Chapter 8
Grant stared at his laptop screen, the glow harsh in the dim light of his apartment above the gallery.
The article headline read: “Protégé or Predator? Emily Shaw and the Franklin Holloway Controversy.” He’d been reading for over an hour now, clicking through links, following threads deeper into the story he’d only known in fragments.
He scrolled through another opinion piece, this one from an art critic who’d known Holloway personally. The writer defended Emily with passionate conviction.
He leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked beneath him.
He’d told himself this was research. Due diligence.
The kind of thing any responsible community member would do when a stranger with a controversial past showed up in town.
But the truth poked at him. He’d been searching for ammunition and evidence to support his initial wariness.
Something concrete to justify the knot of unease that had settled in his gut the moment he’d recognized her at the farmer’s market.
The problem was, the more he read, the less certain he became.
Some articles painted Emily as calculating and opportunistic.
A woman who’d positioned herself perfectly to capitalize on a dying man’s final creative burst. Others portrayed her as a scapegoat, someone caught in the crossfire of family disputes and art world politics that had nothing to do with her actual conduct.
The legal investigation had cleared her. That fact appeared in nearly every article, though some writers dismissed it with phrases like “technically cleared” or “no criminal charges filed,” as if the absence of prosecution proved nothing about innocence.
Grant knew that dance. The way people could acknowledge your vindication while still treating you as guilty. The way a cleared name didn’t necessarily clear a reputation.
He closed the laptop harder than necessary.
The apartment felt too small and too quiet. He stood and walked to the window overlooking Main Street. The shops had closed hours ago. A few streetlights spilled yellow pools on the sidewalk.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass. When had he become this person? Someone who spent Friday evening alone in his apartment, researching a woman he barely knew, looking for reasons to justify his suspicion?
The pottery bowl. He’d left it on her doorstep like some kind of peace offering, then spent the walk home questioning his own motivations. Was it kindness or conscience? An apology for his rudeness or an attempt to maintain the town’s reputation for hospitality?
He turned away from the window.
The truth was more complicated. He’d seen something in Emily’s face at the farmer’s market. When he’d spoken about her talent in the past tense, she’d flinched. Just for a moment. A flash of genuine hurt beneath her polished exterior before she’d raised those defensive walls higher.
He recognized that hurt. Knew it intimately.
He grabbed his keys from the counter. He needed to get out of this apartment and away from his own thoughts. The drive to his mother’s house took less than five minutes. The porch light was on when he pulled into the driveway. She’d be reading in the living room. She always was.
His mother looked up from her book when he let himself in through the front door. “Grant. This is a surprise.”
“Restless.” He crossed to the kitchen. “Thought I’d see if you had any of that pie left.”
“Lemon meringue is in the fridge.” Margaret Stone set her book aside. “Though I suspect you didn’t drive over here at nine o’clock for pie.”
He cut himself a slice and brought it to the living room. His mother waited, patient as always. She had a gift for silence and creating space that invited confession without demanding it.
“I met someone,” he said finally.
His mother’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
He stabbed his fork into the pie. “Not like that. A woman staying at the lighthouse. Emily Shaw.”
“Winnie’s new tenant. Sally mentioned her at book club. An artist, I heard.”
“A controversial one. She was involved in a scandal in Chicago. Accusations of fraud and taking credit for her mentor’s work.”
“Was she guilty?”
“Legally? No. The investigation cleared her. But the art world wasn’t so forgiving. Her reputation is destroyed. Her marriage ended. She lost her teaching position.”
His mother studied him with those sharp eyes that had always seen too much. “And this concerns you because?”
“Because she’s here now. In Starlight Shores.” He leaned forward. “What if she’s looking for material? A new angle for her career? The lighthouse has historical significance. Winnie’s family story. It could all become fodder for some exhibition or book that brings unwanted attention to the town.”
“Could it? Or are you worried about something else?”
He stood and walked to the bookshelf where photos of his father lined the middle shelf. Jack Stone in his studio, brush in hand. Jack at a local art fair, surrounded by his coastal landscapes. Jack on the beach, collecting driftwood for his sculptures.
“Dad always said the hardest part wasn’t creating the work. It was letting people see it. Letting them judge whether it mattered.”
“Your father was a sensitive man. He felt things deeply. It made his art powerful, but it also made criticism painful.”
He picked up a photo of his father at an exhibition opening. The smile looked strained around the edges. “He never got the recognition he deserved.”
“He got the recognition that mattered to him.” His mother stood and moved to his side. “He was respected here in this community. His work hangs in homes all over town. People treasure what he created.”
“But he could have been more.” The words came out harder than Grant intended. “If he’d been willing to compromise, to play the game just a little bit, to market himself better.”
“Is that what you think? That your father’s integrity was a weakness?”
He set the photo down carefully. “I think the art world chews up people like him. People who care more about the work than the business. People who trust that talent and dedication will be enough.”
“Like Emily Shaw?”
The question sat there between them. He turned to face his mother. “You don’t know her story.”
“Neither do you. But you’ve already decided what it is, haven’t you? Decided she’s someone who’ll hurt this town the way you were hurt.” She returned to her chair and picked up her book.
“I’m not—” He stopped. “This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it? You came home seven years ago with wounds you’ve never discussed. You’ve built a good life here, Grant. A meaningful one. But you’ve also built walls. Very high ones.”
“I’m protecting what matters.”
His mother looked at him over her reading glasses. “Are you? Or are you protecting yourself from potential disappointment? There’s a difference, sweetheart.”
The silence stretched between them. Outside, wind chimes sang in the breeze. His mother’s clock ticked steadily on the mantel.
“She looked at my gallery,” he finally said. “Emily. I saw her outside, watching through the window. She had this expression on her face like she was looking at something she’d lost. Something she wanted but couldn’t have anymore.”
“And that bothers you.”
“It makes me wonder.” He moved back to his chair and sat down heavily. “If she still paints. If she’s given it up entirely or if she’s just hiding. If she’ll ever find the courage to try again after everything that happened.”
His mother smiled. “You’re describing yourself, you know.”
He looked at his mother, this woman who’d raised him to see clearly, to think critically, and to question his own assumptions. “I run a gallery.”
“You support other artists’ work, which is admirable. But it’s not the same as creating your own. When was the last time you made something, Grant? Something that mattered to you?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“Your father used to say that sometimes we judge others most harshly for the things we fear in ourselves.” His mother stood and kissed the top of his head. “I’m going to bed. Lock up when you leave.”
He sat alone in his mother’s living room for a long time after she climbed the stairs. The house settled around him with familiar creaks and sighs. Through the window, he could see the dark shape of his father’s studio at the back of the property. He hadn’t been inside in months. Maybe longer.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Bryan, his friend who ran The Sandpiper: Friday night and you’re not at the bar. Everything okay?
Grant typed back: At Mom’s. Needed pie.
Ah, well, Margaret’s pie beats out a beer any day.
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and stood.
His mother’s words echoed in his mind as he rinsed his plate in the kitchen sink.
He locked the front door behind him and stood on the porch for a moment.
The night air was cool, carrying the salt-sweet smell of the Gulf.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.
The lighthouse beam swept across the sky to the north. Steady. Reliable. Warning sailors away from danger.
Or guiding them home.
He climbed into his truck and told himself he’d drive straight back to his apartment. Get some sleep. Stop obsessing over a woman he barely knew and her reasons for coming to Starlight Shores.
But as he pulled out of the driveway, he found himself heading north instead of south. Toward the lighthouse. Just to drive past, he reasoned. Just to see if the lights were still on in Starfish Cottage. Just to check.
The justification felt thin even to him. But Grant made the turn anyway, following the coastal road as it curved toward the peninsula where the Lockhart Lighthouse had stood for more than a century. Guiding lost souls and marking dangerous waters.
Warning people away. Or inviting them closer.
He wasn’t sure which anymore.