Emily arrived at the beach just as the first hints of dawn touched the horizon. The air carried that particular stillness that came right before sunrise, when even the waves seemed to quiet. She’d woken at four-thirty, unable to sleep, her mind circling the lighthouse painting she’d worked on yesterday. The one Winnie had seen. The one that felt like both a beginning and an ending.
She’d decided sometime around five o’clock that hiding in her studio wasn’t going to work anymore. If she was going to paint again—really paint, not just sketch under the guise of research—she needed to do it the way she used to. Out in the world. Facing what scared her.
The beach stretched empty in both directions, which was exactly what she needed. She planted her easel in the sand, adjusting the legs until they felt stable enough to withstand the gentle breeze coming off the water. Her hands moved through the familiar motions of setting up her palette, squeezing out paint in her preferred arrangement. Titanium white at the top, then her blues arranged from lightest to darkest. Her yellows and oranges. The earth tones she rarely used but always kept close.
She mixed a base color for the sky, combining cerulean blue with a touch of gray, then adding just a hint of violet. The color wasn’t the cheerful blue of vacation postcards or the dramatic purple of storm paintings. It was the blue of uncertainty, of possibility that hadn’t yet decided if it would materialize into something real or dissolve like morning mist.
The lighthouse stood silent against that tentative sky, catching the first rays of light. She loaded her brush and began with the basic shapes, blocking in the composition the way she’d done a thousand times before. But even as she worked on the technical aspects, her hand moved with a confidence she hadn’t felt in years, laying down color with decisive strokes that came from somewhere deeper than conscious thought.
She lost herself in the rhythm of it. Brush to palette, mixing the exact shade she needed without overthinking. Brush to canvas, applying paint with just the right pressure. Back to palette, adjusting the color slightly.
The morning light shifted as she worked, and she shifted with it, adding touches of gold where the sun broke through the clouds. Not the bright, optimistic gold of hope, but more hesitant. A gold that suggested light was possible even if it hadn’t fully arrived.
The sound of the waves provided a steady backdrop, punctuated by the occasional cry of gulls beginning their morning routines. Her feet had sunk slightly into the damp sand, anchoring her to the moment.
This was what she’d forgotten during those depositions and Daniel packing his things while she sat numbly on their couch. She’d forgotten that painting was a full-body experience, felt in her shoulders and her lower back.
She was mixing a darker blue for the shadows when she heard footsteps on the beach behind her. Her whole body tensed. She didn’t turn around, hoping whoever it was would pass by without stopping.
Most people wouldn’t interrupt someone who was clearly working. Most people would see the easel and the concentration and respect the obvious boundary.
But the footsteps slowed. Then stopped.
She could feel someone’s presence just behind her left shoulder, close enough to see her canvas. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to step in front of the painting, and to hide what she’d been creating. But her hands were covered in paint, and moving would only draw more attention to her defensive reaction.
“I didn’t expect to see you out here.” Grant’s voice. Of course, it was Grant. Because the universe apparently had a sense of humor about these things.
Her brush stopped mid-stroke. “I could say the same to you.”
“I walk this beach most mornings.” He moved slightly, coming into her peripheral vision but not directly in front of the easel. “Though I usually come earlier.”
She didn’t respond to that, focusing instead on cleaning her brush on the rag tied to her easel. Her heart pounded in a way that felt entirely too dramatic for the situation. He was just a man. This was just a painting. None of it mattered in any real sense. Except it did matter. It mattered more than she wanted to admit.
“You paint en plein air.” His tone held a hint of respect, which somehow felt worse than suspicion.
“Sometimes.” She loaded her brush with fresh paint, determined to continue working despite his presence. Maybe if she ignored him, he’d take the hint and leave.
“Not many painters work from life anymore. Easier to take a photo and work in a studio.”
She heard a hint of genuine respect in his tone. “Easier isn’t always better.”
“No, it isn’t.” The agreement in his voice surprised her enough that she glanced over at him. He was studying her painting with the focused attention of someone who actually understood what he was seeing.
His expression had lost that wariness from their previous encounters, replaced by professional assessment, which was somehow worse. Professional assessment meant judgment. It meant comparison to other work, other artists. It meant all the things she’d been avoiding by locking herself in her cottage.
“I should go.” She started to reach for her palette, preparing to pack everything up.
“Why?” The simple question stopped her.
“Because you’re here.”
“Am I stopping you from working?”
“You being here prevents me from being alone.” She heard the defensive edge in her voice and hated it. “Which was kind of the point of coming out here at dawn.”
Grant was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on your work.”
“But you did.”
