“Thank you for showing me both your father’s work and yours.”
He ran his finger along one of his sculptures. “I haven’t been in here in years. Kept telling myself I was too busy.”
“I know that lie. Told it to myself too.”
“What changed?”
“I got tired of letting fear win. Tired of letting other people’s opinions matter more than my need to create.”
He studied her face. “Is it easier now?”
“No. But necessary. Some days I feel like myself again. Other days, I’m sure everyone was right about me.”
“They weren’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ve seen your work. That’s enough.”
The certainty in his voice made her pause before she spoke. “We… We should help your mother.” She turned toward the door before he could see her face.
“Emily?” He caught her arm. “I’m glad you’re here. Not just in Starlight Shores. Here, seeing this.”
“Me too.” The words felt inadequate but true.
They headed into the house. Margaret had set the dining table with everyday dishes and mason jar glasses that somehow felt more welcoming than fine china ever could. They joined her at the table.
“Grant tells me you’re helping Winnie with some historical research.” Margaret passed the green beans.
“Just trying to piece together some lighthouse history. Though I’m not sure I’m qualified.” Emily took a small serving.
“Nonsense. Fresh eyes see things we locals miss.” Margaret’s smile held genuine warmth.
Grant poured sweet tea from a pitcher beaded with condensation. “Mom’s being modest. She knows more town history than anyone except Winnie.”
Margaret’s eyes sparkled. “Well, when you marry into a family like the Stones, you learn to pay attention. Tom’s great-grandfather helped build half the houses in the historic district.”
Emily sensed the pride beneath those words. Not the showy kind, but the quiet satisfaction of belonging somewhere.
“Tell her about Dad and the lighthouse painting.” Grant settled back in his chair.
Margaret laughed. “Oh, that story. Jack spent three months painting the lighthouse during different weather conditions. Got up at all hours, drove me crazy with his alarm going off at four in the morning.”
“Why so early?”
“He wanted to capture it during storms. Said that’s when the lighthouse showed its true purpose. Not the pretty postcard version, but the working beacon that actually saved lives.”
“The Coast Guard commissioned the painting eventually,” Grant added. “Hangs in their station now.”
“After we nearly lost the house paying bills.” Margaret’s tone stayed light, but Emily heard the steel underneath. “That’s what I tried to tell Grant when he was young. Art’s not about choosing between integrity and survival. It’s about finding ways to do both.”
The words hit home. She had been so focused on either-or. Either artistic purity or selling out. Either Franklin’s protégé or her own artist. Maybe those were false choices too.
“More pot roast?” Margaret offered.
“Yes, please.” She held out her plate. The conversation drifted to safer topics of town events, garden challenges, and the new bakery opening next month. She found herself relaxing into the rhythm of a family dinner. No agenda. No performance required. Just food and stories and the kind of easy warmth she’d forgotten existed.
Grant guided Emily along the sandy path that wound between the dunes. The moon cast everything in silver, making the familiar route look almost magical. He’d walked this way hundreds of times, but tonight felt different.
