Chapter Twenty-Two #2
“Sorry to interrupt,” Helen leans in, cheeks flushed with movement. “But I thought you’d want to know, three pieces have already sold.”
My heart skips. “Wait, really?”
She nods. “The seascape with the coral sweep. The shadowed stairway. And the one with the fig trees. Two to that man over there,” she gestures subtly with the edge of her clipboard.
I follow her line of sight to the man I’d seen Jack talking to earlier.
Dinah turns to look as well. “Collector?”
I glance at Jack, but he just takes a sip of his drink.
Helen nods. “A very esteemed one.”
My eyes sting suddenly, which is not what I expected. It’s not like this is my first sale, or even my first show. But this collection means something more to me. It came from somewhere deeper. I blink hard, pretending it’s just the lighting.
“Hi, Noah,” Dinah announces, looking just past me.
I turn just in time for him to sweep me into a hug, lifting me off the floor until my feet dangle.
“Lucy, this is incredible. I’m so proud of you,” he says as he sets me down, his gaze sweeping over the walls.
“Thanks,” I manage, smiling.
Noah nods a hello at Jack, “Hi Jack.”
“Hey man.” Jack meets my eyes again before clapping Noah on the back and excusing himself.
“This house feels like the kind of place where if you set down a glass without a coaster, someone appears out of thin air to scold you.”
I shake my head, laughing. “I think someone would just come and remove it before you even realized it had been taken.”
“I’m glad you came,” I continue.
“Wouldn’t have missed it.” He says and slips his hand over mine for the briefest second. A quiet squeeze. And with all the noise pressing in, I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.
“I’m just going to take a lap,” I say, gesturing toward the hallway. “Check out the other rooms.”
He nods easily. “Go. I’ll be around here.”
I slip away to explore the rest of the house, curious to see where the other artists have been installed.
Each room is its own world, sculptures under spotlights, watercolors pinned in perfect rows, photographs layered with shadows and light.
The chatter changes with each doorway, reshaping from critics to collectors to friends gossiping over cocktails.
I run into Dawn, her mother, and Milly outside the room with the watercolors. We catch up for a few minutes while we discreetly people watch.
I weave down a quieter hallway lined with photographs.
My heels click against the polished floor, the buzz of the party softening with each step.
The walls in this part of the house are lined with Graham’s vintage photographs.
Sunlight on tennis courts, women in wide-brimmed hats, men balancing cocktails by the pool. All glamorous.
One photo catches my eye.
A woman by the pool, her back to the camera.
She’s in a swimsuit, at least the bottom half.
Her top is missing, discarded on the chaise behind her, with a silk scarf knotted around her hair.
She’s turning, at the presumed tail end of a laugh, the curve of her bare shoulders and spine catching the light.
It’s artistic, yes. Elegant. But intimate in a way that makes my skin prickle.
I step closer, my eyes narrowing. The scarf. The gingham-patterned bottoms. I know them.
I’ve seen them before, in another photo. A different version of this day. Only in that one the woman’s in her full bikini, scarf tied in her hair, smiling at the camera, with a wedge of watermelon balanced in her hand.
The room tilts as the connection hits me. It’s Gran. Twenty-something, alive in a different way than I’ve ever seen. And the man behind the camera didn’t just capture a moment. He knew her.
I’ve never heard Graham’s name pass Gran’s lips.
Not once. In all the stories she told me, all the summers and dinners and long walks, he never existed.
And yet here he is, not just present but close enough to capture her like this, close enough to know her body, her ease, the moment just after laughter.
My mind scrambles for logic. A coincidence.
A model. Someone who looked like her. But I know better.
This wasn’t a stranger with a camera. This was someone she trusted, someone she let see her with her guard down.
The realization makes my pulse thrum in my ears.
If Gran had a relationship deep enough to leave this kind of trace and never mentioned it, what else lived quietly in her life.
I steady myself against the wall, the edges of the hallway blurring. This isn’t just art on the wall. It’s a secret hung in plain sight. Deep breaths. In and out. The music and laughter from the main rooms pulse faintly down the hall, tugging me back.
By the time I rejoin the party, my smile is stitched back in place.
I weave toward my room, the air buzzing thicker now with bodies and champagne.
The room is lit with a warm pink cast from the sunset over the bay just outside the windows.
My canvases glow under the spotlights, guests clustered in front of them, murmuring, sipping.
A new pair of journalists huddle by the doorway, one snapping photos of the guests, the other scribbling quick notes.
Helen passes, cheeks flushed with victory. “You’re a hit,” she mouths, brandishing her clipboard like a scorecard before disappearing again.
I catch sight of Allie and her parents still near the center, the three of them radiant with joy. It steadies me. The hum of conversation dips as Graham Vale enters the room. He doesn’t call for silence, but the crowd gives it to him anyway.
“I was told I’d forgotten how to throw a party,” Graham says, his smile dry, “so I thought I’d prove otherwise.” A ripple of laughter. He lifts his glass, glancing at the walls.
“Tonight we celebrate not only the artistic quality of this island, but the artists who keep its spirit alive. Some of us have been coming here for seventy years,” a wince and a chuckle, “and some of us are just beginning to add to its story.”
He continues, his voice warm and measured, “Truth is, I’ve hidden behind my photographs for too long.
Tonight belongs to the artists who still have the courage to stand in front of their work.
These artists remind us why we return to this island.
Their work reflects not only what we see here, the beaches, the gardens, the light, but what we feel here.
The people. The belonging. The possibility. ”
He lifts his glass, his gaze skimming across the crowd before lingering on me. My chest tightens, heat blooming at my collarbone. I raise my own glass, careful not to let it tremble.
Applause breaks out, loud and effusive. A ripple of camera flashes follows as Graham steps aside, swallowed back into the throng. As the crowd exhales back into chatter, I drift toward my friends huddled near the grand piano.
“Can you believe this?” Dawn says. “I almost believed that man was a myth.”
Thomas laughs. “Back in the day this was the house. Champagne pyramids, models by the pool, and more staff than furniture.”
Noah shakes his head. “Feels like stepping into another era.”
I smile, nodding when the conversation tilts toward which island party has ever come close to touching Graham’s.
But my focus keeps drifting, because all I can see, burned behind my eyes, is that photograph in the hallway.
The scarf in Gran’s hair, the intimacy of the moment.
I’d like to go find Graham right now and demand an explanation, but I know it’s a conversation best saved for another time.
I sip my champagne and laugh at the right moments, but the sound feels distant in my ears.
I glance around, and my eyes land on the striking brunette from the Narrows party, the one I had seen with Jack.
She’s across the hall, her arms looped easily around the neck of a man so arrestingly handsome it almost hurts to look at him.
She kisses him full on the mouth, laughing against his lips.
Relief floods me so suddenly it’s ridiculous, even though Jack had already explained. I laugh softly to myself. Silly. I was silly. But I’m lighter now, as though the ground beneath me has settled again.
I turn to head back toward the others when a voice standing a few feet away in front of one of my smaller beach scenes grabs my attention. She tilts her head as she studies the painting for a moment.
“I don’t know why I love it. I just do,” she says to her friend beside her, her voice low but certain. “And that’s the best kind of love.”
I stop. The words hit like a soft echo. My grandmother used to say that.
Exactly that. About songs, about strangers, about dresses on hangers.
She never needed a reason. Just a feeling.
The woman lingers a moment longer, then moves on.
I stand there, watching the place where she’d been. Where my painting still hangs.
And for a second, I wonder if maybe Gran’s still here. Tucked into the brushstrokes. Slipping words into strangers’ mouths.