“Same.” She glanced toward the fire pit, where Winnie and Clint continued their cleanup routine. “Though I think we might have been the only ones feeling that way.”
“Probably. Everyone else seemed perfectly comfortable.”
“Maybe they’ve had more practice.”
Melissa picked up her empty water bottle. “Or maybe they’re better at pretending. Either way, we survived.”
“We did.” She felt a slight shift. “Does it get easier? The gatherings, I mean.”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been here a few months, and I still feel like an outsider most of the time. I rarely come to these get-togethers.” She paused. “But Winnie keeps inviting me anyway. I think she’s either incredibly patient or incredibly stubborn.”
“Both, probably.”
“Definitely both.” Melissa laughed. “I should go. Early morning shoot tomorrow if the light cooperates.”
“Good luck with it.”
Melissa nodded and headed toward Captain’s Watch. Emily watched her go, then realized she was truly the last guest remaining. Winnie and Clint had finished their cleanup and were talking quietly near the fire pit, their voices too low to hear, but their body language was relaxed and familiar.
“Emily.” Winnie’s voice carried across the courtyard. “Don’t you dare leave without taking some leftovers.”
Emily crossed to where Winnie stood holding a container already packed with food. “You don’t have to?—”
“I absolutely do. Otherwise, Clint will eat nothing but Sally’s dip for the next three days, and I refuse to enable that kind of behavior.” Winnie pressed the container into Emily’s hands. “Besides, I saw how little you ate tonight. You need proper fuel.”
“Thank you.” She accepted the offering. “And thank you for inviting me. It was... nice.”
“You’re welcome anytime. Same time next week?”
She hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Same time next week.”
She walked back to Starfish Cottage with the container of leftovers and paused at her door to glance back at the courtyard. Winnie and Clint still stood near the dying fire, their conversation unhurried and easy. The string lights emitted a warm glow over the space, making it look like something from a painting.
She’d survived her first community gathering. More than survived. She’d actually connected with Melissa, however tentatively. She’d managed polite conversation with Sally and hadn’t completely fallen apart when Winnie introduced her to the group.
Maybe staying here wasn’t impossible after all.
She unlocked her door and stepped inside, setting the container on the small kitchen counter. The cottage felt less like a hiding place than it had that morning. Less like a temporary refuge and more like... what? She wasn’t ready to call it home. But maybe somewhere she could breathe for a while.
Chapter8
Grant stared at his laptop screen, the glow harsh in the dim light of his apartment above the gallery. The article headline read: “Protégé or Predator? Emily Shaw and the Franklin Holloway Controversy.” He’d been reading for over an hour now, clicking through links, following threads deeper into the story he’d only known in fragments.
He scrolled through another opinion piece, this one from an art critic who’d known Holloway personally. The writer defended Emily with passionate conviction.
He leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked beneath him.
He’d told himself this was research. Due diligence. The kind of thing any responsible community member would do when a stranger with a controversial past showed up in town. But the truth poked at him. He’d been searching for ammunition and evidence to support his initial wariness. Something concrete to justify the knot of unease that had settled in his gut the moment he’d recognized her at the farmer’s market.
The problem was, the more he read, the less certain he became.
Some articles painted Emily as calculating and opportunistic. A woman who’d positioned herself perfectly to capitalize on a dying man’s final creative burst. Others portrayed her as a scapegoat, someone caught in the crossfire of family disputes and art world politics that had nothing to do with her actual conduct.
The legal investigation had cleared her. That fact appeared in nearly every article, though some writers dismissed it with phrases like “technically cleared” or “no criminal charges filed,” as if the absence of prosecution proved nothing about innocence.
Grant knew that dance. The way people could acknowledge your vindication while still treating you as guilty. The way a cleared name didn’t necessarily clear a reputation.
He closed the laptop harder than necessary.
