Chapter 25
Emily folded another shirt and placed it in her suitcase. The familiar motion brought no comfort. How many times had she packed like this? Running from Chicago and the whispers and stares. Running from herself.
Her hands shook as she reached for her paint-stained jeans. The ones she’d worn that first morning on the beach when she’d finally found the courage to paint again. Just weeks ago, though it felt like a lifetime.
A knock at the door made her freeze.
“Emily? It’s Winnie.”
Of course it was. Winnie seemed to have a radar for when her tenants needed her most. Emily considered not answering, but that felt cowardly. More cowardly than running, somehow.
She opened the door. Winnie stood there with no tea tray, no muffins, no pretense of a casual visit. Just those sharp green eyes that saw too much.
“Going somewhere?”
Emily let her in. “I have to. Julian won’t stop. He’ll destroy Grant’s gallery, turn the whole town against me—”
“The whole town? Or just the frightened parts of it?”
“Does it matter? Grant already lost half his artists because of me.”
“Because of their own fear. There’s a difference.”
Emily perched on the couch’s edge, ready to bolt even in her own space. Winnie settled beside her.
“You know that my ancestors were sometimes very secretive, right?”
She nodded. There was always more to Winnie’s stories.
“The town council didn’t know the truth but wanted my grandfather removed as lighthouse keeper.
Said he was bringing shame to Starlight Shores, making them all look like criminals.
” Winnie smiled. “My grandmother told them if they removed Henry, they’d have to find another keeper willing to work for the pittance they paid.
In a storm. In the dark. While they sat safe in their warm houses. ”
“What happened?”
Winnie took Emily’s hand. “Nothing. Because when push came to shove, they needed the lighthouse more than they needed their righteousness. The point is, they backed down.”
“This is different. I might actually have—”
“What? Learned from your mentor? Used techniques he taught you? Since when is that theft? Every artist builds on what came before. Every lighthouse keeper learned from the one who held the post before them.”
A rapid knock interrupted them. Emily opened the door to find Melissa, camera bag slung over her shoulder.
“Good, you’re still here.” Melissa pushed past her. “I thought you might rabbit.”
“I’m not rabbiting. I’m making a strategic retreat.”
“Well, that man at Harbor Brew was a jerk. Don’t let him get to you.” Melissa nodded toward the open suitcase. “You should stay. Stand up to the bully.”
Another knock. Sally Morris entered without waiting for permission, followed by Clint.
“Good gracious, it’s like Grand Central in here.” Sally surveyed the half-packed suitcase with obvious disapproval. “You’re not letting that awful man run you out of town.”
“I’m trying to protect—”
“Yourself?” Sally snorted. “Honey, I hid from my first husband’s family for six years. Know what it got me? An ulcer and a twitch.”
“No, I’m trying to protect Grant and his gallery and the artists here.”
“I think you should take a stand. Bullies like that Julian fellow need to be taught a lesson.” Sally shook her head. “And Grant is a big boy. He’ll figure out what to do about his gallery.”
Clint stood awkwardly by the door. He finally cleared his throat. “Sally’s right. About taking a stand.”
Everyone turned to stare. Clint rarely spoke, let alone offered opinions on personal matters.
“That Holloway guy is like the developers. Throwing weight around. Trying to force his version of truth on everyone.” He met Emily’s gaze.
“You stay and fight, I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you on the property. ”
She blinked back tears. Clint, who barely tolerated anyone, was offering protection.
Sally pulled out her phone. “I have lawyer friends in Tallahassee. One specializes in defamation cases. Shut down three similar harassment campaigns last year.”
“But the festival—”
“Will go on.” Winnie stood. “With you or without you. But I’d prefer it with you. Those paintings deserve to be seen.”
“Grant’s gallery—”
“Will survive. He’s tougher than you think.” Winnie moved to the door. “The question is, are you?”
They filed out, leaving Emily alone with her half-packed life. She sank onto the couch. Her phone buzzed with texts.
Beth from the gallery offering support: Don’t listen to the naysayers. Your work is remarkable and stands on its own merit. Don’t let them chase you out of town. I’m on your side.
Jan from Harbor Brew: Free coffee tomorrow morning. My treat. That awful man isn’t welcome in my shop again.
When had she gained so many allies?
She looked around the cottage that had become home. The shells lining her windowsill. The sketchbooks scattered on every surface. The studio door standing open, no longer locked against her fears.
This wasn’t Chicago. She wasn’t sure when that had started to matter.
Her suitcase mocked her. How easy to zip it shut. Disappear. Start over somewhere else where Julian couldn’t find her.
Except she’d already started over. Here. With paint-stained hands, tentative friendships, and walls that were finally coming down.
A car door slammed outside. Footsteps pounded up her path. Grant burst through her unlocked door, chest heaving.
“No. You can’t leave.”
She stood slowly and studied his panicked face. His hair was wilder than usual. Paint smudged his shirt.
“You’re too late.”
“Emily—”
“No, you’re too late to convince me to stay.” She gestured around the room at the abandoned suitcase and the unpacked clothes. “Winnie and so many people in town already have.”
Understanding flashed across his face. He crossed the room in two strides and scooped her up, twirling her around. Her startled laugh echoed off the walls.
“You’re staying.” Not a question. Pure relief.
“I’m staying.” Her feet found the floor again, but his arms remained around her. “Julian can do his worst. I’m tired of running.”
“Good.” Grant pulled back enough to see her face. “Because I already told the remaining artists you have the prime spot at the festival. Would’ve been awkward to explain your empty wall space.”
“Always so practical.”
“Someone has to be.” His thumb brushed her cheek. “You artists are all emotion and impulsive.”
“Says the man who just burst through my door.”
“I knocked. Mostly.”
“You didn’t.”
“I thought about knocking.”
She laughed again. When had laughter become so easy? “Thank you. For defending me at Harbor Brew. And today, when you had a bit of an artists’ mutiny.”
“Thank you for staying. For being brave enough to fight.”
“I’m not brave.”
“No?” Grant tilted his head. “Then what do you call this?”
“Tired of being afraid.” She leaned into his warmth. “Winnie said sometimes we need to take a stand.”
“Wise woman.”
“The wisest.” Emily looked up at him. “Kiss me?”
His lips met hers. Gentle. Sure. Outside, a car passed on the coastal road. The suitcase sat open on the floor, already looking like it belonged to someone else.