“And I’ll have coffee. Black,” Grant added.
“Be back in a flash.”
For a moment, they sat in awkward silence. She traced a pattern in the grain of the wooden table, wondering why she’d agreed to this. She’d come to Starlight Shores to be alone, not to have coffee with attractive gallery owners who made her nervous.
Jan brought their coffee, breaking the awkward silence. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup and inhaled the rich aroma. Grant did the same, and she noticed his fingers were stained too. Not with paint, but with the kind of ink that came from handling newspapers and documents.
“You’ve been researching,” she observed.
He glanced at his hands and grimaced. “Old habit. I still read multiple newspapers every morning. Can’t seem to switch to digital.”
“Physical newspapers?”
“Three of them. Local, regional, and the Times. My ex used to complain about the mess.”
The mention of his ex created an opening. Emily wasn’t sure she wanted to take it, but curiosity won. “How long were you married?”
“Never made it that far. We were together four years, engaged for the last one.” His jaw tightened. “She was a curator. Miranda Keller. Maybe you knew her?”
She searched her memory. “The name sounds familiar. Tall brunette? Very polished?”
“That’s her.” His laugh held no humor. “We met at a gallery opening in Brooklyn. She seemed to get what I was trying to do with my art. Encouraged me to push boundaries and take risks.”
He paused to sip his coffee. She waited, recognizing the look of someone deciding how much truth to share.
“We opened a gallery together,” he continued. “Put everything I had into it. Money, time, and creative energy. I thought we were building something meaningful, supporting emerging artists, and creating a space for experimental work.”
“What happened?”
“She happened.” The bitterness crept into his voice. “I discovered she’d been negotiating to sell our gallery to a Manhattan dealer. Had been for months. Positioning herself for a big curator position while planning to leave me behind.”
“She betrayed you.”
“Completely. But the worst part?” He met her eyes. “She told me my work was too regional. Too limited for the New York market. That I was holding her back from real success.”
She winced. How many times had she heard similar dismissals? Your work is derivative. You’re riding on Franklin’s reputation. You don’t have your own voice.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged, but tension remained in his shoulders. “I came home after that. Opened this gallery to do things differently. Support local artists without the politics and exploitation.”
“But you stopped creating your own work.”
His hands stilled on his cup. “I have.”
“I recognize the look. The way you watch me paint. Like you’re hungry for something you won’t let yourself have.”
Silence stretched between them. She worried she’d overstepped, but Grant finally nodded.
“Seven years,” he admitted. “Haven’t touched my tools in seven years.”
“Why?”
“Because what if she was right? What if my work really is limited and regional and not worth anything beyond this small town?”
The raw honesty in his question made her pause. She knew that fear intimately. It lived in her bones and whispered in her ear every time she picked up a brush. “Can I tell you something?”
He nodded.
