Chapter 27
Emily stood at the gallery’s entrance, adjusting her skirt for the third time. The Springtide Festival banners fluttered in the morning breeze. Crowds had already gathered along the waterfront, their voices carrying across the courtyard.
“Ready?” Grant touched her elbow.
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The last time she’d shown her work publicly, everything had fallen apart. Chicago felt like a lifetime ago. Yet the fear remained. She caught herself checking for exits.
Inside the back gallery room, her three paintings commanded the prime wall. The lighthouse interior, the stormy seascape, and the courtyard gathering told a story she hadn’t intended to write. They told a story about running and what happens when you stop.
“They look good.” Grant’s voice held quiet pride.
They did look good. Better than good. The lighting he’d adjusted yesterday—yet again—brought out subtleties in the brushwork.
The first visitors trickled in. She couldn’t help herself as she braced against the possibility of Julian showing up. Luckily, a couple from Pensacola studied the painting of the lighthouse interior. She forced herself to stay near the paintings instead of hiding in the back office like she wanted.
“The detail in the brass work is extraordinary.” The woman leaned closer. “You can almost feel the weight of that lamp.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you the artist?”
That simple question. Once, it would have filled her with pride. Then shame. Now... something in between.
“Yes.”
“This reminds me of my grandfather’s stories. He was a lighthouse keeper up near Mobile. You’ve captured something real here. The loneliness, but also the purpose.”
The woman’s husband nodded. “The brushwork in the storm piece. Those whites against the deep grays. How did you achieve that texture?”
Emily found herself explaining her technique. Layering. Scraping back. Building the paint like the weather itself. The man listened intently, asking follow-up questions that showed real understanding.
More visitors arrived. A steady stream now. She answered questions about historical research, about the lighthouse’s architecture, and about her choice of colors. No one asked about Chicago. No one mentioned scandals or stolen legacies.
They saw the work. Just the work.
Yet, she couldn’t help glancing toward the door. The threat of Julian clung to her.
“Your new pieces are causing quite a stir.” Beth Ramsey appeared at her elbow, beaming. “I heard two collectors asking Grant about prices.”
Prices. She’d actually agreed to sell them. Another step toward being a real artist again.
Sally Morris bustled through the crowd, her voice carrying. “Of course, you need to see Emily’s paintings. She’s captured our lighthouse like no one else has. Even Winnie got emotional when she saw them.”
Suddenly, the crowd parted near the entrance.
There he was.
Julian Holloway stood in the doorway, his expression calculating as he scanned the gallery. His pressed suit and polished shoes looked out of place among the casual festival-goers.
Grant stepped closer to her side. “I’ve got this.”
She held up a hand. “No. I’m not hiding anymore.”
Julian’s gaze found her paintings, and his eyes flashed. He moved through the crowd with deliberate purpose, stopping in front of the lighthouse interior. The same painting that had moved Winnie to tears.
“Interesting technique. Very reminiscent of a certain other artist’s work.” His voice carried just loud enough for nearby visitors to hear.
Emily’s hands clenched, but she forced them to relax. The couple from Pensacola glanced between them, confusion flickering across their faces.
“Actually,” the woman said, “I was just thinking how unique the style is. My grandfather was a lighthouse keeper, and this captures something I’ve never seen in maritime art before.”
Julian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes, well, some people are very good at... appropriation.”
“That’s enough.” Grant moved forward, but Emily caught his arm.
“Sir, are you an art critic?” A young man with a notebook stepped closer. A journalist or podcaster, probably, covering the festival.
Julian straightened his tie. “I have some expertise in identifying authentic work versus—”
“Because I teach at SCAD—Savannah College of Art and Design.” The young man pointed at Emily’s storm painting. “What strikes me about these pieces is how honest they feel. The way the paint builds in layers and creates depth through texture rather than just color. It’s actually quite innovative.”
Heat crept up Julian’s neck. More people gathered, drawn by the discussion. Emily recognized the danger in their attention, but also something else. They were looking at her work, not at Julian.
“The historical research alone is impressive.” An older woman Emily recognized from the historical society stepped forward. “I’ve been documenting the lighthouse for forty years, and she’s captured details I’ve only seen in archival photographs.”
“Details can be copied,” Julian said, but his voice had lost some of its conviction.
“Not like this.” Grant’s mother appeared through the crowd, Margaret Stone in full librarian mode. “This level of architectural accuracy combined with emotional interpretation? That takes both skill and intuition.”
Sally Morris’s voice carried from near the courtyard painting. “Oh, Emily, someone’s asking about commissioning a painting of their family’s old fishing cottage. Should I send them over?”
The redirect was obvious but effective. The crowd’s attention shifted from Julian to the possibility of custom work. Emily caught Sally’s wink and felt a surge of gratitude.
“I’d be happy to discuss commissions after the festival.” She surprised herself with how normal she sounded.
Julian stood isolated now, the crowd flowing around him toward the paintings. His face reddened as people continued discussing technique and historical accuracy, their enthusiasm genuine and unforced. He walked over to her and leaned in close. “Enjoy your little moment while you can.”
A man with paint-stained fingers interrupted them. “The way you’ve captured light reflecting off brass. Are you using a glazing technique?”
She turned to the man. “Actually, it’s direct painting, but I work the metallic elements while the base layer is still tacky. It creates a different kind of luminosity.”
The painter nodded eagerly. “Would you mind if I tried something similar? I’ve been struggling with reflective surfaces.”
They talked technique while Julian faded into the background. When she glanced back, he was gone.
At least for now.
“Look at Grant’s sculptures.” Beth’s voice drew Emily’s attention to the corner where Grant had finally agreed to display his new work. A small crowd gathered around the driftwood and metal pieces.
The sculptures were raw and honest, nothing like his sophisticated New York pieces. These spoke of storms weathered, of things broken and reformed. They complemented her paintings in unexpected ways—his three-dimensional interpretations of the same forces she’d captured in paint.
“They’re talking to each other.” The SCAD instructor moved between Grant’s sculptures and her paintings. “Are you two collaborating? These feel like they’re talking to each other.”
Grant caught her eye across the room.
“We didn’t plan it,” she said. “But we’ve been walking the same beaches, watching the same lighthouse.”
The festival sounds washed over her, filled with conversations about art, not scandal, and questions about technique, not accusations. Her work stood on its own merit, speaking its own truth.
As the festival wound down, they headed for the lighthouse for what Emily found out was the annual first night of the Springtide Festival dinner. The cottage residents and friends gathered to celebrate.
Emily stepped into the courtyard, where string lights crisscrossed overhead, their warm glow competing with the sunset painting the Gulf in shades of coral and gold.
She carried a plate of Sally’s famous crab cakes while Winnie directed the placement of tables with the precision of a general organizing troops.
“The beverage station goes there, Clint. No, there. Where people can access it without blocking the garden path.” Winnie’s voice carried affectionate exasperation.
Emily set down the crab cakes and surveyed the growing spread. Jan from Harbor Brew had contributed several thermoses of coffee and her special lemon bars. The Sandpiper had sent over platters of fresh seafood.
Grant appeared at her elbow. “Your paintings sold. All three. The couple from Pensacola bought the storm painting, and a collector from Tampa wants the courtyard scene.”
“And the lighthouse?”
“It sold too.”
Sold. Not just displayed or tolerated, but valued enough that strangers would take them home. Would live with them. “I haven’t sold anything in years.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it.
“Then it’s about time.” His hand found the small of her back, warm and steady.
Melissa emerged from her cottage carrying her camera.
She hesitated at the edge of the courtyard as she often did at gatherings.
Emily caught her eye and waved her over.
“Document this?” Emily gestured at the controlled chaos of setup.
“Winnie’s been organizing this courtyard for decades. It’s its own kind of art.”
Melissa’s shoulders relaxed. Having a purpose always helped.
“The light’s perfect right now. That golden hour glow against the lighthouse.
” As if summoned by the mention of light, the lighthouse beam flickered on.
Still an hour before true darkness, but Winnie always lit it early on celebration nights.
The beam swept across the courtyard, a familiar constant rhythm.
“Speech time.” Sally clinked a spoon against her wine glass. “Winnie, you start.”
“I don’t make speeches.” Winnie smoothed her apron, but Emily caught the pleased flush in her cheeks. “I just want to say how proud I am of our artists today. Grant and Emily both showed work that took courage to create and even more courage to share.”
“To our artists,” someone called out.
“To selling paintings,” Sally added, raising her glass of sweet tea as everyone laughed.
Emily found herself surrounded by faces that had become familiar over the past weeks. Sally, who’d staunchly defended her. Jan, who’d banned Julian from the coffee shop. Clint, who’d offered protection in his gruff way.
“I should thank everyone.” Emily’s words tumbled out. “When I came here, I was just looking for somewhere to hide. But you all gave me something better. A place to belong.”
Winnie reached over and squeezed her hand. “The lighthouse has a way of keeping people here. We just helped it along.”