After class, Ella, Dovie, and Margaretmarie liked to go to Jimbo’s Java Joint.

James Pepper — Jimbo — was a graduate of the Institute.

He liked to joke that he’d opened the joint so he’d have some walls to display his work. Lucas said he was actually a pretty good businessman. (“I don’t know about his art except he seems to like blues and greens.”) Upstairs was a grill where you could get burgers or Island Perlow. Most of the students from the Institute preferred the cafe on the ground floor because they got a discount on plates of boiled shrimp, along with free coffee refills. For just a little more, Jimbo’d mix what he called “Java drinks”, made with Rum or Bourbon or Drambui.

She’d asked him for one with Anisette once, and he’d laughed at her. “That’s an old lady’s drink, girlie! Wouldn’t you like something with more pizazz?”

Sometimes, he’d recite his poetry. Ella never understood it, but then, poetry wasn’t really her thing.

This afternoon, it was pretty quiet. Lid Klopman, the life-drawing instructor, was there as usual.

And, of course, Bailey Baghill.

Who, to Dovey and Margaretmarie’s chagrin, was again sitting with Sally Reckoner.

He’s so handsome!” sighed Margaretmarie. “So saturnine!”

“…and she’s not even a student!” complained Dovie.

“I really just don’t see it. A Reckoner, for cripes sake. And not even an Islander, not really. Why’d she have to come here? Why not just go back to Tampa where she belongs?”

“The attraction has to be sexual,” said Margaretmarie, “She’s probably putting out like a gumball machine. Everyone knows that family is a bunch of degenerates.”

Ella shrugged. “What is all this fuss about Bailey Baghill anyway? He’s a goof! Remember last year when he tried to get everybody to call him ‘Bopdaddy?’ And when I asked him why, he said he thought the name ‘Bailey‘ sounded silly? I mean, come on…”

“But you have to admit, he’s talented,” said Dovie. “You were in the sculpting class with him, weren’t you? Mr. Pike said he was his best student!”

“I guess.”

She didn’t like thinking about that class. Bailey’s work was good. Really good. Which had made what he said to her even worse. He’d come over to look at the bust she’d done of the model, walked carefully around it, then turned to her and said, “I see a great future for you in civic sculpture.”

It was not a compliment.

“Well, I think it would be so cute if you two got together,” said Margaretmarie.

“You’d make such a great team. The avant-garde artist and the traditional realist! And your children… Oh your children, Ella, would be gorgeous!”

“Hm. Thanks.”

The problem was, she didn’t want to be a “traditional realist.” She wanted to be like Bailey or Jimbo, someone whose work was daring, maybe even a bit outrageous.

But every time she tried to draw or sculpt or paint, she ended up feeling like a cartoon she’d seen once, showing a beatnik poet agonizing over a piece of paper, clutching his pencil and scratching his head.

“Damnit,” the caption read, “It Keeps Rhyming!”

“I know that look!” exclaimed Dovie. “Ella, do you have any idea how lucky you are? I wish I could create one thing half as good as the drawings you throw away! Like today, I found this…” she was reaching into her bag.

“Oh, Dove no, please, not that thing I cleaned out of my notebook. It’s ancient!”

“Look at this and tell me with a straight face this drawing deserves to be thrown out!”

“Who’s that with Bailey?” asked Margaretmarie.

Dovie lowered the drawing. “I don’t know, but he’s beautiful,” she said as she bent to tuck it back into her portfolio. “He’s been giving Ella the once-over, and they’re coming over here.”

Ella refused to look over her shoulder.

“Hello, ladies,” said Bailey. “I’d like to introduce you to my cousin, David Baghill. He just moved here from Pittsburgh, and I’m showing him around.”

“Dave, this is Dovinda Baldridge, Margaretmarie Tipit, and Ella Macana. All of them are studying art with me at the Mechanics’.” He grinned. “We’re all lifelong Islanders, but Margaretmarie and Ella are from old, old families. There’s nothing about the Island they can’t tell you.”

“He means our great-grandaddies were savages, if you hadn’t already guessed from our names,” Margaretmarie said, dimpling. “And I’d love to show you around any time. What brings you to the island, Bebas?”

“A job. I’ll be working for Baywreath Sugar starting this Monday. It’s all a little strange for me here, I have to confess, but I’m pretty sure I can get used to this weather. And the beaches.”

Ella tried to keep her face as neutral as possible. He’d been staring at her, Dovie said, and that made Ella unwilling to make eye contact with him, even though Margaretmarie was nudging her with her foot under the table.

She was stuck up. That was her problem, and she really wished she wasn’t. It was just that she hated, really hated, the way some guys looked at her like she was something they were sneaking up on with a butterfly net. So far she had been on exactly three dates, and on every one of them, at some point, the guy had grabbed her, squashed his face against hers, and licked the inside of her mouth. Was she supposed to like that?

Dovie had begun to talk about the surfing on the southern part of the Island. Very cautiously, Ella stole a look at him.

My God, she thought.

He really was beautiful.

And older, too. Probably twenty-five or twenty-six. Funny, what a difference just a few years could make. David Baghill was not a boy. He was a man.

And now he looked at her. He smiled, and she felt the bottom of her stomach drop. “You look like you spend a lot of time in the sun. Where do you think the best beaches are?”

She took her eyes off him before she smiled, pretending to reflect. “Frenchy Beach is the safest,” she said. And a lot of the tourists use the western end of Sanctuary Bay. But the best waves are along the Northeastern side near Theodosia. It’s a bit of a drive but it’s worth it.”

“Sounds like Frenchy Beach is more my speed,” he said. “Until I find someone to teach me to surf.”

She didn’t leave as early as she planned to.

The windows were getting dark now, and the room a little more crowded. People were starting to arrive for dinner upstairs. She didn’t know where Dovie and Margaretmarie were. They’d made up some excuse and gone over to talk to Lid on the other side of the room and were probably taking peeks at her and whispering. David had just finished telling her about Pittsburgh. (“It’s really a beautiful city, if you manage to see it through all the smoke. The buildings are spectacular.”) He’d taken an art history course in college, and considered going into architecture, but decided on an MBA from Carnegie Mellon. “But what about you?” he asked. “Why did you choose to study art?”

“I’m good at it,” she said. “Or at least, people have always told me so.”

He was so handsome that just standing near him made her feel… Well, something she’d never really felt before. But she had to be careful. If she smiled at him she could end up backing away from eager, hopeful eyes and hot grabby hands.

“You sound like you’re not entirely convinced.”

“Well, I’m good at drawing things, but I’m not sure that makes me an artist. I want… I don’t want to just draw what everybody sees. I want to capture something people don’t necessarily see or know they are seeing. Like Picasso, or Jackson Pollock, or Georgia O’Keefe. I think that’s what it means to be an artist.”

He smiled. “And being an artist is important to you.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

“So why be an artist like Picasso or O’Keefe? Why not Edward Hopper? Or Steichen? Aren’t they artists? Good artists?”

“I suppose.”

Maybe you’re selling yourself a little short?”

She shrugged. “I’m nothing special,” she said, then wished he hadn’t. Guys always seemed to think it meant she thought she wasn’t pretty.

“I’m not so sure. You stand out, you know. And, no, I’m not just talking about your looks,” he added quickly. “There’s something… I guess I’d say you look skeptical. Even from across the room, watching you talk to your friends, I could see you don’t quite belong here.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not a phoney.”

“My friends aren’t phonies!”

“Maybe not all of them. But, you know, artists love to talk about being nonconformists while being harder than most on people they don’t consider one of them. That’s why you see so many of them doing ridiculous things, wearing ridiculous things, saying ridiculous things. How else will anyone know they’re artists?”

“I mean, come on…,” he said. “Bopdaddy Baghill?”