“Run? Hide? Give up on the exhibition? Give him exactly what he wants?” Grant’s jaw was tight. “Is that the plan?”
“You don’t understand?—”
“I understand better than you think.” He stepped closer. Not crowding her, just closing the distance. “I understand what it’s like to have someone try to destroy everything you’ve built. To make you doubt your own talent and worth.”
Her anger deflated. Of course, he understood. Miranda. The gallery betrayal. He’d lived his own version of this nightmare.
“But I actually might have done something wrong.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it. “What if Julian’s right? What if I did unconsciously steal from Franklin? What if I can’t tell anymore where his influence ends and my voice begins?”
“Then we figure it out together.” Grant’s certainty steadied her. “But we don’t let him win by default. We don’t give up before the fight starts.”
“He’ll drag your gallery into this. He’ll try to destroy your reputation too.”
“Let him try.” Something fierce flashed in Grant’s eyes. “I’m not Daniel, Emily. I’m not going to walk away because things get difficult.”
The comparison to her ex-husband should have stung. Instead, it felt like recognition. Grant saw her patterns, her expectations of abandonment, and was deliberately choosing differently.
“I need to think.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I need?—”
He stepped back, giving her space. “Time. I know. But don’t think too long. The festival is in three days. Your paintings are hung. The story they tell is powerful and real and has nothing to do with Franklin Holloway.”
She wanted to believe him. But Julian’s voice echoed in her head, mixing with all the old accusations until she couldn’t separate truth from lies anymore.
“I’ll call you later.” She turned away before he could respond.
The walk back to the lighthouse felt endless. Every person she passed seemed to be staring, though she knew most of them hadn’t been in the coffee shop. Paranoia and history blurred together. By the time she reached Starfish Cottage, she was practically running.
Inside, she locked the door and leaned against it. Her paintings of the lighthouse interior, the storm-tossed seascape, and the warm courtyard gathering. Had she unconsciously channeled Franklin’s techniques into them? Was there any part of her art that was purely her own?
The questions chased each other in circles. She sank onto her couch and pulled her knees to her chest. Maybe she should pack now. Leave before the festival. Save Grant the embarrassment of being associated with her scandal.
Chapter24
Aday later, Grant stared at the group of artists crowding his gallery’s back room. Their faces wore expressions ranging from concern to outright hostility. He’d called this emergency meeting after three panicked phone calls and a string of texts, all sparked by Julian Holloway’s coffee shop performance.
“I’m not displaying my work next to a fraud. That scene yesterday? The whole town’s talking about it.” Steven Chester crossed his arms. His coastal landscapes had been gallery staples for two years.
“Since when do we let strangers dictate who belongs in our community?” Grant kept his voice steady despite the anger building inside him.
“Since that stranger might sue us all for being associated with stolen work.” Missy Waters adjusted her glasses. Her silverwork brought in steady sales. “I can’t afford lawyers, Grant.”
“There’s no stolen work.” He scanned the room. Twelve artists. His gallery’s backbone. “Emily was cleared of all charges.”
“Legally cleared isn’t the same as innocent.” Steven echoed Julian’s words.
“I know Emily’s work. What she’s showing has nothing to do with Franklin Holloway.”
“How can you be sure? You’ve known her, what, a month or so?” This came from Dave Park, whose wood carvings occupied prime floor space.
“I know art. I know the difference between influence and imitation. Between learning from a master and stealing from one.”
“Do you?” Missy’s tone sharpened. “Or are you thinking with something other than your professional judgment?”
The room went silent. He felt the accusation hit its mark, but he didn’t flinch.
“I’m thinking about what this gallery stands for. What we’ve built together.” He looked at each of them. “We show real work. That’s supposed to mean something.”
Steven shook his head. “Pretty words. But they won’t pay my mortgage if this gallery gets dragged through legal battles.”
