Painting Naked (Macmillan New Writing) Read Online Free PDF Page B

needs to be much bigger. I can’t imagine what you were thinking here. Nobody can see it.”
    You told me to make it small, remember? “It’s an ugly room, Jillian. We don’t want to draw attention to it.”
    Elaine rattles on. “The detail on the fireplace in the den is unclear.”
    That’s because the photos you gave me were low-res.
    I turn the bag over.
    “And there are ten bedrooms, not nine.”
    Nine. Definitely nine. I clamp my elbow on the bag to stop it sliding off the counter.
    “Jillian, are you listening?”
    “Of course.”
    There’s a pause. “Now, about the layout.”
    Oh, God. Now what?
    “I want eight pages, not twelve,” Elaine says.
    “Then you’ll have to cut copy.”
    “Impossible,” she says. “Everything stays.”
    “But—”
    “Make it fit.”
    Well, there goes my weekend.
    “Have it here by five on Tuesday. And bring me a CD. I don’t trust e-mail,” Elaine says and hangs up.
    I grind my teeth so hard, I’m in danger of loosening the crown I just paid a fortune for. One of these days, that woman’s going to push me over the edge.
    Her priority-of-the-moment is the sales brochure for that overpriced house next door. She approved the final layout yesterday, said it was ready for her printer—a big, fancy outfit in Ohio—and now she’s ripping it apart and blaming me.
    Time to find another client. I’ll start looking next week.
    Zachary curls himself around my legs. I feed him, swallow a mug of tea, and get dressed. Then I sit at my desk and juggle appointments. If I cancel tomorrow’s haircut, beg an extension on my article for Paws and Claws Quarterly , and persuade the chamber of commerce to wait till Thursday for my Fall Festival designs, I can pull it all off. Just to be sure, I check my calendar. Oh, hell. I forgot about the holiday and Jordan’s flying in late Tuesday afternoon.
    Maybe Lizzie will go and fetch him from the airport.
    * * *
     
    Turns out, Lizzie was dead right about Dutch. On Tuesday afternoon I get back from delivering Elaine’s job to find him in my driveway leaning against his lopsided Cadillac wearing cut-offs, an Australian bush hat, and a Hawaiian shirt. He’s barefoot and feeding peppermint sticks to a humpback brown dog that looks like a cross between an Irish wolfhound and a Chippendale sofa.
    I hear a miaow and look up to see my cat on the roof.
    “Hey there, Jill Hunter.” Dutch tips his hat. “I’m mighty glad to see y’all.”
    The good ole boy drawl slides through his walrus-style mustache like it belongs. But I know better. Dutch grew up in California and graduated from Yale with honors before earning a Purple Heart in Vietnam.
    “This here’s Murdock,” Dutch says, patting the dog’s head with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
    I take a good look at the guy I met five years ago at one of Lizzie’s parties. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, long legs. A lived-in, weather-beaten face with a generous mouth and eyes the color of slate. Lizzie’s advice flashes before me. Is she right? Do I need to get back on that bike I never learned to ride in the first place? And, more to the point, should I get on it with Dutch Van Horne?
    He grins and pulls me into a hug. “Sorry to barge in without callin’ you first, but I need a bed for the night.” He drops a kiss on my forehead. “Can I share yours?”
    “No,” I tell him, “but you can have the couch.”
    “Fair enough.” Dutch takes a shabby overnight bag from his car, hands me a bottle of Merlot, and follows me to the kitchen. He opens the wine and I pull cold cuts from the fridge to make sandwiches. I haven’t eaten all day and the glass of wine I drink with Dutch goes straight to my head. He pours me another. I slice tomatoes and spread mayonnaise on French bread. I drink a bit more wine and open a jar of peanuts and we snack on those. I dump salsa into a dish, add grated cheese and corn chips, and shove it in the oven. We open another bottle of wine and by the time Lizzie