The apartment felt too small and too quiet. He stood and walked to the window overlooking Main Street. The shops had closed hours ago. A few streetlights spilled yellow pools on the sidewalk.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass. When had he become this person? Someone who spent Friday evening alone in his apartment, researching a woman he barely knew, looking for reasons to justify his suspicion?
The pottery bowl. He’d left it on her doorstep like some kind of peace offering, then spent the walk home questioning his own motivations. Was it kindness or conscience? An apology for his rudeness or an attempt to maintain the town’s reputation for hospitality?
He turned away from the window.
The truth was more complicated. He’d seen something in Emily’s face at the farmer’s market. When he’d spoken about her talent in the past tense, she’d flinched. Just for a moment. A flash of genuine hurt beneath her polished exterior before she’d raised those defensive walls higher.
He recognized that hurt. Knew it intimately.
He grabbed his keys from the counter. He needed to get out of this apartment and away from his own thoughts. The drive to his mother’s house took less than five minutes. The porch light was on when he pulled into the driveway. She’d be reading in the living room. She always was.
His mother looked up from her book when he let himself in through the front door. “Grant. This is a surprise.”
“Restless.” He crossed to the kitchen. “Thought I’d see if you had any of that pie left.”
“Lemon meringue is in the fridge.” Margaret Stone set her book aside. “Though I suspect you didn’t drive over here at nine o’clock for pie.”
He cut himself a slice and brought it to the living room. His mother waited, patient as always. She had a gift for silence and creating space that invited confession without demanding it.
“I met someone,” he said finally.
His mother’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”
He stabbed his fork into the pie. “Not like that. A woman staying at the lighthouse. Emily Shaw.”
“Winnie’s new tenant. Sally mentioned her at book club. An artist, I heard.”
“A controversial one. She was involved in a scandal in Chicago. Accusations of fraud and taking credit for her mentor’s work.”
“Was she guilty?”
“Legally? No. The investigation cleared her. But the art world wasn’t so forgiving. Her reputation is destroyed. Her marriage ended. She lost her teaching position.”
His mother studied him with those sharp eyes that had always seen too much. “And this concerns you because?”
“Because she’s here now. In Starlight Shores.” He leaned forward. “What if she’s looking for material? A new angle for her career? The lighthouse has historical significance. Winnie’s family story. It could all become fodder for some exhibition or book that brings unwanted attention to the town.”
“Could it? Or are you worried about something else?”
He stood and walked to the bookshelf where photos of his father lined the middle shelf. Jack Stone in his studio, brush in hand. Jack at a local art fair, surrounded by his coastal landscapes. Jack on the beach, collecting driftwood for his sculptures.
“Dad always said the hardest part wasn’t creating the work. It was letting people see it. Letting them judge whether it mattered.”
“Your father was a sensitive man. He felt things deeply. It made his art powerful, but it also made criticism painful.”
He picked up a photo of his father at an exhibition opening. The smile looked strained around the edges. “He never got the recognition he deserved.”
“He got the recognition that mattered to him.” His mother stood and moved to his side. “He was respected here in this community. His work hangs in homes all over town. People treasure what he created.”
“But he could have been more.” The words came out harder than Grant intended. “If he’d been willing to compromise, to play the game just a little bit, to market himself better.”
“Is that what you think? That your father’s integrity was a weakness?”
He set the photo down carefully. “I think the art world chews up people like him. People who care more about the work than the business. People who trust that talent and dedication will be enough.”
“Like Emily Shaw?”
