His father’s workshop hadn’t been used in years. It still smelled the same. He hadn’t changed anything since his father died, though he’d told himself it was to preserve his father’s legacy rather than admit he was preserving the possibility of his own return.
Grant set his beach findings on the workbench. The tools waited in neat rows along the pegboard. Pliers, files, wire cutters, and the small drill his father had given him when he was fourteen all hung on the wall in their proper places. All untouched for too long.
He ran his fingers over the driftwood again.He could see what it might become. The shape was already suggested in the curves.
Miranda’s voice whispered in his mind.
He pushed the thought away. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t about galleries or critics or commercial appeal. This was about the storm and the wood. Seven years of silence demanding an answer.
His hands selected a file. The familiarity of it settled something inside him. He began removing the splintered edges, working with rather than against the wood’s natural grain. His body remembered this rhythm and the way his breath synchronized with each stroke of the file.
Time slipped. The morning light shifted across the workshop floor. He barely noticed.
The copper wire came next. He twisted it through the natural openings in the wood, creating a structure that complemented rather than competed with the driftwood’s flow. The metal piece needed modification. He worked it carefully with pliers until it fit against the wood as if they had always belonged together.
This wasn’t like his New York work. This was about listening and letting the materials guide his hands rather than forcing his vision upon them.
He stepped back, surprised to find his shirt damp with sweat. How long had he been working? The sculpture wasn’t finished, but it had taken form. The driftwood curved like a question mark, copper wire wrapping its length like memories. The metal piece provided anchoring weight. The sea glass caught light at precisely the angle where the wood’s natural curve created a hollow.
It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t sophisticated or theoretical. But it was honest in a way his previous work had never been.
His phone rang in his pocket. He glanced at his watch and shook his head. Nearly eleven. He’d lost three hours to this unexpected detour.
He washed his hands at the workshop sink, watching dirt and tiny splinters swirl down the drain. His palms bore the beginnings of blisters. The muscles in his forearms ached pleasantly. He felt more alive than he had in years.
He almost closed the workshop door without looking back. Almost walked away, back to just being the gallery owner rather than the artist. But something made him turn.
The sculpture waited in a shaft of sunlight. Imperfect. Unfinished. But started.
Sometimes starting was the hardest part. Emily had taught him that. She’d shown up on that beach at dawn and faced the blank canvas. He could do the same.
Maybe he could be that brave too.
Before he could change his mind, he grabbed his handiwork, his creation, his art, and headed back to the gallery.
Chapter22
Emily stepped back from where Grant had just hung her lighthouse painting. The natural light caught the brushstrokes differently here than in her cottage studio. Better, maybe. Or just different. She couldn’t tell anymore.
“The height’s good.” He adjusted the frame a fraction to the left. “Want to check the angle from where people will come into the room?”
She walked to the entrance and turned back. Three paintings in a row, telling a story she hadn’t meant to tell. The lighthouse interior with its brass lamp and half-written letter. The storm-tossed seascape, all churning grays and desperate blues. The courtyard gathering, warm with community she’d only started to believe in.
“They look...” The words stuck. Professional? Real? Like they belonged here?
He joined her in the entryway. “They look like you. I mean, like your work. The real work, not the?—”
“Not the stuff I did for Franklin.” She finished the thought he was too polite to voice. “Yes, these are different.”
Different because she’d painted them for herself.
Grant moved back to adjust the middle painting. His movements had changed over the past week as they’d prepared for the festival. Less careful. More fluid.
“You’ve been working.” She nodded toward his hands, noting the small cuts and calluses that hadn’t been there before.
He flexed his fingers, seeming surprised she’d noticed. “Just playing around. Found some good driftwood after that storm last weekend.”
Playing around. Right. She’d seen him hauling materials into the back workshop, heard the sounds of sawing and sanding when she’d stopped by yesterday. He was creating again, even if he wouldn’t call it that yet.
