Chapter Twenty-Two
THE NIGHT OF THE SHOW, I ARRIVE AT GRAHAM VALE’S HOME early. Driving Gran’s light blue Jolly through the open gate sends a rush of chills down my body. This is really happening. My debut on Harbour Island. A place that has been as important to me as home. It is home.
The drive curves through a long stretch of manicured lawns and palms lit from below, glowing like stage props.
The house appears slowly, sprawling and low against the horizon.
From the outside it looks almost austere, but the light pouring from its windows lights the whole place up, like it’s been eagerly waiting for visitors all these years.
I park and am greeted by Helen leaning out of the back of a supply van, a stack of red dot stickers in her hand. She’s wearing a long, silk hammered dress that I recognize from Shine, a cute boutique right around the corner from the gallery.
“Lucy, you are stunning in this white dress,” she calls, her voice gleeful. “You’re not going to believe this place. Let’s get some photos of you with your pieces before the crowd starts to flood in.”
I smooth a hand over the dress automatically.
It was Gran’s. I found it in the back of her closet the first week I moved in.
The fabric had yellowed, the seams were tired, but the bones of it were beautiful.
Nanette, the island seamstress, worked her magic, and now it feels like something out of a dream.
Soft, simple, perfectly fitted, like it always belonged to me instead of hanging forgotten.
Wearing it tonight feels like walking into this moment with Gran at my back. Like the best parts of her, her courage, her warmth, her quiet confidence, are stitched into the lining.
I follow Helen through the wide front doors and into an octagonal-shaped entry that could swallow me whole.
Massive blue and white vases bristle with palm fronds and island greenery, and every wall seems to hold a story.
Some are Graham’s iconic prints, others are clearly pulled from his private art collection, and tonight, the pieces from the show.
“Careful not to trip,” Helen says as I slow to take it all in. “This house has that effect. You forget where you’re going.”
We pass through a long hallway lined with white-painted tole palm fronds, as Helen introduces me to the other featured artists in their spaces. At last we enter a long side room, the kind of place meant for games and lingering parties. Helen stops in the doorway, her eyes glittering.
“I put you in here,” she says conspiratorially. “Your paintings against Graham’s photography The sunset light pouring in later. It’ll be magic.”
I step into the room and turn slowly, taking in the spotlit canvases, the way the colors seem to breathe against the backdrop of the room. For a moment I can’t speak.
Helen watches me with satisfaction. “The press is going to eat this up. Graham Vale hasn’t opened his doors in over two decades. He’s practically a ghost. And now? Every national magazine is either here on the island or on standby. His house. His collection. You.” She squeezes my arm.
I swallow, the weight of it all settling in. “But why now? Why is he doing this?”
Helen shrugs. “Who can say? Maybe it’s the art.” She tilts her head, studying one of Graham’s photographs featuring Harbour Island’s famous Lone Tree, a large driftwood that arrived during Hurricane Andrew in 1992. “Or maybe he’s tired of being alone.”
Someone calls her name from down the hall and she slips away, leaving me alone, my heart pounding. I’m still turning slowly in the center of the room, my gaze caught between my canvases and Graham’s stark black and whites, when I feel someone in the doorway.
“Not too shabby at all,” a man’s voice says, warm and low.
I turn, startled, to find him there. Graham Vale. Taller than I expected, though stooped now with age. His hair is white, swept back neatly, his linen jacket hanging loose on his frame. But his eyes are bright and mischievous, as if they’ve seen everything and kept most of it to themselves.
“You must be Lucy.”
I nod quickly, setting my phone down before I drop it. “Yes. And you’re…”
“Old,” he interrupts with a laugh, extending a steady hand. “And apparently hosting parties again. What do you think of that?”
I take his hand, surprised by the strength in it. “I think it’s generous. And unexpected.”
He smiles, glancing around the room. “Ah, I’ve spent too many years hiding behind my own work. It’s good to be reminded that art belongs to the living, not just to the archives.” His gaze drifts back to my paintings. “These sing, you know. Not politely either. They demand.”
The words catch in my chest. “Thank you,” I manage, though it feels inadequate.
He folds his hands behind his back, strolling a few steps into the room. “I first came to this island nearly seventy years ago. Different world then. Fewer tourists. But even then, the light was the same. It’s the most beautiful light in the world. It’s why I never quite managed to stay away.”
I watch him, trying to imagine this elegant man decades younger, camera slung around his neck, chasing sunlit scenes of parties and beaches. I know from photos that he was handsome, and he still carries it. “You’ve been coming back ever since?”
“Every chance I had,” he says, and something soft flickers in his expression. “The island has a way of keeping pieces of you. Sometimes you don’t realize it until you’re here again, standing in front of something, or someone, that reminds you of what you left behind.”
He looks away, back at my painting closest to him, and the mischief returns to his smile. “Now, forgive an old man. I promised Helen I’d make the rounds before this place fills up. But I’m very glad we finally met, Lucy.”
“Me, too,” I say quietly, touched in a way I can’t quite name.
He gives a small bow of his head before slipping back into the hall, leaving me in the golden light, my heart thrumming.
Helen waves me over to the corner where a woman in all black is adjusting her camera lens.
“Lucy, this is Jasmine, the photographer. She’s going to get some shots of you with your work.”
The photographer positions me in front of one of my larger canvases.
“Just stand naturally. Chin down a bit. Perfect.” The shutter clicks in steady rhythm as I shift, smile, laugh when Helen says something ridiculous from off to the side.
For a few minutes it feels like I’ve slipped inside one of Graham’s old photographs, posed but not stiff, caught mid-laugh, distilled into nothing but light and angles.
Once the front doors open, the quiet shatters.
Guests spill into the house, first in a steady trickle, then in waves.
Strangers with glossy hair, tailored clothing, fine jewelry, voices lifting as cocktails appear in hands like magic.
A woman with a press badge leans past me to snap photos of the room.
Another jots in a small leather notebook, eyes flicking between my paintings and the plaques beneath them.
I spot Dinah first, her emerald green skirt trailing like liquid, already charming someone I don’t recognize. Then Sloane sweeps in, sleek in a black one-shouldered dress. She loops her arm through mine with a grin.
“This is incredible, Lucy,” she says, eyes sweeping the room. “It’s your strongest work yet. I’m amazed by you. I’m going to send photos to a few of my art clients.” She squeezes my arm and steps back to take me in. “You’re glowing, by the way.”
“It’s nervous sweat,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
Helen waves me over to meet a couple visiting from Lyford.
I do the rounds. Smile. Shake hands. Thank people I’ve never met for their kind words.
A woman tells me she’s drawn to my use of color.
Someone else says they want to step inside my beach path painting.
It’s thrilling. My cheeks heat as another flash goes off.
Allie, looking statuesque and baby free, is grabbing a puff pastry from a passing tray, her parents on either side of her. They wave me over, her mother pulling me into a strong hug, her father squeezing my hand with genuine pride.
“How does it feel, Lucy?” Allie says, her eyes bright. “It’s like half the island’s here for you.”
I laugh, brushing it off, “I think it’s more likely everyone is here to see this house.”
I gesture around at our beautiful setting, and I notice Jack, standing near one of my canvases, deep in conversation with a well-dressed older man.
He holds his glass loosely, leaning in as the man speaks, then gestures toward my painting.
The small tilt of his smile is unmistakably pride, dangerous in how directly it makes my heart swell.
When he notices me watching, a flicker of amazement crosses his face, then something warmer. He excuses himself and makes his way over.
“Well,” he says, his voice low but teasing, “seems your fan club’s multiplying by the minute.”
“Including you?”
His grin deepens. “I’m the president of your fan club. Always have been.”
The way he says it makes my heart flutter. I nudge him lightly with my shoulder. “Don’t let the champagne go to your head.”
“Too late,” he murmurs, his eyes steady on mine.
He leans in, close enough that I catch the faintest trace of his cologne. “You deserve this night, Luce.”
“Literally everyone is here,” Dinah interrupts as she materializes next to us with a Rum Dum in hand.
“I saw our old surf instructor, Sam. Remember how cute we thought he was? And the guy who fixed our water fountain last summer is over by the bar. And I’m ninety nine percent sure that woman with the scowl over there by the window is that old lady Heim who used to chase us off Grandfather’s Beach. ”
I follow her gaze, my laugh coming hard at the memory. “Oh my God that is her. I could never forget that scowl.”
Dinah straightens her skirt, already angling a step in that direction, mischief glinting in her eyes. “Want me to chase her out?”