“Then go.” Grant motioned to the door. “If you’re here for guaranteed safety and easy sales, you’re in the wrong place.”
Several artists shifted uncomfortably. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Grant. He’d built this gallery as a safe haven for local artists, and now he was challenging that very safety.
“That’s not fair. We’ve supported this gallery through thin times. We deserve to protect ourselves.” Dave shook his head.
He softened slightly. “You’re right. You do. But protection can’t come at the cost of our integrity. The moment we let outside threats determine whose work we show, we lose everything that makes us different from every other commercial gallery.”
“Easy for you to say. Some of us are one bad month from bankruptcy.” Missy gathered her purse.
She headed for the door. Steven followed. Then Dave. He watched them go, his stomach sinking. These weren’t just business associates. They were friends. Community members he’d supported for years.
The remaining artists looked uncertain. Beth Ramsey, whose watercolors captured Starlight Shores’ subtle beauty, spoke first. “I’m staying. That young woman paints the lighthouse like she understands it. I don’t care what some Chicago lawyer thinks.”
“Same.” Jim, who kept a constant supply of pottery at the gallery, added. “I won’t be party to running from a bully.”
The others murmured agreement, but Grant knew he’d be hurt by the artists who left. The financial math was brutal and immediate. Artists pulling their work meant empty walls, lost commissions, and reduced foot traffic during the festival.
After they left, Grant sat in his empty gallery doing calculations. The numbers mocked him. Without those main artists, and if Julian did anything to ruin the traffic to the gallery from the festival, he’d have to dig deep into his savings just to cover next month’s utilities. The careful balance he’d maintained for years was shattered.
His phone buzzed. A text from Miranda, of all people.Heard you’re having gallery troubles. I could find you a buyer. Think about it.
Gossip spread quickly in the art world. He deleted the message without responding, but the timing made him want to throw his phone through the window.
He walked through his gallery, noting the gaps where artwork would be removed tomorrow. Missy’s silverwork section. Steven’s landscapes that tourists loved. Dave’s wood carvings had become gallery signatures. The space would look abandoned. Depleted.
Was Emily worth this? The question came before he could stop it. Just weeks of knowing her against years of building this gallery. The math should be simple.
But he remembered her face in the coffee shop. The way Julian had reduced her to nothing with practiced cruelty.
No. Emily was worth it. Her paintings were worth it. The principle was worth it.
His phone rang. Sally Morris.
“Grant Stone, what’s this I hear about artists pulling out of the festival?”
“It’s handled, Sally.”
“Is it? That poor girl was ambushed in Harbor Brew. And now your artists are punishing her for it?” Sally’s indignation crackled through the phone. “You need help?”
“I need artists with spines.” The bitterness leaked through despite his efforts.
“You need community support. Let me make some calls. There are more artists in this town than just your gallery roster.”
“Sally—”
“Don’t Sally me. That Holloway man was a bully, plain and simple. We don’t let bullies win in Starlight Shores.”
She hung up before he could respond. Grant smiled despite everything. Sally Morris was a force of nature when roused to action.
He returned to his calculations, trying to find a way to make the numbers work. Maybe if he cut his own draw completely. Delayed the roof repairs another year. Stopped the weekly artist workshops that barely broke even anyway.
Each cut felt like retreating. Giving Julian Holloway exactly what he wanted—Emily’s isolation and Grant’s gallery diminished.
No. He wouldn’t let that happen. There had to be another way.
Grant stood and walked past the festival exhibit. The one that would have to be reworked with the artists pulling out. He looked at Emily’s paintings. The lighthouse keeper’s quarters that had moved Winnie to tears. The storm-tossed seascape that pulled the viewer into the actual storm. The courtyard gathering that radiated warmth and belonging.
They were good paintings. That should be enough. They deserved to be seen, regardless of one man’s vendetta.
