Birdie left you?"

"The marriage went to shit slowly. I'm not even sure when. I think it started with me, though, when I lost football. All I could think about was what I'd lost. I'd gotten married so young; I never got to be the young hot shot of my imaginations. You know, the superstar who slept with a different woman every night. I wanted that." He sighed. "For years, I dreamed about going back in time and making a different choice. I guess, after a while, all that dreaming of somewhere else became a goal; it ruined our marriage. Maybe a part of me even blamed her for tying me down. I don't know. All I know is that I was desperate to be someone again. Then this job came along, and I got it all back." He smiled bitterly. "For the first time in my whole adult life, I'm free, rich, and famous. I can do anything I want. Hell, I'm sleeping with a beautiful woman half my age, and she doesn't care that I don't love her. It's what I always dreamed of. And I hate it. I miss Birdie all the time."

"Have you told her?"

He looked up. "I'm afraid it's too late."

Warren took a sip of his drink. "I've never met a woman who'd stay with me for twenty-four years. Who'd get me off dope and forgive my screwups. If I found a woman like that, Jacko, I'd never let her go."

"What if she tells me it's too late?" He paused. "What if she doesn't love me anymore?"

Warren looked at him. "Then you aren't gonna have a movie ending, my friend. Sometimes, a bad choice can haunt you forever."