He looked out at the water instead of at her. “Yeah, things got complicated. When I came back here, I told myself I’d get back to it eventually. Just needed to get the gallery established first.”
“How long has it been established?”
“Six years.”
She made a soft sound that might have been understanding or acknowledgment. She cleaned her brush and reached for a different color. “People kept telling me I’d paint again when I was ready, like readiness was something that would just happen if I waited long enough. I finally figured out I’d never feel ready. I just had to start anyway and let ready catch up.”
The words felt aimed at him, though her focus stayed on her canvas. He watched her add warm gold to the windows of the keeper’s quarters, suggesting light from within mixing with light from without. The detail took the painting from good to genuinely compelling.
“You’ve been studying the lighthouse’s history,” he said, shifting the subject away from his own creative avoidance. “Winnie mentioned you were asking questions.”
“I found a journal in my cottage.” Her brush strokes remained steady, but he heard caution enter her voice. “Old lighthouse keeper records. Some of the entries reference things that don’t quite match the official history.”
“Like what?”
“Just things…” She stared at her canvas, avoiding him. “Your town’s lighthouse has quite a history.”
Grant processed this carefully. He’d grown up hearing vague stories about the lighthouse’s past, stories that always seemed to end just before the interesting parts. Nothing documented. The kind of local legend that added color to the town’s history without requiring proof.
“What does Winnie say about it?”
“She confirms her ancestors kept the journal. Says there’s truth in it, but some things need to stay buried. She also said some people would prefer the whole history stayed buried, including the developers trying to buy the property.”
That caught Grant’s full attention. Oceanside Development had been circling the lighthouse property for over a year, making increasingly aggressive purchase offers. Winnie had rebuffed them repeatedly, but they kept pushing. The company specialized in converting historic properties into luxury resort accommodations. They’d gutted three buildings in nearby towns already, destroying local character in pursuit of tourist revenue. They also had their eye on waterfront property in town.
“If there’s legitimate historical significance beyond the lighthouse’s normal function,” he said slowly, “that could strengthen Winnie’s position against development. Historic preservation protections go deeper if you can document multiple layers of use.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Her interest in the lighthouse surprised him. She was just someone passing through on her way to somewhere else. Getting involved with researching the lighthouse’s history meant acknowledging that she might stay and that she might become part of the community he’d been trying to protect from exactly this kind of outsider.
Except she wasn’t treating the lighthouse like a curiosity. She was treating it like a home that deserved protection.
“I’m actually learning a lot about the lighthouse and Starlight Shores.” Her lips rose in a brief smile. “But no one just shares information. They share information, food, and family stories.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know yet.” Her honesty was becoming familiar. “I came here wanting to be left alone. Everyone keeps being nice to me anyway.”
He surprised himself by laughing. “Yeah, we’re terrible that way. Winnie’s trained the whole town to adopt strays whether they want adopting or not.”
“Is that what you are? A stray?”
The question hit closer than she probably intended. “More like a boomerang. Left and came back.”
“But you stayed. Built something here. That’s different from just returning.”
He looked out at the waves slowly rolling to shore. “Is it? Sometimes I wonder if I’m building something or just hiding from something.”
He turned back to her. She added a final highlight to the keeper’s quarters windows, and the painting suddenly felt complete. The light balanced perfectly with the shadow, the solid structure grounded by the atmospheric sky. It was beautiful and sad. Maybe hopeful too.
“I don’t think those are opposites,” she said finally. “Maybe you can hide and still build something. I don’t know. Eventually, maybe the building matters more than the hiding.”
The observation felt uncomfortably accurate. He’d spent all these years telling himself he was creating something meaningful with the gallery, supporting local artists, and preserving the town’s culture. All true. But also true was that he’d used those good works to avoid risking his own art again and his own vulnerability.
He changed the subject. “Your painting. It’s finished, isn’t it?”
She studied her work. “I think so. I might adjust the shadow balance once it dries, but the core feels right.”
