“It’s an unusual design. The curve serves both aesthetic and functional purposes. It would help shed water while also creating visual interest.”
“My great-grandfather had that railing custom-made. He was very particular about such details. Said that beauty and purpose should always work together, never against each other.”
She studied Winnie’s face as the woman examined the sketches. There was something in her expression, a mixture of pride and sadness that suggested these architectural details carried personal meaning beyond their historical significance.
“This one is particularly interesting.” Winnie held up a sketch showing the lighthouse’s upper gallery, where Emily had noted unusual mounting brackets that seemed to serve no current purpose. “You have a good eye for anomalies.”
“Those brackets…” Emily moved closer, pointing to the features she’d drawn. “They don’t match the rest of the construction. They’re newer, or at least they were added later. But they’re positioned in a very specific pattern.”
“Might be.” Winnie’s voice was noncommittal.
“But they’re not there now?”
“No, they’re not.”
“Why were they removed?”
“The journal will tell you more than I can. The men in my family were careful about what they documented and what they kept only in their memory. But I suspect you’re already discovering that.”
Winnie moved to stand beside Emily, both of them now facing the canvas on the easel. The lighthouse rose from the painting, not quite finished but already possessing a life of its own. The morning light Emily had captured gave the structure a subtle quality, as though it existed between the real world and something more permanent.
“You’re not just documenting. You’re interpreting. Creating something new from what you see.”Winnie’s observation was gentle but pointed.
Emily’s throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to.”
Winnie turned to look at her directly. “Why would you apologize for that? This is what artists do, isn’t it? You take what exists and show others how to see it differently.”
“I’m not sure I’m an artist anymore.”
“Because someone accused you of being a thief?” Winnie’s tone was sharp enough to make Emily flinch. “Or because you believed them?”
The words hit harder than she expected. She set down her teacup before she could drop it. “You know…”
“I know some of your past, yes.”
“I didn’t steal Franklin’s work. I completed it, yes. He asked me to. He wanted those paintings finished, wanted his final vision realized even after he was gone. I thought I was honoring his legacy.”
“And his son thought you were exploiting his father’s death.” Winnie’s voice softened. “Two people can see the same situation and draw entirely different conclusions. That doesn’t make one of them right and the other wrong. It just makes them human.”
She turned back to the canvas, unable to meet Winnie’s knowing gaze. “The art world decided Julian was right.”
“The art world decided to protect itself. Controversy is messy. Easier to cast out one person than to ask complicated questions about collaboration and legacy and where one artist’s vision ends and another’s begins.”
“You sound like you have experience with that.”
“I’ve spent a lot of years watching people choose easy answers over difficult truths. It’s one of humanity’s most reliable patterns, I’m afraid. But it doesn’t mean you have to accept their judgment as truth.”
She wanted to believe that. Wanted to believe she could create again without fear of accusation and without judgment crushing every brushstroke. But the fear was still there, coiled tight in her chest like a living thing. “But what if I care about this again? What if I let myself care, and then it’s taken away again?”
Winnie was quiet for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the confidence of experience. “Then you’ll survive it, just like you survived the last time. But not caring is its own kind of death. A slower one, perhaps, but no less final.”
She let out a long, deep breath.
Winnie moved toward the door, then paused on the threshold. “The journal is waiting for you when you’re ready. But so is this.” She gestured toward the canvas. “Don’t let fear make your decisions for you. You’ve already lost too much to it.”
After Winnie left, she stood alone in the studio as shadows lengthened across the floor. The lighthouse painting caught the fading light, and for just a moment, she could see what it might become if she let herself finish it. Not a documentary sketch or a research tool, but a real painting. Something that mattered.
Chapter10
