“One painting. That’s all he’s asking. One painting to test the waters.” Winnie stood, brushing crumbs from her hands.
After Winnie left, Emily returned to her studio. The paintings watched her from the walls. Which one could she bear to let strangers see? The dawn lighthouse, all uncertainty and hope? The keeper’s quarters, heavy with secrets?
Her phone buzzed again. Melissa this time:Heard about the festival. You should do it. We could be terrified together.
She smiled despite herself. Melissa was contributing photographs. It was her first public display since whatever had driven her to hide behind her camera. If Melissa could face her fears...
But Melissa’s name isn’t splashed across the internet with the word fraud attached to it.
She picked up her brush, not to paint but just to hold it. The weight felt right in her hand. Natural. Like it belonged there.
What if Winnie was right? What if hiding wasn’t protecting her but imprisoning her?
Her paintings weren’t just pretty pictures. They were investigations. Documentations. Honest work. The kind that made her nervous. The lighthouse had more stories than even Winnie knew, and Emily was uncovering them one brushstroke at a time.
Maybe that work deserved to be seen. Maybe the community that had sheltered her deserved to know what she’d discovered about their heritage. Maybe?—
Maybe you’re overthinking this.
Grant had asked for one painting. One. She could survive one painting in a small-town festival exhibition. She could smile politely at visitors, deflect personal questions, and keep the focus on the work itself. She’d become an expert at deflection these past months.
She pulled out her phone and stared at Grant’s message. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Such a simple response—yes or no—but it felt like signing something legally binding.
She typed before she could change her mind: “One painting. My choice which one. No artist bio.”
His response came quickly: “Perfect. Thank you.”
Three words, but she read relief in them. Maybe even hope. Grant was rebuilding too, in his own way. Maybe that was something.
Emily looked around her studio again. One painting. She could do this.
Couldn’t she?
A few days later, Grant texted again:Thinking more about your work. The lighthouse interior, especially. Would you consider showing three pieces instead of one?
Three. The number made her stomach flip.
She walked into her studio. The lighthouse interior leaned against the wall. Winnie’s tears had validated something Emily hadn’t dared believe. That she could still move people with her work. That she hadn’t lost that essential thing that made her an artist.
The seascape on her easel caught the morning light from the studio window. She’d painted it during a storm, trying to capture how the Gulf looked angry and beautiful at the same time.
Her phone buzzed again:I know it’s a bigger ask. But your work deserves to be seen properly. One painting doesn’t tell a story. Three will.
A story. Is that what she’d been painting? She moved to another canvas. It was the cottage courtyard at sunset. She’d captured the residents during one of Winnie’s gatherings. Not portraits exactly, but suggestions of people finding community. She’d painted hints of Melissa’s defensive posture as she talked with Clint, Sally’s animated hands as she told some town gossip, and Winnie presiding over it all with quiet authority.
Three paintings would definitely tell a story. The question was whether she wanted that story told.
Emily picked up her phone and typed:Let me think about it.
Then she deleted it.
She typed again:Three feels like a lot.
She tried two more times before finally sending her message:Okay, three.
And somehow, the one painting became three paintings. She couldn’t resist his enthusiasm for her work.
Chapter20
