Free Aphrodite's Passion by Julie Kenner Page B

deep down, she really didn’t want much more than that. To love and be loved.
    She shook her head, frustrated with herself. One last body-shaking hiccup, and she finally got her breathing under control.
    Missy trotted over, sniffed Tracy’s shoes, then whined and covered her eyes with her paws.
    “I’m okay, girl. Just sentimental from looking through Gram’s old stuff. That’s all.”
    She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Sure. Just sentimental. Nothing more.
    Nothing except for Leon and Walter and everything else all piled on top.
    Stop it
! Tracy slammed a fist against the side of the box, scaring Missy. She was beginning to get on her own nerves. Walter and Leon were both jerks. Big, fat, hairy jerks. Who wanted ‘em? Not her. That’s for darn sure.
    Standing up, she squared her shoulders and moved on to the box marked for the museum. Since she’d already been through that stuff once, surely there wouldn’t be much in there to inspire another bout of waterworks.
    Her grandmother’s publicity photos from her early film days were on top, and Tracy pulled out the first—a black and white glossy in soft focus showing Tahlula in a flowing white gown belted at her waist. Tracy framed the image of her grandmother’s face with her fingers and peered at the makeshift cameo. For a time, Tahlula Tannin had been considered the most beautiful star on the Hollywood scene, and fans had clamored for a glimpse of her. That generation’s Marilyn Monroe, Tahlula had never wanted for attention. She had an aura, an almost magical quality, and she seemed to radiate beauty. Tracy pulled out the rest of the photos, and in each, Tahlula was similarly dressed— and looked just as stunning.
    From another box Tracy located another studio photo, this one taken a few years later. In it, her grandmother was wearing a simple unadorned black dress. Unlike the photos in the first box, Tahlula didn’t seem to pop off the emulsion. Tracy frowned. How odd. The focus was harsher, revealing the firm angles of Tahlula’s cheekbones and jaw. Striking, yes. Pretty, absolutely. But the stuff legends were made of?
    Tracy scowled at the photo, feeling a little disloyal, but it was an empirical fact: Her grandmother was pretty, yes. But drop-dead gorgeous? Not really. At least, not in this picture. Tracy pressed her lips together, struggling with the truth. It wasn’t her grandmother’s looks that had shot her to the pinnacle of success, but something else: a confidence, a bearing, a way of holding herself that was best captured in the photos from the first box.
    Tracy sighed. She hadn’t inherited her grandmother’s looks or the older woman’s panache.
    Pity.
    Shaking her head, she pulled herself out of her funk. She’d come up to the attic to forget her pathetic luck with men; dragging herself into the doldrums had not been part of the agenda. Okay. Fine. She needed happy thoughts. Raindrops on roses. Bright copper kettles. It’s a small world after all.
    Running her hands through her hair, she stifled a near-hysterical giggle. Maybe she should run downstairs and eat something, since she seemed to be bordering on delirium. Mentally she ran through the contents of her refrigerator: a jar of kosher dill pickles, a bag of slightly limp carrots, some freshly ground coffee. She frowned. Too bad she hadn’t managed to get any ice cream earlier. And then she remembered—there was an entire tube of slice-and-bake cookies in the freezer.
    Cookies
. She turned the word over in her head, anticipating the fresh-baked smell and then the melting chocolate on her tongue. Oh, yeah. Hanging out in the attic might be a temporary cure for the Leon’s-an-ass-and-Walter’s-a-jerk doldrums, but cookies were a downright panacea.
    Nibbling on her lower lip, she glanced at the box in front of her. She’d finish this box, then she’d go make cookies. That seemed like a reasonable, rational plan.
    Her mouth watering, she pulled out the next photo. It was