Her heart ached at the waste. These paintings belonged in museums. Instead, they probably hung in random living rooms, picked up as souvenirs by people who didn’t understand their value.
“May I?” She gestured toward a stack of unframed canvases.
Margaret nodded. “Please. It’s nice to see someone appreciate them properly.”
She carefully sorted through the paintings. Each one revealed more of Thomas Stone’s gift. He’d captured the working waterfront with respect and authenticity. No romanticizing. No false nostalgia. Just honest observation rendered with remarkable skill.
She turned to Grant. “Your father understood this place. Really understood it. Not the surface pretty, but the actual life here.”
“Regional artist. That’s what gallery owners called him when he tried to show outside Florida.” Grant’s voice carried old bitterness.
“Their loss. Though I understand the frustration. The art world loves categories. Regional. Outsider. Folk. Anything to avoid admitting they might have missed something important.”
“Show her yours.” Margaret nudged Grant. “Don’t look at me like that. She’s an artist. She’ll understand.”
He hesitated. Emily understood. Showing old work felt like exposing past selves you’d outgrown.
“Only if you want to.” She gave him an out.
He crossed to a corner where several sculptures sat on shelves. The first piece made her lean closer. He’d combined driftwood with rusted metal and fragments of blue glass.
He lifted the sculpture. “This is from my New York period. Before I figured out nobody wanted contemplation about urban decay from someone who said y’all.”
She took the piece carefully. The weight surprised her. He’d hidden steel framework inside the wood, creating a structure that wasn’t immediately visible. The glass caught the light and threw blue shadows.
“This is sophisticated work. The way you’ve balanced found objects with intentional intervention. I can see why galleries noticed you.”
“For about five minutes.”
“Commercial attention and artistic merit aren’t the same thing. You know that.”
He showed her more pieces. Each one revealed careful thought and skilled execution. He’d explored how objects transformed through weather and time. How human intentions yielded to natural forces.
“You were asking real questions with these.” Emily studied a piece incorporating fishing net and copper wire. “About preservation and change. About what survives and why.”
“Miranda said they were too crafted. That I was trying to control materials that should stay raw.”
“Miranda was protecting her territory. Classic curator move. Make you doubt yourself so you need her approval.”
His eyes widened, and he nodded. “That’s exactly what she did.”
“I’ve seen it before. Franklin protected me from most of it. But after he died, I learned fast how the game worked.”
Margaret had been quiet, but now she spoke. “You both carry such wounds. Makes me grateful Jack never had to navigate that world.”
Emily heard the pain beneath her words. A different kind of wound. Watching someone you love create beauty that the world wouldn’t fairly value.
“Your husband’s work will last long after trendy gallery shows are forgotten. This is the real thing.”
“Thank you.” Margaret’s voice softened. “Would you like to stay for dinner? Nothing fancy, but I made pot roast.”
She glanced at Grant. He looked vulnerable standing among his father’s paintings and his own abandoned sculptures. She understood. Sometimes the past felt too heavy to carry alone.
“I’d like that, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Wonderful.” Margaret headed for the door. “Grant, show her the rest. I’ll call when it’s ready.”
They stood alone in the studio. The dust they’d disturbed floated through the afternoon sun.
