Starting Over On Blackberry Lane. Sheila Roberts

      “I’m a photographer.”

      “Really? Can we see the upstairs?” Nenita asked and started power walking toward the stairs. “Do you do portraits?” she asked as Griffin trailed her up them. “Would I have seen your work for sale at any of our festivals?”

      “No. I specialize in pictures of food.”

      “That sounds like fun.”

      “It is. I’m thinking of moving to New York, where I can get more work.” Or I could move back home and live with my parents forever. Which option should I choose?

      “Good idea,” Nenita said. She looked in the first bedroom. “Nice size. So, are you in a hurry to sell?” she asked and moved to the next bedroom.

      “Well...” Was she?

      “The reason I ask,” Nenita said, “is because you could get a lot more money for the place if you had time to fix it up a little. It needs some updating, a few repairs. New paint. Not that I couldn’t sell it as is, but I assume you want to get top dollar.”

      “Of course,” Griffin confirmed. “How much do you think I could get?”

      “Fixed up?” Nenita told her and started dollar signs dancing in front of her eyes. “The market’s on the upswing.”

      “Tell me what to do.”

      The list was daunting. In addition to fixing the broken back stair and painting the outside of the house, Nenita suggested painting most of the inside, as well—two bedrooms and the living room had been deemed in need of freshening.

      “You should replace the stove and fridge and dishwasher if you can afford it,” she finished. “Once you get all of that done and we stage the place, it’ll sell pretty fast. Summer’s the best time. People want to get moved and settled before the school year begins.”

      Okay, she could do this. It would be great to hire that new handyman everyone was talking about, but she could save money if she did most of the work herself. Painting wasn’t all that hard. She’d tackle that first and then worry about the broken step and the appliances.

      Highly motivated, she went straight to the hardware store with her credit card after Nenita left, and started looking at paint chips. So many different shades—it was almost overwhelming. She finally decided on a cream for the living room as well as one of the spare bedrooms and a light turquoise for her own room. It would pick up the colors in her bedspread and pillows, and that would help with staging. The cream would look attractive with the house’s hardwood floors, which Nenita had suggested refinishing. Ugh.

      Painting the outside of the house was going to be really spendy and would have to wait until she could work up the nerve to ask her dad for a loan. She selected her paint, brushes, roller and about a million other supplies, and took them to the cash register to be rung up. She swallowed hard when she saw the total but stoically handed over her credit card, reminding herself that you had to spend money to make money. She’d heard that somewhere. She hoped it was true.

      She was pushing her cart full of paints out of the store when a man walked in past her. Whoa. “Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh,” she muttered and pulled out her cell phone.

      Stef answered after several rings. “Did you see the Realtor?”

      “Yeah, but never mind her. I just saw George Clooney!”

      “What?”

      “Seriously. I’m sure it was him. What’s he doing in Icicle Falls?” Was he making a movie here? And if he was, why hadn’t it been splashed all over the papers? Why wasn’t everyone talking about it?

      “George Clooney in Icicle Falls? Okay, were you in that new cannabis store outside of town? Are you, like, hallucinating or something?”

      “No. I swear it was him. I’m going back inside to check it out. I’ll call you later.”

      Griffin loaded her supplies in her trunk and then hustled into the hardware store again. Okay, where was he?

      “Did you forget anything?” asked Alan Donaldson, who owned the store.

      “I was thinking I might need another paintbrush,” Griffin improvised. She knew she was blushing, could feel the heat on her cheeks.

      He gave her a sly grin. “You know where they are.”

      Yeah, but where was he? She hurried up and down the various aisles, passing everything from sandpaper to gardening supplies. Had she imagined him?

      No. She turned a corner and ran right into the man. He dropped the tube of caulk he was carrying and she dropped her jaw. “Oh, my gosh. Mr. Clooney, I’m so sorry.”

      “No worries,” he said, bending to pick it up. “And I’m afraid I’m not George Clooney.”

      “You’re not?” He stood and she studied his face. Okay, maybe not. This man’s nose was a bit different, and he had a few more wrinkles. But still, wow, you could’ve fooled her. Oh, yeah. He had. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re not. What would George Clooney be doing in a hardware store in Icicle Falls? Except I thought someone was going to make a movie here or...something.” Lame. Totally lame.

      He smiled. “It’s okay. It happens a lot.”

      “That must come in handy when you’re traveling. Free drinks on planes, stuff like that?” Okay, she sounded like a complete moron.

      He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he introduced himself.

      “The Honey Do man! We were just talking about you. Both my friends want you.” Hmm. Did that sound a little...sexual?

      “That’s good to hear.”

      “We’re all going to be at the Raise the Roof fundraiser,” she went on. What did he care? “I guess we’ll see you then.”

      “I guess so. And your name is?”

      Idiot Girl. “Griffin James.”

      “Nice to meet you, Griffin. I’m Grant Masters.”

      He had a friendly smile, and he wasn’t looking at her as if she only had one brain cell. She didn’t feel quite so stupid now and smiled back. “Nice to meet you, too. See you at the fundraiser.”

      “Or maybe in here again.”

      “I promise not to ask for your autograph.”

      “At least wait until I’m famous,” he said, deadpan.

      “Oh, sure,” she said. Her cell phone rang and she excused herself and hurried out of the store, answering as she went.

      “Did you find him?” asked Stef.

      “Yeah, but it wasn’t him.”

      “Doesn’t matter. He’s too old for you, anyway.”

      “This man really looks like him, though. And guess what? He’s the new handyman and Mrs. Donaldson wasn’t kidding. He’s so nice.”

      “That’s not surprising, considering how nice his son is. Dan’s always sending Charley flowers. And he bailed Cass out when her roof was leaking.”

      Steve had gotten Griffin flowers. Once. For Valentine’s Day. After she bugged him to. She thought of the broken back porch step and frowned. “Too bad somebody can’t clone him.” Dan, not Steve. One Steve was probably enough.

      “I think he’s got a brother. I hear he’s single.”

      If the brother looked anything like Dan Masters or his dad... Woo-hoo. Oh, well. She was on her way to New York. She’d hold out for some slick metrosexual. Meanwhile, here in Icicle Falls, she had things to do.

      She spent Friday morning working with Beth on another photo shoot—rhubarb-strawberry crisp—and then spent much of the afternoon editing. Come five o’clock, she tossed together cut-up