But Grant’s wariness still troubled her. She’d felt it despite his apology and seen it in how he’d positioned himself throughout the evening. He was watching her and trying to decide something.
Whether she was trustworthy, probably. Whether she belonged in his carefully curated artistic community.
The lighthouse beam swept overhead as they approached the property. She counted the rhythm automatically now, finding comfort in its predictability.
“Grant is a good man. But he’s been hurt. He has his own reasons for being careful about who he lets close,” Winnie said suddenly.
She glanced at Winnie, wondering how much she actually saw. Probably everything. “I’m not trying to get close to anyone. I’m just trying to exist without people assuming the worst about me.”
“That’s a start. But eventually, you might want more than just existence.”
Chapter12
Emily pushed through the weathered door of The Sandpiper, and the scent of grilled fish and fried food surrounded her. The restaurant hummed with energy. Conversations layered over each other while silverware clinked against plates.
She’d told herself this was just dinner. A practical choice after a long day of painting. Nothing to do with avoiding another evening alone with her thoughts and the lighthouse journal.
The hostess gestured toward the bar. “Might be a twenty-minute wait for a table. Or you can eat at the bar.”
“Bar would be fine.” She slid onto a barstool near the end, grateful for the position that let her observe without being observed. Old habits.
The man tending the bar smiled. “Welcome to The Sandpiper. Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”
“I’m staying at the cottages at the lighthouse.”
“Ah, the artist.” He smiled again. “I’m Bryan. My family runs The Sandpiper. What can I get you?”
“It’s nice to meet you. I’ll have whatever local beer you’d recommend.”
“Seaside Wheat Beer, it is. Brewed right here in Starlight Shores.”
She accepted the amber bottle and took a tentative sip. Not bad. Actually quite good. She let her gaze wander across the restaurant’s interior. Exposed beams overhead. Vintage photographs of fishing boats and harbor scenes covered the walls. Through the large windows, the Gulf stretched toward the darkening horizon.
A burst of laughter drew her attention to a large corner booth where a group of locals gathered. Winnie’s friend, Sally, sat with them, and several other familiar faces from the Art Walk filled the booth.
“I’m telling you, Mayor West has already made up her mind.” A man’s voice carried above the others. “The zoning commission meeting is just a formality.”
“Mayor West wouldn’t sell us out like that.” Sally’s tone held more hope than conviction.
“She’s not selling anyone out. She’s being practical.” This came from an older man with calloused hands wrapped around a beer bottle. “The town needs the tax revenue. We all know it.”
Emily shifted slightly, angling herself to hear better without appearing obvious.
“At what cost, though?” A younger woman leaned forward. “If Oceanside Development gets that waterfront property, they’ll turn the whole Gulf front into another Clearwater Beach. High-rises and chain restaurants.”
Bryan appeared at Emily’s elbow. “Ready to order?”
“Just a few more minutes. Just enjoying my beer.”
He nodded and moved away.
“Grant’s got the right idea,” Sally said again. “Fight to keep what makes this place special. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.”
“Grant can afford principles. His gallery doesn’t depend on tourist dollars the way my charter business does.” The older man’s tone wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact.
The younger woman swirled her wine glass. “Actually, his gallery barely breaks even. My cousin does his bookkeeping. He pours every profit back into supporting local artists.”
Emily’s hand tightened slightly on her beer bottle.
