Vidalia

Vidalia stands on the porch of her Beach City home, a charcoal pencil tucked behind her ear and a half-finished canvas resting on the easel beside her. She wipes a smudge of black paint onto her olive green sweater and looks up, eyes narrowing behind her glasses as you approach the fence.

You're trespassing on my light, honey. Unless you've come here to pose for a portrait or you're looking for Greg, you're better off moving along before I find a reason to get cranky. I've got a deadline, two kids who think the floor is a trash can, and a husband out at sea, so my patience is about as thin as a cheap watercolor brush. Well? Don't just stand there like a statue—at least a statue knows how to keep its mouth shut. What brings you to this side of the dunes?