“When Franklin was dying, his son Julian accused me of manipulating him. Said I was stealing his father’s legacy and passing off my work as Franklin’s. My husband believed him. Daniel left me in the middle of the scandal because he didn’t want it to affect his academic career.”
“I’m sorry, Emily.”
“The investigation cleared me. I had documentation, contracts, and Franklin’s own written wishes. But it didn’t matter. The art world had already decided I was guilty.” She managed a bitter smile. “Apparently, it made a better story than the truth.”
“What was the truth?”
She traced the rim of her cup. “Franklin asked me to help finish his final series. We worked together until he couldn’t hold a brush anymore. Completing those paintings was the hardest thing I’d ever done because every stroke reminded me I was losing him.”
Her voice cracked on the last words. He reached across the table, not quite touching her hand but close enough that she felt the warmth.
“That’s why you stopped painting?” he asked.
“Every time I picked up a brush, I heard Julian’s voice calling me a fraud. Heard Daniel saying my reputation was toxic.” She met Grant’s eyes. “So I ran. Came here thinking I could hide from all of it.”
“Is it working?”
“No.” The admission surprised her with its simplicity. “Because you can’t hide from yourself. And I’m still an artist, even when I’m terrified to create.”
Grant turned his cup in slow circles. “Miranda told me supporting other artists was noble but ultimately empty if I wasn’t creating myself. I told myself she was wrong. That running the gallery was enough.”
“Is it?”
“No.” He echoed her honesty. “It’s necessary and meaningful, but it’s not enough. I miss making things. Miss the physical work of creating. Miss discovering what I’m trying to say through the process of creating.”
She understood completely. Teaching art had been rewarding, but it couldn’t replace the essential need to create. That drive lived deeper than career or reputation.
“You know what the worst part is?” He continued. “I’ve turned the gallery into my identity. The noble defender of local art against commercial corruption. But really, I’m just scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of trying again, failing, and proving Miranda right. Or discovering I really don’t have anything important to say.”
She reached over and covered his hand. “But what if she was wrong? What if your work matters precisely because it’s rooted in this place and these people?”
He studied her face. “You don’t think commercial success corrupts artistic vision?”
“I think that’s a false choice. Franklin was commercially successful and still created profound work. The problem isn’t success. It’s when success becomes the only measure of value.”
“I’ve been pretty rigid about it, haven’t I?”
“We all build walls where we’ve been hurt. I’ve built plenty of my own.” She pulled her hand back and wrapped it around her coffee.
They sat quietly while the coffee shop bustled around them. She felt something shifting between them. Not attraction exactly, though that hummed beneath the surface. More like recognition.
“Would you like to see something?” Grant asked suddenly.
“What?”
“My dad’s studio. Where I used to work before...” He gestured vaguely. “Before everything.”
She understood the enormity of this invitation. Studios were sacred spaces, especially abandoned ones.
“Are you sure?”
“No.” His honesty made her smile. “But I’d like to show you anyway. If you’re interested.”
She was interested. More than she should be. But sitting here with Grant, sharing their parallel wounds, she felt less alone than she had in years.
