The first piece showed the harbor at sunset, with all of its orange and purple drama. Competent but predictable. The kind of work tourists bought as souvenirs without really seeing the place underneath the pretty colors.
She moved to the next painting, which showed the same harbor from a different angle but with more attention to how light actually behaved on water.
“You have a good eye.”
Emily turned to find a woman about her age with short blonde hair and paint-stained hands. “I’m sorry?”
“The way you looked at that first piece, then moved on. You knew immediately it wasn’t worth your time.” The woman smiled.
“I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“You weren’t. You were honest. I’m Beth Ramsey. The second harbor painting is mine.” She extended her hand.
Emily shook it, recognizing the name from the exhibition labels. “Emily Shaw.”
“I know. Winnie mentioned you were staying at the lighthouse.”
Of course, Winnie had laid the groundwork. She felt both grateful and exposed.
“Your painting shows real understanding of how coastal light works. The way you’ve handled the reflection on the water, especially where it breaks around the pilings. That’s difficult to capture accurately.”
Beth’s eyes lit up. “Thank you. I’ve been trying to get that particular quality for months. Most people just see water and boats.”
They discussed technical approaches to painting reflections for several minutes. Emily found herself relaxing into the familiar language of artistic analysis. It was the part of her professional identity that felt safe and untainted.
Other artists gradually joined their conversation. Someone asked about Emily’s background, and she mentioned teaching art history in Chicago without elaborating. When Grant came over and offered wine, she accepted gratefully.
The group exhibition varied widely in quality, which was typical of community shows. Some pieces felt like paint-by-numbers tourism, while others revealed genuine artistic vision. She studied a small canvas depicting the lighthouse through morning fog, noting how the artist had captured the structure’s stability against atmospheric softness.
“That’s one of Peter Martin’s pieces.” A voice spoke beside her. Emily turned to find an elderly woman with silver hair and bright eyes studying the same painting.
“It’s a lovely painting. It shows the expert talent of the painter.”
The woman smiled. “Ah, that would be my late husband, Peter. Though that one’s from forty years ago. Peter and I both painted the lighthouse regularly. It changes character depending on the weather and season. I’m Charlene, by the way.”
“The architectural details are fascinating.” Emily pointed to the painting’s background, where the structure’s base showed more clearly than it appeared today. “The lighthouse looks slightly different now.”
“It does. Peter documented those changes over the years. He was meticulous about accuracy. Used to say buildings tell stories if you know how to read them.”
“Did he leave records of what he observed?”
“Not specifically. Though he always suspected the lighthouse had served purposes beyond navigation.”
“What made him think so?”
“Architectural anomalies he noticed over decades of painting the structure. Modifications that didn’t match official records. He had an eye for details like that.” Charlene shrugged. “Well, I should go mingle a bit. It was nice to meet you.”
As the older woman moved on to greet other attendees, Emily realized she’d been fully engaged in conversation for the first time in months without worrying about judgment or exposure.
She continued through the gallery, studying the various interpretations of the coastal landscape. Some artists focused on the dramatic and emphasized storms and crashing waves. Others captured quiet moments of morning light or intimate beach scenes. The range of vision was remarkable and solid proof that even a small geographic area could inspire infinite artistic responses.
Grant appeared at her elbow as she examined a painting of the lighthouse during a storm.“What do you think?”
She considered the question seriously. The painting was technically proficient but emotionally hollow, all sound and fury without genuine feeling. “It’s well executed. But it feels like the artist is painting the idea of a storm rather than the actual experience of weather.”
“That’s diplomatically put.” His lips curved into a slight smile.
“You asked what I think. I assume you want honest feedback, not polite lies.”
