She’d managed to avoid crowds for weeks now. The farmers’ market was bad enough with its handful of vendors and early morning shoppers. But this? This would be hundreds of people. Maybe thousands.
Stop being dramatic. It’s a small-town festival, not a Chicago gallery opening.
The thought of Chicago made her feel physically ill. She pushed away memories of reporters shoving microphones in her face, gallery patrons whispering behind their hands, and Daniel’s cold announcement that he needed to create distance from the situation.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Grant:No pressure. Just think about it.
Right. No pressure. Just display her work publicly for the first time since her world imploded. What could go wrong?
She grabbed her coffee and headed for the studio. She’d been painting every morning now, losing herself in the work the way she used to. The canvases lined the walls, filled with lighthouses at dawn, the keeper’s quarters, and a seascape with a fiery sunset and a storm brewing in the distance.
They were good. She knew they were good. That terrified her more than if they’d been mediocre.
A knock interrupted her spiraling thoughts. She went to the door, and Winnie stood with a plate of something that smelled like cinnamon.
Winnie held out the plate. “Coffee cake. Made too much for the historical society meeting.”
Emily stepped aside to let her in. Winnie had a way of showing up exactly when Emily’s thoughts turned darkest.
“Grant mentioned the festival exhibition.” Winnie settled at the kitchen table as if she belonged there.
“He did?” Emily cut two slices of coffee cake, buying time.
“It would mean a lot to him if you showed your work.”
“I know.I’m just not sure I’m ready.” The cake was perfect. It was moist and sweet with a crumbly top. Everything Winnie made was perfect.
“Ready for what, exactly?”
“Ready to be that person again. The artist. The one people look at and judge and?—”
“The one who makes people stop and look twice?”
“That’s not how it ended last time.”
Winnie didn’t look away. “No. But that’s not how it has to end this time.”
She took another bite of her coffee cake. “What if someone recognizes my name? What if they do an internet search and find all those articles? What if?—”
“What if they see your work and feel something true?”
She thought of the paintings in her studio. Each one had come from a real place, an honest place. Not the calculated compositions she’d created in Chicago, always wondering what the critics would say. These were different.
“The festival celebrates our town’s heritage. Your paintings capture something essential about this place. About what it means to keep the light burning.”
“You’re very good at this.”
“At what?”
“Making me feel guilty.”
Winnie laughed. “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I’m trying to help you see that hiding isn’t actually keeping you safe. It’s keeping you stuck.”
Emily walked to the window. The lighthouse stood tall against the morning sky, its white tower catching the light. She’d painted it from every angle, in every weather. She knew the building now. Every crack, every curve, how the light made it change.
“Grant’s taking a risk too. Asking you. He doesn’t invite just anyone to exhibit.”
“I know.” She’d seen his gallery and understood what he was trying to build. A space for authentic work, for artists who captured truth rather than trends. The opposite of everything that had hurt them both.
