Chapter 19
Emily picked up the festival flyer Grant had left on her kitchen counter. The Springtide Festival was three days of art, music, and celebration. He’d asked her—multiple times—to display her work for the festival.
But that was three days of being visible. She set the flyer down as if it might bite her.
She’d managed to avoid crowds for weeks now. The farmers’ market was bad enough with its handful of vendors and early morning shoppers. But this? This would be hundreds of people. Maybe thousands.
Stop being dramatic. It’s a small-town festival, not a Chicago gallery opening.
The thought of Chicago made her feel physically ill. She pushed away memories of reporters shoving microphones in her face, gallery patrons whispering behind their hands, and Daniel’s cold announcement that he needed to create distance from the situation.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Grant: No pressure. Just think about it.
Right. No pressure. Just display her work publicly for the first time since her world imploded. What could go wrong?
She grabbed her coffee and headed for the studio. She’d been painting every morning now, losing herself in the work the way she used to. The canvases lined the walls, filled with lighthouses at dawn, the keeper’s quarters, and a seascape with a fiery sunset and a storm brewing in the distance.
They were good. She knew they were good. That terrified her more than if they’d been mediocre.
A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She went to the door, and Winnie stood with a plate of something that smelled like cinnamon.
Winnie held out the plate. “Coffee cake. Made too much for the historical society meeting.”
Emily stepped aside to let her in. Winnie had a way of showing up exactly when Emily’s thoughts turned darkest.
“Grant mentioned the festival exhibition.” Winnie settled at the kitchen table as if she belonged there.
“He did?” Emily cut two slices of coffee cake, buying time.
“It would mean a lot to him if you showed your work.”
“I know. I’m just not sure I’m ready.” The cake was perfect. It was moist and sweet with a crumbly top. Everything Winnie made was perfect.
“Ready for what, exactly?”
“Ready to be that person again. The artist. The one people look at and judge and—”
“The one who makes people stop and look twice?”
“That’s not how it ended last time.”
Winnie didn’t look away. “No. But that’s not how it has to end this time.”
She took another bite of her coffee cake. “What if someone recognizes my name? What if they do an internet search and find all those articles? What if—”
“What if they see your work and feel something true?”
She thought of the paintings in her studio. Each one had come from a real place, an honest place. Not the calculated compositions she’d created in Chicago, always wondering what the critics would say. These were different.
“The festival celebrates our town’s heritage. Your paintings capture something essential about this place. About what it means to keep the light burning.”
“You’re very good at this.”
“At what?”
“Making me feel guilty.”
Winnie laughed. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m trying to help you see that hiding isn’t actually keeping you safe. It’s keeping you stuck.”
Emily walked to the window. The lighthouse stood tall against the morning sky, its white tower catching the light. She’d painted it from every angle, in every weather. She knew the building now. Every crack, every curve, how the light made it change.
“Grant’s taking a risk too. Asking you. He doesn’t invite just anyone to exhibit.”
“I know.” She’d seen his gallery and understood what he was trying to build. A space for authentic work, for artists who captured truth rather than trends. The opposite of everything that had hurt them both.
“One painting. That’s all he’s asking. One painting to test the waters.” Winnie stood, brushing crumbs from her hands.
After Winnie left, Emily returned to her studio. The paintings watched her from the walls. Which one could she bear to let strangers see? The dawn lighthouse, all uncertainty and hope? The keeper’s quarters, heavy with secrets?
Her phone buzzed again. Melissa this time: Heard about the festival. You should do it. We could be terrified together.
She smiled despite herself. Melissa was contributing photographs. It was her first public display since whatever had driven her to hide behind her camera. If Melissa could face her fears...
But Melissa’s name isn’t splashed across the internet with the word fraud attached to it.
She picked up her brush, not to paint but just to hold it. The weight felt right in her hand. Natural. Like it belonged there.
What if Winnie was right? What if hiding wasn’t protecting her but imprisoning her?
Her paintings weren’t just pretty pictures. They were investigations. Documentations. Honest work. The kind that made her nervous. The lighthouse had more stories than even Winnie knew, and Emily was uncovering them one brushstroke at a time.
Maybe that work deserved to be seen. Maybe the community that had sheltered her deserved to know what she’d discovered about their heritage. Maybe—
Maybe you’re overthinking this.
Grant had asked for one painting. One. She could survive one painting in a small-town festival exhibition. She could smile politely at visitors, deflect personal questions, and keep the focus on the work itself. She’d become an expert at deflection these past months.
She pulled out her phone and stared at Grant’s message. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Such a simple response—yes or no—but it felt like signing something legally binding.
She typed before she could change her mind: “One painting. My choice which one. No artist bio.”
His response came quickly: “Perfect. Thank you.”
Three words, but she read relief in them. Maybe even hope. Grant was rebuilding too, in his own way. Maybe that was something.
Emily looked around her studio again. One painting. She could do this.
Couldn’t she?
A few days later, Grant texted again: Thinking more about your work. The lighthouse interior, especially. Would you consider showing three pieces instead of one?
Three. The number made her stomach flip.
She walked into her studio. The lighthouse interior leaned against the wall. Winnie’s tears had validated something Emily hadn’t dared believe. That she could still move people with her work. That she hadn’t lost that essential thing that made her an artist.
The seascape on her easel caught the morning light from the studio window. She’d painted it during a storm, trying to capture how the Gulf looked angry and beautiful at the same time.
Her phone buzzed again: I know it’s a bigger ask. But your work deserves to be seen properly. One painting doesn’t tell a story. Three will.
A story. Is that what she’d been painting?
She moved to another canvas. It was the cottage courtyard at sunset.
She’d captured the residents during one of Winnie’s gatherings.
Not portraits exactly, but suggestions of people finding community.
She’d painted hints of Melissa’s defensive posture as she talked with Clint, Sally’s animated hands as she told some town gossip, and Winnie presiding over it all with quiet authority.
Three paintings would definitely tell a story. The question was whether she wanted that story told.
Emily picked up her phone and typed: Let me think about it.
Then she deleted it.
She typed again: Three feels like a lot.
She tried two more times before finally sending her message: Okay, three.
And somehow, the one painting became three paintings. She couldn’t resist his enthusiasm for her work.