Chapter 28
The last day of the festival, Emily’s hands trembled slightly as she arranged her notes at the panel table. The festival tent buzzed with conversation. She’d agreed to this discussion about “Art and Community” weeks ago, before Julian’s threats and before she knew he’d follow her here.
“Our next question comes from the audience.” The moderator scanned the raised hands.
Julian stood in the third row. Of course he did.
“I’d like to ask Ms. Shaw about artistic integrity. Specifically about artists who exploit dying mentors for personal gain.” His voice carried that familiar edge of righteousness.
The tent went silent. Her breath caught, but she kept her eyes on Julian. No more running. No more letting him control the narrative.
“Are you asking about my work with your father, Julian? Because I’d be happy to discuss that.” She kept her voice steady.
His jaw clenched. “I’m asking about fraud. About signing your name to another artist’s work.”
Grant shifted in his chair beside her. She touched his arm lightly.
This was her fight. “Your father asked me to complete three paintings in his final months.” Emily pulled Margaret’s folder from her bag.
“I have his written request here, along with documentation of every session we worked together.”
“You manipulated a dying man—”
“I was teaching full-time.” She opened the folder. “These are my class schedules, faculty meeting attendance records, and even parking receipts. I spent exactly twelve documented sessions with Franklin, all at his request.”
Julian’s face flushed. “You can’t prove—”
“I have his written request. It’s—here.” She fumbled with the folder. “And documentation. I can prove everything. Including the fact that you first accused me of fraud six months after your father’s death. Right after learning his final works had increased in value.”
Murmurs rippled through the audience. She saw Sally in the front row, nodding encouragement.
“You’re twisting this—”
“Your father wrote to the Art Institute three months before he died.” Her voice gained strength. “He specifically requested I complete his work. He outlined exactly what he wanted done. You received copies of all estate documents. You knew about this letter.”
Julian’s mouth opened and closed.
“You knew I was doing exactly what Franklin asked. You knew, and you destroyed my life anyway. Not because you cared about artistic integrity, but because you were angry. Angry that your father chose to spend his final months with me instead of you.”
“You don’t know anything about my relationship with my father.”
The pain in his voice almost made her falter. Almost.
“I know Franklin talked about you constantly.” She softened her tone. “He kept every article about your business success. He understood why you couldn’t visit more. The distance, your work—”
“Stop.” Julian’s voice cracked.
“He loved you. He was proud of you. He kept a photo of you on his easel. Did you know that?”
Julian’s hands clenched at his sides. The audience had gone completely quiet.
“He asked me to finish those paintings because his hands couldn’t hold a brush anymore. Because he wanted his final vision completed. I did my best to honor that. I’m sorry you weren’t there. I’m sorry you feel excluded from his final months. But that’s not my fault.” She set down the folder.
“You had no right—”
“I had every right.” Her voice stayed calm. “Your father gave me that right. And I won’t apologize for helping him anymore.”
Someone in the audience started clapping. Then another. The sound built slowly, spreading through the tent.
Julian’s face twisted. “This isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is.” Grant stood beside her. “You’ve harassed Emily in multiple states now. If you contact her again, we’ll file charges.”
“We?” Julian’s laugh had a bitter edge. “Let me guess. Another man fooled by her act.”
“No. A man who recognizes truth when he sees it. Who knows what it costs to create authentic work. And who won’t let bullies destroy good people.”
More applause. Emily saw Winnie near the tent entrance, arms crossed, looking like she’d bet money on this exact outcome.
“You want to talk about exploitation?” An older woman stood in the fifth row. “My gallery dropped me after anonymous complaints about what they called my controversial work. Turned out to be a rival artist. These baseless accusations happen all the time.”
“My nephew lost his teaching position over fabricated plagiarism charges.” A man called out. “The truth came out eventually, but the damage was done.”
“That’s—yes, these are important issues, but perhaps we should—” The moderator leaned into her microphone.
Julian backed toward the aisle. His grand confrontation had become something else entirely. A conversation about false accusations. About the cost of public shaming. About community support versus mob mentality.
“Julian,” Emily called after him. He paused but didn’t turn. “Your father’s last painting. The sunset over water. He said it reminded him of a fishing trip you took together when you were twelve. He talked about that day all the time.”
Julian’s shoulders sagged. Then he was gone, pushing out of the tent into the afternoon sun, disappearing into the crowd.
Emily’s legs buckled. She dropped into her chair, hands shaking now that the adrenaline was draining away. Not from fear, but from finally saying it all out loud.
The moderator was saying something about taking a break. People were standing, talking in clusters. The tent buzzed with energy, but it felt distant. Muffled.
“You okay?” Grant’s hand found hers under the table, and his thumb brushed across her knuckles.
She squeezed his fingers and tried to answer, but no words came out.
“Come on.” Grant stood, still holding her hand, and guided her toward the side exit of the tent.
Outside, a kid was screaming about dropped ice cream. Normal festival chaos. Grant led her around the back to an alley between buildings, away from the crowds and the glaring sun. She leaned against the side of a building and sucked in deep breaths.
“Hey.” Grant stepped in front of her. “You with me?”
She nodded, still not trusting her voice.
“That was incredible.” His hands came up to her shoulders, steady and warm. “What you did in there. Standing up to him. Emily, that was—”
“I was so scared.” The words came out shaky. She laughed, but it sounded wrong.
“You didn’t look scared. You looked fearless.”
“I was terrified.” She met his eyes finally. “But I was so tired of being afraid. So tired of letting him make me small.”
Grant’s hands slid down her arms. He didn’t let go. “You’re not small. You never were.”
“I…” The words just wouldn’t come to her.
He reached over and tilted up her face. “Emily. Look at me.”
She did. His blue eyes were intense, certain.
“You are one of the most talented artists I’ve ever met. Your work has emotion and depth that most people spend their whole lives trying to achieve. Franklin saw that. I see it. Everyone who sees your paintings sees it.”
She looked directly into his eyes. “You stayed.” The words came out before she could stop them. “In there. You stayed beside me.”
Grant’s expression softened. “Of course I stayed.”
“Daniel didn’t. The scandal hit, and he filed for divorce within a month.
Said he couldn’t be associated with that kind of controversy.
That he had an image to protect.” The bitterness in her voice surprised her.
“He didn’t even ask if it was true. He just assumed I’d done something wrong and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. ”
Grant’s jaw tightened. “Then he’s a fool.”
“Maybe. But I thought... I guess I thought that’s what people do. When things get hard. When staying gets complicated.”
“Some people.” Grant’s hands were still on her face, his gaze holding hers. “Not me.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why stay? Why defend me? This could hurt your gallery. Your reputation. Why risk it?”
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing a line across her cheekbones. “Because you got knocked down and you got back up. And you’re still painting. That’s—” He shook his head. “That’s not nothing.”
“Grant—”
“And maybe because I’m a little bit in love with the way you look at the ocean when you paint.
Like you’re having a conversation with it.
” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Or the way you argue with me about composition. Or how you defend Melissa when you think someone’s being dismissive of her work. ”
“You can’t—”
“Can’t what? Notice you? Care about you?” He leaned closer. “Too late.”
She should probably say something. Do something other than stare at him like she’d forgotten how words worked.
“I’m a mess,” she finally managed. “I’m still figuring out who I am after everything. I don’t know if I’m ready for—”
“I’m not asking you to be ready. I’m just asking you to stop thinking you have to do this alone.”
She exhaled. Actually exhaled, like she’d been holding her breath for months. “I found my voice again today.”
“I heard.” Pride filled his expression. “You were magnificent.”
She looked down at their joined hands. His nails had paint under them. Cadmium yellow, maybe. She focused on that instead of looking at his face.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For being there. For believing me.”
“Always.” He said it like a promise.
People were starting to drift around on the street. The break was probably ending soon. Real life returning. But standing here with Grant’s hand in hers, Emily felt hope sweep through her. She felt good. Suspiciously good. The kind of good that used to scare her.
“We should go back,” she said, but she didn’t move.
“Probably.” Grant didn’t move either.
She smiled. “I have another panel in twenty minutes.”
“Then we have nineteen minutes.”
“To do what?”
He grinned. “Oh, I have plans for those nineteen minutes.”
He leaned down then and kissed her gently. When he finally pulled back, she grinned up at him. “You make the best plans.”
His lips curved into a wide smile. “I do, don’t I?”