But the lie was wearing thin.
Emily pushed away from the doorframe and crossed to the worktable where her sketches lay scattered across the surface. She’d drawn the lighthouse from multiple angles, capturing the curve of the tower, the details of the keeper’s cottage, and the way the gallery railing wrapped around the light chamber. Her pencil had found the rhythm of curved lines and shaded textures without conscious thought.
She picked up the sketch she’d made yesterday. The proportions were good. Better than good, actually. Her art historian training had kicked in, noting architectural details and structural relationships. The shading suggested more than she’d intended.
The way she’d shaded the lighthouse’s base suggested not just form but weight, permanence, and endurance. The sketched clouds weren’t mere background but active elements, their movement implied through careful cross-hatching. She’d even added the sea grass bending in an imagined breeze, though such details served no documentary purpose whatsoever.
She set the sketch down and turned to face the easel.
Just rough it out, she told herself. A quick study to see how the lighthouse’s form translates to canvas. Nothing serious. Nothing that counts.
She selected a canvas from the stack that had been left in the studio. She picked a medium-sized one, not so large that it felt like a commitment, and not so small that it seemed precious. The familiarity of it felt both comforting and dangerous in her hands.
Before she could second-guess herself, she positioned the canvas on the easel and stepped back. Her heart was beating too fast. This was ridiculous. She’d painted hundreds of canvases over the years. Thousands, probably. Why did this one feel so monumental?
Because the last time you cared about your work, it destroyed you.
She shook her head, dismissing the thought. She wasn’t going to care about this. It was just a study. Just a way to better understand the lighthouse’s structure for the journal investigation.
She selected a charcoal pencil and approached the canvas.
The first line felt wrong. It was too tentative, too careful. She wiped it away with her thumb and started again. This time, she let her hand move with more confidence, blocking in the lighthouse’s basic form with quick, assured strokes. The tower rose from the canvas as its cylindrical shape took form through the interplay of light and shadow.
She settled into the familiar rhythm of creation. The lighthouse emerged from white canvas like something surfacing from fog, its shape becoming more solid with each addition.
She lost track of time as she worked. She finally unpacked from the box that she’d kept tucked away in the corner, and the charcoal sketch became the foundation for paint.
She found herself mixing colors on the palette without consciously deciding to do so. White with just a hint of yellow ochre for the lighthouse’s sun-warmed walls. Cerulean blue deepened with ultramarine for the morning sky. The familiar smell of the paint surrounded her as she loaded her brush.
The first brushstroke of paint on canvas sent a shock through her. She paused, brush hovering in midair, waiting for the panic to hit. Waiting for the voice that would tell her she had no right to create anything and that she was a fraud.
But the voice didn’t come. Instead, there was only the lighthouse taking shape beneath her brush, the morning light streaming through the studio windows, and the distant sound of waves against the shore.
She kept painting.
She added atmospheric details almost unconsciously. The way the morning light hit the lighthouse lens, creating a bright spot of reflected sun that she rendered with strokes of titanium white tinged with cadmium yellow. The texture of the tower’s walls, where generations of salt air had weathered the surface into something both smooth and rough at once. The movement of sea grass in coastal breezes, each blade painted with quick, confident flicks of her brush.
These additions happened beyond her conscious control as her hand moved toward something more than documentation. The lighthouse wasn’t just a structure anymore. It was a presence, a guardian, something that had stood watch over this coastline for more than a century while keeping secrets that even now remained partially hidden.
She stepped back from the canvas, surprised to find her shirt sleeves rolled up and a smear of paint across her forearm. How long had she been working? The light had shifted, and she glanced at the clock. Hours. She’d been painting for hours without noticing the passage of time.
The familiar rhythm of creating was both comforting and terrifying. This was how it used to be, before Franklin’s death and his son’s accusations. Before her ex-husband’s betrayal. She would lose herself in the work and emerge hours later with paint in her hair and a canvas that felt alive in ways she couldn’t quite explain.
She’d missed this. She’d missed this so much it physically hurt.
She whirled around at the sound of a knock at the studio side door. Winnie stood at the door, a tray in her hands. Emily crossed over and opened it.
“You’re painting.” Winnie stepped inside. Her expression was warm but unreadable, her eyes taking in the canvas with obvious interest.
“I was just roughing out the lighthouse.” She wiped her hands on a rag, suddenly self-conscious. “For reference. To help with understanding the journal entries.”
“Of course.” Winnie’s tone suggested she didn’t believe a word of it. She crossed to the worktable and set down the tray, which held a teapot, two cups, and a plate of what looked like lemon cookies. “I thought you might like some afternoon tea.”
Afternoon. She still couldn’t believe how long she’d been lost in her painting.
Winnie poured tea into both cups, then turned her attention to the sketches scattered across the table. She picked up one after another, examining them with the careful attention of someone who knew exactly what she was looking at.
Winnie held up a detailed sketch of the lighthouse’s gallery railing. “These are remarkable. You’ve captured things I haven’t thought about in years. The way the ironwork curves here, for instance. Most people don’t notice that.”
