Chapter 3 #2
Her attention snapped to the man in front of her.
He was tall, probably a few inches over six feet, with dark hair touched with silver at the temples.
He wore shorts and a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing tanned forearms. There was something solid and capable about him, and he stood with easy confidence in a space he clearly knew well.
He turned slightly as he reached for his wallet, and their eyes met.
The impact was immediate and unexpected. His eyes were a deep blue-gray, intelligent and assessing. For a moment, something flickered between them. Recognition? Attraction?
Then his expression shifted, a subtle closing off that she recognized all too well. His gaze sharpened with what looked like wariness, maybe even suspicion. He knew who she was. Somehow, he knew.
Or there was always the possibility she was imagining it…
“Here you go, Grant.” The woman—Jan, if her name tag wasn’t lying—handed him his coffee and scone.
“Thanks, Jan.” He nodded politely to Emily, a gesture of acknowledgment that felt more like dismissal, and headed for the door.
She watched him leave, her heart still racing. Whatever warmth she’d glimpsed in that first moment had vanished, replaced by the cool distance of someone who’d already decided what to think of her.
Well, at least he was efficient about it. He’d managed it in under five seconds. That had to be some kind of record.
“What can I get you?” Jan’s friendly voice pulled Emily back to the present.
“Large coffee, black, please. And… one of those cranberry scones?”
“You’re in luck. I’ve got one cranberry scone left.” Jan reached for a bag. “You visiting for a bit?”
“Yes, staying at the Lighthouse Cottages.” She managed a smile, wondering if everyone in Starlight Shores was going to ask her about her business.
“Winnie’s place is wonderful. Such a special property.” Jan smiled as she got the order ready.
She paid and took her coffee and scone, grateful for something to hold. She should leave, go back to the cottage where she could be alone. She stepped outside, where she could see the man from the coffee shop walking down the street. Grant. Jan had called him Grant.
He moved with purpose, carrying his coffee and the bag with his scone, and heading toward a building near the end of the block. She stepped outside and followed at a distance, telling herself she was just exploring the town, not trailing a stranger who’d looked at her with such immediate wariness.
Stone’s Gallery. The sign was elegant but understated, much like the building itself. A renovated warehouse with large windows and exposed brick. Through the glass, Emily could see white walls displaying paintings and sculptures, carefully curated and beautifully lit.
She stopped across the street, sipping her coffee and studying the gallery.
He moved inside the gallery with the confidence of ownership, setting down his coffee before approaching a large canvas leaning against the wall.
She watched as he carefully lifted it, studying the painting from different angles before positioning it on the wall.
His movements were precise and deliberate, the actions of someone who understood exactly how to showcase art to its best advantage. This was his gallery, then?
Despite herself, she felt drawn to the scene. There was something in the way he handled the artwork with reverence and care that spoke to a deep appreciation for the creative process. He adjusted the painting minutely, stepped back to assess it, then made another small correction.
She missed this. The ache of it surprised her. The world of galleries and exhibitions, the careful curation of work, and the anticipation of sharing art with people who understood it. She’d lost all of that along with her reputation.
Grant turned suddenly toward the window, as if sensing her watching him. She spun away quickly and walked in the opposite direction.
Silly. She was being silly, standing there staring into a stranger’s gallery like some kind of stalker. What did she expect to find? Answers? Acceptance? Neither of those things waited for her in Starlight Shores or anywhere else.
She made it back to her car, slipped inside, and sat for a moment with her hands on the steering wheel.
The morning’s expedition had been more draining than a simple supply run should have been.
The curious looks, the whispered comments, and the way Grant had looked at her with that flash of recognition, followed by immediate withdrawal, were all too familiar, too reminiscent of the past months when she’d become an outcast in her own professional community.
As if mocking her, her phone dinged with a text message from an unknown number: Urgent. Open immediately.
She blocked the number, started the car, and drove back toward the lighthouse, fighting the urge to just keep driving until she hit a state line, then another one.
But she had nowhere else to go. Her savings were limited, and her options even more so.
The cottage represented the closest thing she had to a refuge.
The lighthouse came into view as she rounded the last curve, its white tower stark against the blue sky. Something about its solid presence steadied her. It had stood there for over a century. That counted for something.
Maybe that was enough for now. A place to stay, a roof over her head, and the promise that no one would demand more from her than she could give. Winnie had said privacy was respected at the lighthouse. She desperately hoped that was true.
She parked in the parking lot and carried her groceries inside, grateful not to encounter anyone in the courtyard. The cottage welcomed her with its quiet simplicity. She put away her supplies, placed her scone on a small plate, and settled onto the small sofa.
Through the window, she could see the edge of the courtyard, and beyond it, the lighthouse tower.
The lighthouse that attracted artists and other lost souls, according to Winnie.
She wasn’t sure she qualified as either anymore.
She’d been an artist once, before everything fell apart.
Now she was just someone trying to survive each day without falling completely apart. Okay, maybe the lost soul part fit her.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her lawyer. She ignored it. Whatever news he had could wait. Everything could wait.
She closed her eyes and listened to the distant sound of waves. In Chicago, she’d lived with the constant noise of traffic, sirens, and the elevated train rattling past her apartment. Here, the silence was broken only by the sounds of the wind, waves, and seabirds calling.
She’d have to get used to it. This was her life now, at least for the foreseeable future. A small cottage, a small town, and the growing certainty that she couldn’t hide from her past, no matter how far she ran.
The image of Grant’s face flashed through her mind. That moment of connection was followed by immediate retreat. She wondered what he’d heard about her, what version of her story had reached this small Gulf Coast town. Probably the worst version, the one that painted her as a fraud and a thief.
She opened her eyes and stared at the locked studio door. It could wait.