A divorcee painting a beach landscape. A stranger and his young dogs playing on the sand. The story of how a childhood vacation, two mutts, a pedigree pug, an incomplete painting, and an ex-husband all play a part in bringing these two together. A birthday present for Planetblue

To one of the nicest, most caring women around. Blue, you have probably the driest sense of humor I've come across and a way with words like no other. After seeing pics you posted of your beach vacation, a plot bunny formed for a birthday story. Then RL intervened, and I had to watch the deadline pass. Some of that real life is in here, but the best part has been finding a happy place in writing when everything was scary and stressful and imploding around me. So thanks, Blue, for giving me this, as much as I give this to you.

Thank you especially, Hadley Hemingway, for your help and encouragement to write a little more.

~ xxx ~

Chapter 1

I love fall. I love the way it brings a new kind of visitor to my beach. They come with a yearning, a need to soak in one more day of heat and wring a last memory from the season before they return to ordinary lives.

The summer families have already taken their children and laughter with them. The laughter probably turned into whining on the way back home and the vacation is surely forgotten by now with new uniforms, books, friendships and weekly activities filling their lives.

Hot days are already scant during September. Soon, it will be too cold to run with abandon into the waves, wearing as little as possible. It starts off with having to make a decision to dive under. The towel, lying up on the sand, suddenly needs to double as a blanket.

With a whole year of seasons behind me, I can pick the time of year by the color range in the day. I've painted enough versions of this view to know which hues I need to match the sky, the sea, the grass, and the sand. The wood in the pathways to the beach I can tweak with a little more yellow in summer, but blue always comes directly from the tube, whether it's a cerulean, cobalt, sapphire, ultramarine, or one of fifty others. It's difficult to mix the truest of colors, the most prevalent on the planet. It's the last color you lose as you descend into the depths of the ocean, when the water has refracted all the yellows and reds. Even the greens go as you sink lower, so blue is obviously the strongest color, the last one remaining.

These days, I have little use for the warmer parts of the spectrum in my daily life. Gone is the yellow I used to highlight my hair, the gold of the jewelry my ex-husband gave me, and the red of a dress or a lipstick. I mainly wear blue or tones of it. Jeans are my dress du jour and, since I wash everything together, even my whites have a tinge of that singular color.

Why is blue so remarkable? I always begin a new painting with a smear of my favorite indigo somewhere at the top. It may sit below a bank of clouds some days, but it's always the place I start. Then I sit back and see where it leads me, whether I'll paint it out or let it stay. It gives me a point of focus, a comparison.

The indigo sky is my absolute favorite, the one I see on this canvas today. Its vibrancy will fade as winter approaches. I must make a note to order some more tubes of grays.

Next to me, my baby boy speaks and I look up. He's noticed a new person emerge from a pathway built to protect the grass stabilizing the sand dunes. Two dogs, their breed unknown, accompany him, and it's obvious they share great affection. He lets them off their leads and they run back and forth, jumping around him, barking for his approval to race down the beach. He throws a stick, and then another, following them almost to the edge of the water. As they bring their finds to him, he takes the pieces of wood and tosses them a short distance into the waves. Both dogs retrieve their prizes and return to him, excited for more. It's not the stick they want; it's the attention and trust, knowing he'll be there to throw it again. He's the important part of their game. I wonder if he knows.

It's strange how the pug standing to attention on the chair next to me isn't growling. He doesn't bark at strangers; he's just possessive of our territory and me. Maybe he senses the love in front of us. Anyway, they are no threat to him.

The man turns around and shields his eyes from the late afternoon sun. It's not a cursory glance. He's assessing something, looking from one end of the beach to the other, and then gazing directly at me. At this time of day, he can't see me clearly through the insect screens, not like I can see out. He's probably imagining what it's like to actually live here. So many people turn back with the same look.

The dogs distract him and he messes with their fur, then signals something. They take off and I see him smile as he watches them. I realize I'm smiling myself.

Looking back at the painting, I wonder why this particular canvas filled itself so quickly, why some are effortless and others hard work. I capture the stranger and his two dogs with a few brush strokes, only needing to suggest them to record that they were there. It's the perfect final touch that will make this one sell.

Between the local gallery and the one in New York, I've been very lucky. The income was unexpected, only because I never thought to seek one for myself.

The canvas has to go inside before it's salt-encrusted and spoiled. Tiger still stands on his chair, enthusiastically watching as the three of them play in front of us. I wish he could understand that they won't stay here long, not at this time of the year. The man is probably just stretching their legs on the way to his real destination.

I sigh and call Tiger inside where he takes up residence on the couch, keeping his eyes on me. He's so incredible, the truest friend I've ever had.

"How come you're such a beautiful boy?" I say, kissing his forehead and squeezing his face. He pants at me, showing me with his huge wide eyes that he loves me back.

Gorgeous. Adorable. Smart. Generous. Trustworthy. Perfect.

The next morning, I'm at the local store, with a long order of paint tubes, when the man I saw on the beach walks in and hovers around the back of the aisles. I can identify with the body language—trying to look like you're browsing when you're really waiting. A year ago, I was exactly like him, not wanting anyone to know who I was or why I was here. A quick sale was all I was after, cashing in the only asset I actually chose, the one he bequeathed to me in the divorce. We never once used it, leaving tenants in place to pay it off. There was never time to have a proper vacation when his priority was the next case or the one that was dragging on longer than expected. In the end, I realized they were excuses.

After spending a week here, I knew I never could sell it.

Letting myself relax and enjoy a life where I was important, I found fewer distractions and more inspiration. When one painting sold, it was still a hobby. After ten sales and a commission request, I began to feel like a real artist, having been plucked from the world of art as a fiancée and then made into a domestic partner with other more pressing matters. There were staff to supervise, functions and committees to organize. Somewhere along the line, I lost myself, trying to be everything to everyone, and my husband forgot the girl he'd married.

Settling in here, I stopped blaming myself for what happened. With the fighting and recrimination behind me, I see the end was a breakdown of communication.

I said he never stopped working and left everything else to me, abandoning me emotionally. He said he never asked me to oversee all the details, that I could have paid people to make my life easy, like everyone else's spouse.

Couldn't he understand that these were our dinners, our charity banquets, and I needed everything to be perfect? Couldn't I understand that he was sick of trying to make me happy?

We kept smiling in public and fighting at home, until the day he walked in and handed me a divorce petition, telling me there was someone else. I took the news with a mixture of anger and relief, not that surprised at all.

Publicly, he gave me the beach house, which I had valued at 1.7 million, and a monthly allowance. Privately, he offered me a deal - another quarter of a million if I agreed to tell everyone I left him and keep my mouth shut about the girl, letting him go in peace. The money would be mine as soon as he married, and he'd sue me if I ever told anyone. Having seen him decimate the opposition in a courtroom, I knew beating him legally was impossible, so I decided to trust he would pay up and keep my end of the deal.

The man is now standing behind me as I lean on the counter with my order of paints. Mike is on the phone, making sure they'll honor the free delivery for me. I find this method of purchase preferable to ordering on the internet because Mike takes some of the responsibility and I always get exactly what I want.

Turning around, I almost tell the man to jump in front, since I'm holding things up, when I see his eyes for a split second. They're gray and beautiful. He instantly looks down, using his baseball cap as a shield, hiding what must be his best feature, and I wonder why.

He's juggling a loaf of bread, eggs and margarine. As Mike finishes his call, the man looks up tentatively and I motion for him to go ahead. He asks if the store has chicken wings. The wings are no doubt for the dogs because I have the same thing in my freezer for mine. "Kibble and bones," the vet has instructed me, knowing I want my baby around for a long time. I could easily direct the man to where he can find them, but choose to let Mike do his job.

"You own the pug?" the man asks, as Mike moves to the fridge.

I glance outside at the play date my baby is having with his two. Tiger's curly tail is about to wag itself right off.

"Yes." I already know the people who come down here to discredit my ex-husband come in every shape and size. After a year, I'm still wary of strangers asking even the most innocent unsolicited questions.

He nods and hands cash over to Mike, thanking him and leaving, ignoring me.

The next day, I decide to walk to the pub for an early lunch. The shrimp are still on the menu and they're always good. I see the two dogs tied up and waiting outside so the man is obviously here. They lift their heads when I pass them, as if asking where my friend is. "Sorry, kids, I left him at home."

"Morning to ya." The Irish owner is working the bar this morning. Business must be slow. "White wine?"

I smile at his attempt to anticipate what I'm about to order. In my past life, I would have slapped him with a clever quip for such impertinence, but he's just trying to be welcoming, so I shake my head and answer, "Pear martini, please."

Quickly losing interest in his performance with the stainless steel shaker, I look around the pub and see that it's empty, except for the man sitting in the back corner, using his phone. He's wearing the cap again, looking down.

"Fish and chips?" His head pops up at the sound of his order. They've packed it to go.

"Cheers." After a tiny nod of recognition my way, he leaves with his white plastic bag and his dogs.

When I return to my house, his dogs are at my front door and there's no sign of him. "Hey, hey, hey!" I call out to stop the three of them scratching a hole in the door to get at each other.

He appears, out of breath, his shoulders dropping in relief when he catches sight of them.

"Sorry, they got away from me." He exhales one big breath and smiles down at them, attaching their leads. "I think they like your dog."

"Dog?" I ask, trying to show I'm not annoyed. "He's not a dog. He's just disguised as one."

For the first time, the man looks up and appraises me. His eyes are even more beautiful than I remember and the gray has taken on some blue today, perhaps reflecting the sky. I wonder at his age. He's definitely younger than I am, maybe a lot younger. He coughs out a laugh at my stupid joke, heading off after apologizing again.

I hear the whimper from the patio and I agree. It would have been nice if they had stayed to talk for a little while. I have to use my foot to stop Tiger from bolting out the door as I enter.

"No, you don't. I know you want to play. Next time, baby." He sits and looks up at me, giving me his "why?" face, so I scratch his favorite spot above his tail. Turning and catching the last sight of them, I'm starting to ask the same thing myself. Why is this man still here alone? Has he rented somewhere?

He fills my thoughts that night. I can't stop thinking about what was going through his head when he turned and looked back at the beach properties. Just as vacationers dream about what it's like to live permanently near the sand, I watch them and wonder about the lives they return to. I recognize his behavior, suggesting he's hiding something or hiding from someone. He's well-mannered, but he won't engage. Throwing the two friendly dogs into the mix makes him even more interesting.

The next morning, I'm up well before sunrise, and it's so calm I have coffee on the patio. Feeling confident after the ease of my last painting, I bring out the dreaded canvas and stare at the dark ocean and sky that continues to torment me. It needs a sunrise to bring it to life, but I'm unable to slide red into its horizon, and I'm still not sure why. Mixing black with red and filling the paintbrush, I almost paint a stroke when my hand starts to shake.

I should throw the damn thing away because this painting has become a symbol, a stubborn hurdle to overcome. Its unfinished existence reminds me that, instead of feeling free and fulfilled, all I am is alone. It's not that I ache for my previous life, but I shouldn't be spending the night wondering whether a stranger is staying in one of the huge rentals by himself, maybe feeling the same.

Cleaning the brush, I take the canvas back inside. I won't be starting anything new today. I have a wedding invitation to respond to and I'm going to post it formally, correctly.

Tiger is dreaming on the couch. He yips softly, not registering my hand on his head. On our walk back from the post office, I felt good about my decision to hold my head high and attend the wedding. Now, after a nap, I'm not so sure I've done the right thing. The questions people might ask when they've been drinking are making me nervous the money could slip through my fingers by breaking the stupid agreement.

He won't win this one. He's going to pay dearly for my silence and I want to see him put the check in my hand.

"Come on, baby boy. Let's go to the beach." Tiger perks up instantly, panting and speaking excitedly, like I never take him anywhere. A couple of circuits of the living room later, he presents his leash to me. Laughing, I clip it to his collar and he pulls to get out the door. "Okay, okay, mister! Just let me get the keys."

As soon as we're down on the sand, I look for any sign of the man and his dogs, guessing it's about the same time of day I first saw them. With a sigh, I realize they've probably already left and gone back to their world. We head north along the beach and I wave to a few neighbors, enjoying their pre-dinner tipple on their decks. Mostly wealthy retirees, they've been nice enough to welcome me into their small community, respecting my privacy by not asking questions. We don't socialize apart from small talk on the beach or in one of the local stores, where they proudly exult their children's latest achievements as if I know them.

I am a very good listener. I just don't give much back.

The next morning, the sound of claws tapping on wood and excited dog sounds wake me. Tiger is pacing back and forth, sniffing and jumping up on the chairs.

"Go out the back if you want to pee!" I call to him. "You have a doggie door you know." I have to talk to him like a human, because he is. With a yelp, I hear him make a decision to run and slam through his door, but he takes no time out there, coming right back to continue his pacing. Then I hear more sounds and scratching, so I have to investigate.

As I come out, the man startles me, trying to pull his dogs away from the door. He's shocked as well, but then he quickly looks me up and down. I pull at the bottom of the tank top that's not covering enough.

"I am so sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. These two are very determined."

I laugh at him struggling to get their leads on. "Why don't you let them in the side gate? It's fenced off and Tiger can join them there."

"Tiger?" He smirks and I nod my head.

"Let me put something on and I'll make you a coffee while they get to know each other."

His eyes roam over me again and he says, "Okay." Then he takes the dogs up the side and Tiger plows through his door to join them while I go in to get dressed. After many years of having to look exactly the part, down here I never think about what I throw on. This morning, I take a little time and brush my teeth. When I open the back door, he's waiting.

There's a lot of sniffing of bottoms going on but the wagging tails indicate there won't be a problem. I laugh and tell him to come in, holding the door open. He takes off his cap and runs his hand through his hair, making me almost gasp. I have to hold on to the door as he passes because his hair is the most beautiful dark gold color, almost sun-bleached looking, although he doesn't have much of a tan. Without the cap, he's impressive—tall, broad and slim—totally gorgeous.

"This is nice," he says smoothly, interrupting my ogling enjoyment. "Is it yours?"

"Yes, l've lived here for a year now," I answer, grabbing the box of coffee pods.

"You live here?" His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Is your husband away?"

"Divorced." I look away and busy myself, ready for his reaction to the horrid word.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No problem. Espresso okay?"

"Sure. Excellent. Thanks." He walks to the back door, I assume to check on the dogs, while the coffee machine gurgles and steams. "Mind if I latch this door? You don't want them in here. They're covered in sand."

"Good idea," I call back to him. "Milk?"

"Yes please, and a sugar if you have it."

I'm not sure what else to offer him, whether it will seem rude to assume he hasn't had breakfast when I've only just got up. He comes back in and I decide to go with something simpler.

"Cookie?" The look on his face confuses me. "Or...is it too early?"

Maybe I should have offered him fruit. I don't know why I'm over thinking this.

"It's always time for—" he cuts off, mid-sentence, and then looks at the view. I wonder if it's a euphemism for something sexual. Jesus, I've been so sheltered.

"We should sit here and listen for any action out back." I place the mugs on the table and go back to grab the plate.

"Sure." He takes a sip of the coffee and waits for me. He really is stunning without the cap, sort of elegantly wind-swept. The print on his t-shirt is a back view of Jim Morrison in leather pants, a wild looking belt of medallions slung low on his hips, and a long microphone cord at his feet. He obviously likes rock and I've played nothing but classical music since I moved into this house. It suits the view and I find it inspiring.

When I look up into his eyes, I catch him staring at my breasts and he immediately looks down and sits.

"So, a pug called Tiger?"

It's amusing watching him try to diffuse the moment that just passed between us. "Yes. I adore him. He's so human. What are yours?"

He shrugs and smiles back only slightly, his jittery leg betraying his anxiety. "Both from the shelter. I believe the breed is called boisterous."

I laugh at his cute joke. "I like the mix of colors in their coats. I'd like to paint them if they'd stand still."

"Impossible. We'd have to drug them. Are you a painter?"

"I am, and you're in one of my paintings."

He doesn't understand, obviously, so I collect the finished canvas from the back room and show him how he looked to me on the beach.

"Oh, my God, you have serious talent," he states, studying it for a while, and then looks up at me. "Do you sell these? Is that how you afford this house?"

My hackles immediately rise at his impudence but I squash them because he's probably been wondering about me as I have been about him. He's also just pressed my ego button in suggesting my art is good enough to pay for my home. He wouldn't have any idea what a house like this is worth.

"No, I do sell them, but this house was my divorce settlement."

"Ahh," he says, understanding now. "Well, let me buy this one. How much?"

Watch it young man. "I don't think you can afford it."

"Try me. How much?"

I appraise the work, wondering if I can shock him into losing the cockiness. "Fifteen hundred."

"Done." He looks at me seriously, but maybe he's testing me. "I'll transfer it now if you have a laptop, or you could deliver it to me…personally."

Now I'm intrigued. I've met his breed many times before, but he doesn't realize the world I've lived in. I could put him in his place before he can ooze another drop of arrogance.

"Where would I be delivering it to?" I ask casually.

"New York."

I cock up an eyebrow. "Oh, that's where I come from." For a moment, I wonder what I've let into my house and then abandon the thought as paranoia. He's no reporter.

"Really? My place is in Brooklyn."

"Your parents' place?"

He smirks at me and then narrows his eyes. "No, how old do you think I am?"

Enjoying the freedom to look him over, I make him wait for my answer.

"You haven't had your cookie, yet."

"I got side-tracked. How old?" He leans forward, melting me with those incredible eyes. They're slightly green inside my house.

Tilting my head, I look at him closely. He's got vacation scruff but it's not what I'd call a beard. "Twenty-four?"

"Terrible, try harder." He's fixing his lips in place, trying to stop a laugh from bursting forth.

Giggling, I make another wild guess. "Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-eight. I know absolutely I don't look that young." This is good information. He's not that young after all and suddenly I feel terrible for the "your parents' place" comment. "And you?"

"Your turn to guess."

He scratches through his scruff, making me wait for his answer this time.

"Do I need to know? No matter what I say will be wrong."

He's right because if he says thirty-five or older I'll be mortified when I'm only thirty-one. I shake my head and smile at him, offering him a cookie from the plate, which he finally takes and bites into. There's something about him that cuts through my bullshit bitchiness, like it would be impossible to intimidate him. I like him already.

"Well I guess we should get going. I really didn't mean to wake you up," he says, picking up the two mugs.

I put my hand out to take them and stop him from leaving. "You don't have to go. How about another coffee?"

"Don't you have to paint or something?"

"Oh God, I have this painting that's killing me. I never want to start something new until I sort it out, but I'm blocked."

"Do you want to show it to me?"

Even the thought of bringing it out is horrendous. It looks more like the underworld every day. "Um…yeah, why not."

Retrieving it, I lean it against the wall and wait for his reaction. He doesn't seem horrified. He carefully looks at it and says matter-of-factly, "It needs light."

I look at the painting and then at him. "That's the problem. Every time I start to paint a sunrise into it, something holds me back."

"I didn't mean that sort of light. I should have said lights. It's a nighttime scene to me. It needs the moon or a fishing boat on the horizon to shine over the ocean. Then you could bring more detail into the waves and even the sand. What about stars?"

It's so obvious I missed it. Of course, it's still nighttime. I can see exactly what he sees. It's story would emerge without a hint of a sunrise.

"How did you do that when you only looked at it for a minute? I've literally been staring at it for months."

He shrugs and doesn't answer, not knowing what an inspiration he is, and I feel the excitement growing. I throw my arms around his neck and hug him without thinking, then step back, shocked at my startling behavior.

He smiles and asks, "You got anything else you need an opinion on?" and we both burst into laughter.

"No, but now I'm itching to get started. Would you…Would you like to come back later, for dinner? I'll cook."

He smiles and answers, "Sure," like the sound of a home cooked meal is very appealing.

As soon as he leaves, I give Tiger his chicken wing and unlatch the doggie door. I'm ready to tackle my nemesis with new-found enthusiasm. Two hours later, I look critically at what I've done. It did come to life easily with highlights of gold and gray, hinting at shadows beneath. As I pinpoint the canvas with bright white sparkles, I see I've achieved it by thinking about him, the color of his eyes and his hair. For this particular piece, he's my muse, in every way.

At six, classical music is softly playing, the house is immaculate and the dinner warming when I hear his voice out the front. A quick glance at the finished painting makes me smile, and it's all meant for him.

"Hey." I'm trying to hide the excitement in my voice as I see him.

"Uh, my kids want to know if your kid wants to play?" he asks casually, looking down at his two dogs who are sitting at attention for once.

Very impressed, I laugh, pointing towards the side gate. "I'll see you round the back."

"Behave!" The sound of him chastising the dogs in frustration makes me giggle. I don't think either of them are much past the puppy stage, and I'm still laughing when I open the back door and let him in. He hands me a bag with two bottles of wine, then leans down to latch the doggie door. "I wasn't sure if you wanted red or white."

"Thank you." I say, taking them from him. "My name's Bella."

"Yeah?" he asks, looking over my face. "I'm Edward."

~ xxx ~

Three dogs - a chapter for each, Blue. I know you don't like to WIP, so here are the next two.