Emily stumbled on a piece of driftwood hidden in the shadows. He caught her arm and steadied her before she could fall.
“Thanks.” She looked up at him, her face illuminated by moonlight.
“These paths can be tricky at night.” He kept his hand on her arm a moment longer than necessary. Then, without really thinking about it, he took her hand. “Better this way.”
Her fingers intertwined with his, warm and slightly rough from paint and turpentine. They walked in comfortable silence while the lighthouse beam swept over them in steady intervals. The night air carried salt and the rhythmic sound of the waves.
At her cottage door, Emily turned to face him. “Thank you for today. I had a really nice time.”
“Me too.” He squeezed her hand gently before letting go. “And think about showing your work at the Springtide Festival. You’re really talented. People should see your work.”
She laughed. “I could say the same to you.”
“Touché.”
She smiled, that genuine smile he was starting to recognize. “Good night, Grant.”
“Good night.” He waited until she was safely inside before heading home. The lighthouse beam circled overhead, cutting through the darkness.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked slowly, not ready for the evening to end. What a day. He’d actually shown someone his sculptures. Not just someone. Emily. And she’d understood them. Understood him, maybe. The way she’d looked at his father’s paintings and recognized their worth beyond tourist appeal. The way she’d traced the lines of his driftwood pieces without judgment.
He thought about her hands covered in paint and the fierce concentration on her face when she worked. The courage it took to pick up that brush after two years of silence. Maybe that was the thing. Maybe courage was contagious. Emily was painting again despite everything that had happened to her, creating new work even though the world had torn her last pieces apart.
Grant paused at his gallery door and looked back toward the lighthouse. The beam swept past again, steady and sure. Maybe he could try again too. Not for anyone else. Not to prove Miranda wrong or vindicate his father’s legacy. Just to create. To see what was still inside him waiting to take shape.
Chapter18
Winnie set the teapot on the kitchen table as Sally came through the back door, bakery box in hand. Tuesday afternoon. Same as last week, same as the week before that, same as however many years they’d been doing this. Sally dropped into her chair by the window, the one with the faded cushion she’d brought over herself a decade ago because Winnie’s chairs were “hard as church pews.”
“Lemon cream puffs.” Sally opened the box and pushed it across the table. “The new girl at the bakery made them. Thought we’d see if she knows what she’s doing.”
Winnie poured tea into two cups—hers with the chipped handle that she kept meaning to replace, Sally’s with the roses that had been red once and were now just a suggestion of pink. “After those chocolate things you brought last month, I’m not getting my hopes up.”
“Those were perfectly fine chocolate things.”
“They tasted like cardboard dipped in cocoa powder.”
Sally laughed and took a cream puff, biting into it. Powdered sugar scattered across her navy shirt. She didn’t bother brushing it off. “These are better. Try one.”
Winnie did. The lemon hit first, tart and bright, then the cream underneath. Not too sweet. “All right. The new girl can stay.”
“High praise from you.” Sally took another bite, catching a bit of cream that escaped with her thumb. “I’ll let her know she passed the Winnie Lockhart test.”
“Don’t you dare.”
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. The afternoon light came through the window at a low angle, catching a streak of dust on the far edge of the table. Winnie got up, grabbed a dish towel, and swiped at the dust. Hardly anyone ever sat in that seat. It had been her father’s. She settled back in her chair and took a sip of tea. She could hear the faint crash of waves from the beach, muffled by distance and the cottage walls.
Winnie mindlessly folded the towel. “Have you finalized the vendor list for Springtide yet?”
“Mostly. I’ve got confirmations from about thirty people. Still waiting to hear back from that jewelry maker in Clearwater. The one who does the sea glass pieces.”
“Oh, I remember her. The necklace with the green glass?”
“That’s her. She said she’d let me know by the end of the week, but that was last week, so.” Sally shrugged. “I’ll call her again tomorrow.”
“Her work is beautiful.”
“It is. Which is why I want her there.” Sally picked up her tea and held it without drinking, letting the warmth seep into her hands. “Of course, the mayor wants to expand the vendor area again.”
