Free Dare to Dream by Donna Hill

of work, he would sponsor her very first solo exhibit—every artist’s dream.
    She’d been stunned into silence. A full-fledged sponsor? She was flattered, frightened, but undeniably excited at the possibility. Teaching classes was fine, but to have the time and luxury to pursue her own work…and maybe by doing so she could finally exorcise Lincoln from her soul by immersing herself totally in her work. And so she agreed.
    “And then the fire,” she concluded, stealing a glance at Lincoln. “Everything is gone and I’m stuck with a commitment that I can’t possibly fulfill. I’d hoped that by getting away I would become magically inspired again.” She chuckled derisively.
    “Have you tried to paint at all since the fire?”
    She shook her head. “Every time I even think about it, all I can see is flames and smell the acrid scent of smoke and the very tools I use to create are the cause of me losing everything. Ironic, isn’t it?”
    “Was the fire investigated?”
    She shrugged. “They said it was a spark of some sort that ignited the paintings downstairs in the gallery, and with all the combustibles in the building, there wasn’t much of a chance.”
    “Hmm. I’ve never known you to be careless, Desiree. Did you ever think that perhaps the fire was set intentionally?”
    Her heart lurched and she snapped her head in his direction.
    “No, of course not. Why would anyone do that?”
    “People do all kinds of things for reasons that escape the average person.” He waved off the idea. “Just a thought,” he murmured, but the notion had taken hold in his mind.
    “Desi, remember years ago when we first met and I asked you why you paint? Do you remember what you said?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s what you need—passion, desire, the images to become resurrected and take on life in your mind.”
    “I know that but—”
    “And I’m going to help you get it back.”
    “Lincoln—”
    “There’s no getting out of it.” He turned to look at her. “Starting tomorrow—at sunrise.”
    “Sunrise!” She laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
    “You can’t beat it for inspiration. But in the meantime, let’s make a truce.”
    “Okay. What is it?”
    “Starting from today, right now, we forget about the past, forget about us being an us, and start fresh as friends. No strings, no commitments.” He pulled the truck to the side of the road and stopped. “Deal?” He held his breath.
    She hesitated a moment, wondering how she and Lincoln could ever be “just friends.” But at the same time she realized how much she wanted him in her life any way she could have him.
    “Deal,” she finally agreed.
    He stuck out his hand. “My name is Lincoln Davenport, and I own this place.”
    She placed her hand in his. “Desiree Armstrong…and I’m happy to be here.” And she realized as she said the words that she really meant it.
    * * *
    They spent hours walking the beaches, running in and out of the surf, laughing and talking about everything and nothing special, but at the same time they were getting to know each other again as new, changed people.
    He told her about some of the eccentric guests who’d come to The Port, and she told him that those same characters had visited her shop. They talked about world affairs, their real opinions about terrorists’ threats and the struggling economy and how it affected both of them.
    He asked about her family and the renowned family gathering and she told him about her baby sister, Denise, who just moved into yet another new home.
    “Another one?” Lincoln laughed. “This makes house number three?”
    “Yep. My baby sister changes houses like people lease cars. She gets tired of it, she sells it for a new one. I don’t know how her husband deals with it.” She shook her head.
    “I need her as a client,” he said. “I have some land I can sell her.”
    They laughed.
    “You’ve done marvelous things with this place, Linc. It’s idyllic.”
    “Thanks. I