“I’d like that.”
His smile transformed his face. For a moment, she glimpsed the artist he’d been before disappointment hardened him.
“Fair warning,” he said as they stood. “I haven’t been there in months. It might be a mess.”
“I don’t mind a mess. And thank you for telling me. You know, about Miranda and the gallery and everything.”
“Thank you for listening. And for sharing your story too.” He placed his hand gently on her back and led her to the door.
Chapter17
Grant’s family home sat three blocks from the harbor on a quiet street lined with live oaks. The two-story Victorian had weathered blue paint and white trim that needed touching up. A wraparound porch held mismatched furniture and wind chimes that played soft melodies in the breeze.
“Mom keeps threatening to repaint, but she can’t decide on colors.”
Emily understood the hesitation. Some houses held too many memories to change easily.
The front door opened before they reached it. A woman with silver hair and Grant’s blue eyes smiled warmly.
“You must be Emily. I’m Margaret. Grant mentioned he was bringing company.”She stepped aside to let them in.
“Thank you for having me.” She felt suddenly uncertain.
“Any friend of Grant’s is welcome here. Besides, I’ve heard about your paintings. It’s always nice to meet another artist.”
The house smelled like flowers from the numerous vases scattered around the room and something baking in the kitchen. Family photos covered the walls. She glimpsed Grant at various ages, always with paint or tools in his hands.
“The studio’s out back. Through here.” Grant seemed nervous now.
They walked through a kitchen with herbs growing on the windowsill. The back door led to a covered walkway connecting the house to a converted garage. Grant paused with his hand on the studio door.
“I should warn you. Nothing’s been moved since Dad died. Mom won’t let me change anything.”
“Grant, that’s not true. I just think someone should use it before we pack it away.” Margaret’s voice held a hint of reproach.
He opened the door.
The smell hit Emily first. Paint, turpentine, and dust. She smiled with recognition. Every artist’s studio carried that particular mixture. It meant home in ways nothing else could.
Afternoon light flooded through the windows. Canvases lined the walls. An easel stood in the center with brushes still arranged on the side table as if the artist had just stepped out.
“Oh.” The word escaped before she could stop it.
The paintings drew her forward. Coastal landscapes filled most of the frames. Not the pretty postcards tourists expected, but the real Gulf. Moody skies threatening storms. Shrimp boats working before dawn. The lighthouse standing patiently through changing weather.
She stopped before a painting of the harbor at sunset. The light captured that specific moment when day surrendered to dusk. Gold melted into purple while working boats headed home.
“This is exceptional. The way he built up the waves. See how the transparency here creates depth?” She studied the brushwork.
Grant moved beside her. “He never thought they were good enough for galleries. Said people wanted prettier versions of the coast.”
“He was painting truth instead of fantasy. That’s always a harder sell. But look at this technique. He understood light like the Impressionists did. Not copying, but translating.”
She moved to another painting. This one showed the aftermath of a hurricane. Debris was scattered across the sand while survivors picked through the wreckage. Beautiful and heartbreaking at once.
“When was this?”
“Hurricane Donna in the 1960s.” Margaret joined them. “Jack spent weeks documenting the recovery. Sold most of the paintings to tourists for grocery money.”
