Chapter 16
Emily arrived at Harbor Brew with paint still under her fingernails. She’d scrubbed them twice, but the ultramarine blue had already set. At least her hair looked decent after she’d twisted it into a French braid.
Grant had claimed a corner table away from the morning rush. He stood when she approached, a gesture that caught her off guard. When was the last time someone had stood for her? Daniel never had.
“Thanks for coming.” He pulled out her chair.
“Thanks for asking.” She settled into the seat while he signaled the server.
The coffee shop was busy with the morning crowd.
Locals chatted at nearby tables, their conversations mixing with the espresso machine’s hiss.
Photos of the town taken over the years covered the walls, and a community bulletin board overflowed with colorful flyers.
The whole place felt lived-in and welcoming.
Jan came over and smiled at Emily. “Welcome back. Hope you’re adjusting to life in Starlight Shores.”
“I am. Thank you.”
“What can I get you?”
“Just a cappuccino. Thanks.”
“And I’ll have coffee. Black,” Grant added.
“Be back in a flash.”
For a moment, they sat in awkward silence. She traced a pattern in the grain of the wooden table, wondering why she’d agreed to this. She’d come to Starlight Shores to be alone, not to have coffee with attractive gallery owners who made her nervous.
Jan brought their coffee, breaking the awkward silence. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup and inhaled the rich aroma. Grant did the same, and she noticed his fingers were stained too. Not with paint, but with the kind of ink that came from handling newspapers and documents.
“You’ve been researching,” she observed.
He glanced at his hands and grimaced. “Old habit. I still read multiple newspapers every morning. Can’t seem to switch to digital.”
“Physical newspapers?”
“Three of them. Local, regional, and the Times. My ex used to complain about the mess.”
The mention of his ex created an opening. Emily wasn’t sure she wanted to take it, but curiosity won. “How long were you married?”
“Never made it that far. We were together four years, engaged for the last one.” His jaw tightened. “She was a curator. Miranda Keller. Maybe you knew her?”
She searched her memory. “The name sounds familiar. Tall brunette? Very polished?”
“That’s her.” His laugh held no humor. “We met at a gallery opening in Brooklyn. She seemed to get what I was trying to do with my art. Encouraged me to push boundaries and take risks.”
He paused to sip his coffee. She waited, recognizing the look of someone deciding how much truth to share.
“We opened a gallery together,” he continued. “Put everything I had into it. Money, time, and creative energy. I thought we were building something meaningful, supporting emerging artists, and creating a space for experimental work.”
“What happened?”
“She happened.” The bitterness crept into his voice. “I discovered she’d been negotiating to sell our gallery to a Manhattan dealer. Had been for months. Positioning herself for a big curator position while planning to leave me behind.”
“She betrayed you.”
“Completely. But the worst part?” He met her eyes. “She told me my work was too regional. Too limited for the New York market. That I was holding her back from real success.”
She winced. How many times had she heard similar dismissals? Your work is derivative. You’re riding on Franklin’s reputation. You don’t have your own voice.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, but tension remained in his shoulders. “I came home after that. Opened this gallery to do things differently. Support local artists without the politics and exploitation.”
“But you stopped creating your own work.”
His hands stilled on his cup. “I have.”
“I recognize the look. The way you watch me paint. Like you’re hungry for something you won’t let yourself have.”
Silence stretched between them. She worried she’d overstepped, but Grant finally nodded.
“Seven years,” he admitted. “Haven’t touched my tools in seven years.”
“Why?”
“Because what if she was right? What if my work really is limited and regional and not worth anything beyond this small town?”
The raw honesty in his question made her pause. She knew that fear intimately. It lived in her bones and whispered in her ear every time she picked up a brush. “Can I tell you something?”
He nodded.
“When Franklin was dying, his son Julian accused me of manipulating him. Said I was stealing his father’s legacy and passing off my work as Franklin’s. My husband believed him. Daniel left me in the middle of the scandal because he didn’t want it to affect his academic career.”
“I’m sorry, Emily.”
“The investigation cleared me. I had documentation, contracts, and Franklin’s own written wishes. But it didn’t matter. The art world had already decided I was guilty.” She managed a bitter smile. “Apparently, it made a better story than the truth.”
“What was the truth?”
She traced the rim of her cup. “Franklin asked me to help finish his final series. We worked together until he couldn’t hold a brush anymore. Completing those paintings was the hardest thing I’d ever done because every stroke reminded me I was losing him.”
Her voice cracked on the last words. He reached across the table, not quite touching her hand but close enough that she felt the warmth.
“That’s why you stopped painting?” he asked.
“Every time I picked up a brush, I heard Julian’s voice calling me a fraud. Heard Daniel saying my reputation was toxic.” She met Grant’s eyes. “So I ran. Came here thinking I could hide from all of it.”
“Is it working?”
“No.” The admission surprised her with its simplicity. “Because you can’t hide from yourself. And I’m still an artist, even when I’m terrified to create.”
Grant turned his cup in slow circles. “Miranda told me supporting other artists was noble but ultimately empty if I wasn’t creating myself. I told myself she was wrong. That running the gallery was enough.”
“Is it?”
“No.” He echoed her honesty. “It’s necessary and meaningful, but it’s not enough. I miss making things. Miss the physical work of creating. Miss discovering what I’m trying to say through the process of creating.”
She understood completely. Teaching art had been rewarding, but it couldn’t replace the essential need to create. That drive lived deeper than career or reputation.
“You know what the worst part is?” He continued. “I’ve turned the gallery into my identity. The noble defender of local art against commercial corruption. But really, I’m just scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of trying again, failing, and proving Miranda right. Or discovering I really don’t have anything important to say.”
She reached over and covered his hand. “But what if she was wrong? What if your work matters precisely because it’s rooted in this place and these people?”
He studied her face. “You don’t think commercial success corrupts artistic vision?”
“I think that’s a false choice. Franklin was commercially successful and still created profound work. The problem isn’t success. It’s when success becomes the only measure of value.”
“I’ve been pretty rigid about it, haven’t I?”
“We all build walls where we’ve been hurt. I’ve built plenty of my own.” She pulled her hand back and wrapped it around her coffee.
They sat quietly while the coffee shop bustled around them. She felt something shifting between them. Not attraction exactly, though that hummed beneath the surface. More like recognition.
“Would you like to see something?” Grant asked suddenly.
“What?”
“My dad’s studio. Where I used to work before...” He gestured vaguely. “Before everything.”
She understood the enormity of this invitation. Studios were sacred spaces, especially abandoned ones.
“Are you sure?”
“No.” His honesty made her smile. “But I’d like to show you anyway. If you’re interested.”
She was interested. More than she should be. But sitting here with Grant, sharing their parallel wounds, she felt less alone than she had in years.
“I’d like that.”
His smile transformed his face. For a moment, she glimpsed the artist he’d been before disappointment hardened him.
“Fair warning,” he said as they stood. “I haven’t been there in months. It might be a mess.”
“I don’t mind a mess. And thank you for telling me. You know, about Miranda and the gallery and everything.”
“Thank you for listening. And for sharing your story too.” He placed his hand gently on her back and led her to the door.