The question sat there between them. He turned to face his mother. “You don’t know her story.”
“Neither do you. But you’ve already decided what it is, haven’t you? Decided she’s someone who’ll hurt this town the way you were hurt.” She returned to her chair and picked up her book.
“I’m not—” He stopped. “This isn’t about me.”
“Isn’t it? You came home seven years ago with wounds you’ve never discussed. You’ve built a good life here, Grant. A meaningful one. But you’ve also built walls. Very high ones.”
“I’m protecting what matters.”
His mother looked at him over her reading glasses. “Are you? Or are you protecting yourself from potential disappointment? There’s a difference, sweetheart.”
The silence stretched between them. Outside, wind chimes sang in the breeze. His mother’s clock ticked steadily on the mantel.
“She looked at my gallery,” he finally said. “Emily. I saw her outside, watching through the window. She had this expression on her face like she was looking at something she’d lost. Something she wanted but couldn’t have anymore.”
“And that bothers you.”
“It makes me wonder.” He moved back to his chair and sat down heavily. “If she still paints. If she’s given it up entirely or if she’s just hiding. If she’ll ever find the courage to try again after everything that happened.”
His mother smiled. “You’re describing yourself, you know.”
He looked at his mother, this woman who’d raised him to see clearly, to think critically, and to question his own assumptions. “I run a gallery.”
“You support other artists’ work, which is admirable. But it’s not the same as creating your own. When was the last time you made something, Grant? Something that mattered to you?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
“Your father used to say that sometimes we judge others most harshly for the things we fear in ourselves.” His mother stood and kissed the top of his head. “I’m going to bed. Lock up when you leave.”
He sat alone in his mother’s living room for a long time after she climbed the stairs. The house settled around him with familiar creaks and sighs. Through the window, he could see the dark shape of his father’s studio at the back of the property. He hadn’t been inside in months. Maybe longer.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Bryan, his friend who ran The Sandpiper:Friday night and you’re not at the bar. Everything okay?
Grant typed back:At Mom’s. Needed pie.
Ah, well, Margaret’s pie beats out a beer any day.
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and stood. His mother’s words echoed in his mind as he rinsed his plate in the kitchen sink. He locked the front door behind him and stood on the porch for a moment. The night air was cool, carrying the salt-sweet smell of the Gulf. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore.
The lighthouse beam swept across the sky to the north. Steady. Reliable. Warning sailors away from danger.
Or guiding them home.
He climbed into his truck and told himself he’d drive straight back to his apartment. Get some sleep. Stop obsessing over a woman he barely knew and her reasons for coming to Starlight Shores.
But as he pulled out of the driveway, he found himself heading north instead of south. Toward the lighthouse. Just to drive past, he reasoned. Just to see if the lights were still on in Starfish Cottage. Just to check.
The justification felt thin even to him. But Grant made the turn anyway, following the coastal road as it curved toward the peninsula where the Lockhart Lighthouse had stood for more than a century. Guiding lost souls and marking dangerous waters.
Warning people away. Or inviting them closer.
He wasn’t sure which anymore.
Chapter9
Emily stood at the threshold of the studio, her hand resting on the doorframe. Three days had passed since she’d discovered the journal, three days of reading entries, making notes, and sketching architectural details. The easel waited in the corner, its blank canvas catching the morning light streaming through the north-facing windows.
She’d been avoiding it and telling herself she was just documenting the lighthouse’s features for research purposes. She’d insisted the sketches were purely utilitarian and nothing more than a visual record to help solve the mystery of what the lighthouse keepers had really been doing all those years ago.
