“Thank you for letting me help.” Emily meant it. The simple act of holding something steady while someone else worked had felt good. Useful. A small contribution to something that mattered.
“Thank you for not asking about my camera settings or telling me I should try a different angle.” Melissa smiled. “Most people can’t resist offering advice.”
“I know what that’s like, having everyone assume they know better than you what you should be doing.”
“Yeah. I figured you would.”
They walked back toward the cottages together. The sun had broken fully over the horizon now. The lighthouse stood clear and solid in the morning light.
“If you want to look at the photographs sometime, let me know.” Melissa paused at the path that branched toward her cottage. “I’ve got documentation going back several weeks. The changes are subtle, but they’re there.”
“I’d like that. I’ve been researching the lighthouse’s history and trying to piece together why certain things are the way they are.”
“We should compare notes then. Between your research and my photographs, we might actually figure some things out.”
Emily watched her walk away. Another small connection made. The fear that had paralyzed her for months felt smaller today and a bit more manageable.
Chapter14
Emily stood in the center of the studio with morning light streaming through the north-facing windows. She had been working for three hours straight. Her back ached, and her fingers were stiff, but she couldn’t stop.
The canvas before her showed the lighthouse keeper’s quarters from decades past, a lived-in space where real people made impossible choices. She had used the journal entries as her guide. The details mattered. The brass oil lamp was positioned just so on the desk. The nautical charts rolled in their leather case. The worn armchair angled toward windows that offered both harbor views and constant vigilance.
But the painting wasn’t just documentation. Her approach had shifted as the work progressed. The lighthouse keeper’s desk dominated the composition with its layers of maps, logbooks, and a half-written letter that would never reveal its contents.
She had painted the letter with deliberate ambiguity. Viewers would wonder what words lay hidden beneath the keeper’s hand. What truths were being recorded or concealed?
This is what painting should feel like. Not performing. Not proving. Just seeing something true and finding a way to show it.
Her previous work, even before the scandal, had been different. Technically accomplished but emotionally restrained. She had painted to earn approval from professors, galleries, and eventually her mentor, Franklin.
Even the paintings she had completed for Franklin before his death had been exercises in replication. She had tried to channel his voice, his vision, and his distinctive approach to light and composition. She had told herself it was respectful collaboration. Now she wondered if she had been hiding inside his reputation all along.
This painting was hers alone. Raw and honest in ways that made her feel exposed.
She stepped back to assess the work with a critical eye. The composition held together. The architectural details read as authentic. But the emotional undertones carried the piece beyond mere illustration. The room felt inhabited by people carrying the burden of protecting something larger than themselves.
Emily understood that better now. Winnie carried it. Clint carried it. Even Grant carried some version of it, protecting his carefully built sanctuary from a world that had already wounded him once.
She mixed more color on her palette. The letter on the desk needed refinement. She wanted the viewer to lean in, to wonder, and to actually feel the keeper’s hesitation about what should be written versus what could safely be revealed.
The brush moved across the canvas with a confidence she hadn’t felt in years. Every stroke felt inevitable. Necessary. True.
She was so absorbed in the work that Winnie’s soft knock startled her.
“Come in.” Emily set down her brush and turned.
Winnie entered with her characteristic quiet grace. She carried no tea this time and no excuse for the interruption.
“I don’t mean to disturb you. I just wondered if you might want some company.”
Emily hesitated. Part of her wanted to protect this private space. But another part, the part that was slowly relearning connection, recognized the invitation for what it was.
“I’m at a good stopping point. Would you like to see what I’ve been working on?” She wiped her hands on a paint-stained towel.
“Only if you’re comfortable sharing.”
She moved aside to give Winnie a clear view. Her heart hammered with unexpected nervousness. This painting mattered more than anything she’d created in years. Maybe ever. And Winnie’s opinion mattered more than an ordinary critique.
