“Show me?” The request slipped out before she could stop it.
He hesitated. She recognized the look. The fear of being seen creating. Of someone witnessing the vulnerable act of making something from nothing.
“They’re not...” He stopped. Started again. “They’re just experiments.”
She motioned toward her paintings. “So were these. Still are, really.”
Something shifted in his expression. He led her through the gallery and back to his workshop, a space that smelled of sawdust and linseed oil and possibly hope, if hope really had a scent. Three small sculptures sat on the workbench. Driftwood and copper wire. Sea glass and rusted metal. Beautiful in their rawness.
“I started at my father’s studio. Then… I just couldn’t stop. I’ve been working here too.”
She moved closer, studying how he’d balanced organic curves against angular metal. “These are wonderful.”
“They’re not like my New York work.” His voice carried apology and defiance.
“No. They’re better.” She meant it. His earlier pieces had been clever and sophisticated. These had soul. “More honest.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t bitter. Just surprised. “Honest. Yeah, maybe that’s it.”
She reached out to touch one sculpture, then pulled back. “May I?”
“Sure.” He picked it up and handed it to her.
The piece was lighter than she’d expected. Smooth wood against rough metal. It felt alive in her hands.
“You should include these in the festival.” She set the sculpture down carefully.
“No.” The word came fast and firm. “Not ready for that.”
She understood. Wow, did she understand. But they each had to reach that decision in their own time. “Okay. But maybe soon?”
“Maybe.” He was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. “Emily, I?—”
The workshop suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. She was acutely aware of paint under her fingernails, the way the afternoon light caught in his hair, and how long it had been since she’d stood this close to anyone.
“We should probably...” She motioned vaguely toward the gallery.
“Right. The paintings. Make sure they’re secure.”
They returned to the festival space, but something had changed. The air between them crackled, like the atmosphere before a Gulf storm. She tried to focus on practical matters like the artist statement she’d finally agreed to write. But she kept getting distracted by the way Grant moved through his gallery and this festival room. Sure and graceful, like he belonged here.
Like maybe she was starting to belong here too.
“The statement’s still too long. I sound like I’m defending a dissertation.” She frowned at her notebook.
Grant read over her shoulder. Close enough that she could smell his soap. Close enough that she had to concentrate on breathing normally.
“Cut the second paragraph?”
She crossed out the offending section. Better. Cleaner. Like everything else she’d been learning here, sometimes less was more honest than more.
She set the pen down. “There, three paintings and one short statement. Officially ready for public consumption.” She looked directly at him. “I’m still worried about Julian, though. What he might do. If he’ll show up.”
“I know.” He reached out and covered her hand with his. “But I’m so proud of you. I swear, you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”
The warmth of his touch traveled up her arm. When had simple contact started feeling so significant?
She turned her hand palm up, letting their fingers interlock. “I don’t feel strong.” She shrugged. “But I’m tired of hiding.”
