“Good gracious, it’s like Grand Central in here.” Sally surveyed the half-packed suitcase with obvious disapproval. “You’re not letting that awful man run you out of town.”
“I’m trying to protect?—”
“Yourself?” Sally snorted. “Honey, I hid from my first husband’s family for six years. Know what it got me? An ulcer and a twitch.”
“No, I’m trying to protect Grant and his gallery and the artists here.”
“I think you should take a stand. Bullies like that Julian fellow need to be taught a lesson.” Sally shook her head. “And Grant is a big boy. He’ll figure out what to do about his gallery.”
Clint stood awkwardly by the door. He finally cleared his throat. “Sally’s right. About taking a stand.”
Everyone turned to stare. Clint rarely spoke, let alone offered opinions on personal matters. “That Holloway guy is like the developers. Throwing weight around. Trying to force his version of truth on everyone.” He met Emily’s gaze. “You stay and fight, I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you on the property.”
She blinked back tears. Clint, who barely tolerated anyone, was offering protection.
Sally pulled out her phone. “I have lawyer friends in Tallahassee. One specializes in defamation cases. Shut down three similar harassment campaigns last year.”
“But the festival?—”
“Will go on.” Winnie stood. “With you or without you. But I’d prefer it with you. Those paintings deserve to be seen.”
“Grant’s gallery?—”
“Will survive. He’s tougher than you think.” Winnie moved to the door. “The question is, are you?”
They filed out, leaving Emily alone with her half-packed life. She sank onto the couch. Her phone buzzed with texts.
Beth from the gallery offering support:Don’t listen to the naysayers. Your work is remarkable and stands on its own merit. Don’t let them chase you out of town. I’m on your side.
Jan from Harbor Brew:Free coffee tomorrow morning. My treat. That awful man isn’t welcome in my shop again.
When had she gained so many allies?
She looked around the cottage that had become home. The shells lining her windowsill. The sketchbooks scattered on every surface. The studio door standing open, no longer locked against her fears.
This wasn’t Chicago. She wasn’t sure when that had started to matter.
Her suitcase mocked her. How easy to zip it shut. Disappear. Start over somewhere else where Julian couldn’t find her.
Except she’d already started over. Here. With paint-stained hands, tentative friendships, and walls that were finally coming down.
A car door slammed outside. Footsteps pounded up her path. Grant burst through her unlocked door, chest heaving.
“No. You can’t leave.”
She stood slowly and studied his panicked face. His hair was wilder than usual. Paint smudged his shirt.
“You’re too late.”
“Emily—”
“No, you’re too late to convince me to stay.” She gestured around the room at the abandoned suitcase and the unpacked clothes. “Winnie and so many people in town already have.”
Understanding flashed across his face. He crossed the room in two strides and scooped her up, twirling her around. Her startled laugh echoed off the walls.
“You’re staying.” Not a question. Pure relief.
“I’m staying.” Her feet found the floor again, but his arms remained around her. “Julian can do his worst. I’m tired of running.”
