“You can’t want this fight.
“I’ve been running from fights for seven years.” Something hard entered Grant’s expression. “Seven years of telling myself that supporting other artists was enough. That I didn’t need to create or take risks or put myself out there again because Miranda taught me how painful that could be. But you know what I figured out watching you paint?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
“Running doesn’t make you safer.” He stepped closer. “Julian is going to come after you whether you’re in the festival or not. That email proves it. He found you anyway. So the only real question is if you face him as an artist showing honest work with a community behind you, or do you face him as someone who’s still running, still letting him control your choices?”
She hated that Grant was right. Julian had found her. The hiding was over. She could keep running—pack up tonight, find another small town, start over again—or she could stand her ground for the first time since this nightmare began.
“Don’t let fear make this choice. Let your art make it.”
He set her phone gently on the work table and moved toward the door. Winnie followed, pausing long enough to squeeze Emily’s hand.“You’re scared. It’s okay to be scared. Paint scared. Show up anyway.”
Then they were gone, and she was alone with her paintings and Julian’s threatening email.
She looked at her painting. At the morning light streaming through the windows, the lived-in warmth, the truth she’d captured about home and healing. This wasn’t derivative. This wasn’t fraud. This was hers.
And Julian Holloway had already taken enough from her.
Emily picked up her phone. Her hands shook as she started to text. The message was short:Include my paintings. I’m done running.
She hit send before she could change her mind.
Then she sat in her studio, watching the afternoon light shift across her canvas and waited for her hands to stop shaking. They didn’t. But she picked up a brush anyway.
Chapter21
The storm had reshaped the shoreline overnight. Grant walked along the beach Monday morning, stepping over fallen palm fronds and debris washed up from deeper waters. The air still carried that electric scent that followed Gulf storms, full of a mixture of salt, ozone, and plant matter.
He hadn’t planned this detour. He usually took his morning walk, then headed to the gallery with coffee in hand, planning the day’s tasks. But Emily’s decision to exhibit her paintings had left him restless and unsettled.
The beach was deserted this early. Most locals knew to give the shore a day to settle after a storm. The waves still churned with unusual force, tossing new offerings onto the sand with each surge. They pushed ashore shells, seaweed, and the occasional jellyfish that he carefully sidestepped.
He spotted it half-buried near the water’s edge. Something about its shape caught his eye. A piece of driftwood, twisted and bleached by salt and sun. Not particularly large—maybe three feet long—but its curves spoke of years battling currents.
Grant stopped and knelt beside it. The sand was cool and damp beneath his knees.
The wood had once been part of a larger tree, but the ocean had shaped it into something else entirely, something both broken and beautiful. The grain swirled in patterns that reminded him of the lighthouse’s spiral staircase.
He brushed away the sand, revealing more of the wood’s complex texture. His fingers traced the curves, feeling for weaknesses, for potential, for the thing hiding inside that only he could see.
Seven years.
It had been years since he’d touched raw materials with creative intent. Years of running a gallery, supporting other artists, and telling himself that was enough. Years of lying to himself.
He lifted the driftwood. It was lighter than it looked, hollowed by time and tide, but still strong and resilient. The core remained intact despite everything the Gulf had thrown at it.
He placed it back on the sand and stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. This was ridiculous. He had a gallery to run, a festival to organize, and artists depending on him. He didn’t have time for creative indulgences.
What would Emily say?
The thought ambushed him. Emily, who now painted every morning with gradually increasing confidence. Emily, who had agreed to exhibit three paintings despite Julian Holloway’s shadow still hanging over her.
If she could face her fears, what was his excuse?
He picked up the driftwood again, tucked it under his arm, and continued down the beach, eyes scanning the shoreline with new purpose. He found a twisted piece of metal, possibly from a boat damaged in the storm. Then he picked up a length of copper wire, green with patina, and a chunk of sea glass, its edges smoothed by years of tumbling in the sea.
By the time he reached the steps leading up from the beach, his arms were full. The gallery could wait an hour, maybe two.
