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with her ego. Other than that . . .” Susan shrugged her thin shoulders expressively.
    Sara impatiently shook her head. “I think you’re wrong, Susan. She told the Graces last night about all the people she knows in New York.” She wove her fingers together, then pulled them apart. Sara had actually allowed herself some little daydreams involving hanging up her apron for good and spending all her days in the studio, squishing clay and slapping paint on canvases.
    “Don’t put all your eggs in Miss Adrian’s basket, that’s all. There are many avenues for developing a name for yourself and finding patrons for your art. None of them involve Rebecca Adrian.”
    Sara’s rejoinder was cut short by the tinkling bell indicating Rebecca’s arrival at Southern Accents. Unfortunately, from all appearances, Rebecca was in what could be described only as a peevish mood.
    “Can we get a move on?” she asked, taking off her huge designer sunglasses. “I’ve got to get over to Aunt Pat’s”— she checked what looked to be a Rolex watch—“two minutes ago.”
    Hating that Rebecca Adrian succeeded in making her feel flustered, Sara wordlessly waved her hand to include the entire gallery. “Well,” she started, “here it is.”
    Thankfully, Susan Meredith took over from there. “As you can see, Sara’s art is a remarkable example of Southern folk art. She uses a whimsical approach to . . .”
    But Rebecca cut her off with a dismissive slash of her hand. “Never mind all that. This wouldn’t fly in a New York gallery. Never. It looks like someone tripping on acid made those teapots.”
    Sara prickled. “Some of us like coloring outside the lines, you know.”
    Rebecca squinted at the wall of paintings and made a move. “Plus the fact that the subject matter is completely parochial and clearly limited to local appeal.”
    Sara, God help her, did actually try to control herself. It was a powerful struggle between Good Sara and Bad Sara, and for a second or two, it looked as if Good Sara might win. She successfully slipped out the door of Southern Accents before she could say anything hateful to Rebecca Adrian.
    But the devil got into Rebecca and wasn’t going to have anything to do with Good Sara. Rebecca popped out the door behind Sara, followed quickly by Susan, and said, “What about this portrait here?” asked Rebecca, referring to a painting in the window of Big Ben. Sara was particularly proud of it, and Susan had begged her to show it for ages. “Did one of your daughters paint this one?” Rebecca snorted.
    Sara wondered later if it was the snide reference or the way she implied that Coco or Ella Beth would produce poor artwork that made her blow her top. She never could decide. But whatever it was made her blow her top in a way she’d struggled to control for years. “At least I have somebody who gives a flip about me. Thanks for the pep talk. I’m just sorry I ever respected your opinion enough to go asking for it. People like you get off on putting everybody down to make yourself feel good. Have it your way. But when you’re lying on your deathbed alone, look back and remember how you got there.”
    Susan’s mouth flapped open and closed like a fish, which was such a departure for the always-composed Susan that it stopped Sara’s tirade. Rebecca clearly wasn’t waiting around to see if she was done yelling or not—her heels clicked as she stormed off down the sidewalk. People who had stopped to stare at the confrontation finally continued on their way.
    Susan found her voice. “She doesn’t know her Picasso from her Rembrandt, Sara. Rebecca Adrian wouldn’t recognize great art if it bit her in the behind.”
    Somewhere under the cloud of misery, hurt, and anger, Sara appreciated Susan’s attempt to make her feel better. She smiled reassuringly at Susan. But Susan was alarmed that the light had gone out of Sara’s green eyes.
    “She doesn’t understand Southern folk art. Your work is