Synesthetic artist Alessandra Ballard poses in front of her untitled piece inspired by Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”

It was stunning. She was stunning.

Ignoring the recent headlines predicting rehab and jail time for the “fallen art star,” he clicked through more pictures and watched Remi’s secret life unfold before him. Cocktail parties. Magazine interviews. Gallery openings. Secret smiles and smoky eyes. She was a beautiful person surrounded by other beautiful people.

He felt like he was staring at a stranger. The Remi he knew burst into a room with her hair a mess and a hundred words on the tip of her tongue. The woman before him was something…someone else.

He kept scrolling, headlines and pictures competing for attention.

Winthrope Gallery owner sings Ballard’s praises

Impressive debut by synesthetic painter

Is Alessandra Ballard in rehab?

Alessandra Ballard sells out first show

Ballard’s post-accident disappearance screams guilty

There she was on the arm of a dignified blonde woman, looking like she was on the prowl for trouble.

Artist Alessandra Ballard and socialite Camille Vorhees enjoy a night out at Chef Michael Matsui’s new restaurant.

Camille. His attention snagged on the name, and he skimmed the short article.

Designer dresses? Photographers taking her picture outside restaurants? Was that who Remi wanted to be? Some goddess with mysterious eyes and scores of admirers.

She couldn’t be that here.

The truth twisted in his gut like a knife. She had big dreams, the kind that he could never keep up with. The kind that could never be satisfied here, on their quiet little island. Even if she chose him. She’d end up resenting the roots he’d forced her to plant. And he’d never be happy in some city, surrounded by strangers. Not even if it meant having Remi.

This wasn’t an opportunity to win her. This was simply a chance to patch her up and release her back into the world where big dreams flourished and new adventures awaited.

He would never be enough for her. It was time he remembered that.

“You look like you want to put a fist through that screen.”

Ken Pacquiao was a man of contradictions. He had an affinity for sweater vests, but as the island’s barber, his black hair was cut and styled into a faux hawk with indigo tips. He was a loud, proud vegetarian, but his favorite boots were made from ostrich leather. Where his boyfriend Darius was hard-bodied and outgoing, Ken was softer, quieter. But his deadpan observations usually had the power to surprise a laugh out of any audience.

Brick closed the laptop abruptly.

“Also, you’re due for a haircut and a shave, my friend,” Ken observed, sweeping him with a judgmental look. “What’s with everyone on this island channeling the Sasquatch over the winter?”

“He’s just jealous because he can’t grow a beard,” Darius said, leaning over the bar and squeezing Ken’s baby-smooth cheeks.

“I’m not jealous. I’m dedicated to my craft,” Ken sniffed.

“I’ll make an appointment,” Brick said grudgingly.

“Tomorrow. Eleven a.m.” Ken announced.