Grant’s jaw tightened. “He knew and lied anyway. He destroyed your reputation, knowing you had done exactly what his father asked.”
Margaret gathered the papers. “I’ve made copies of everything. If Julian persists with his threats, any competent lawyer could use this to counter his claims.”
“I’m not sure why your lawyer didn’t find all this before.” Grant frowned.
“I didn’t have the funds to get a top-notch lawyer, and I’m not sure my lawyer believed in my innocence anyway.” She touched the photocopied letter. Franklin had been so careful to document everything, trying to protect her even then. He knew his son.
“Why did you do all this?” Her voice came out rough.
“Because I’ve seen enough unfair fights to know one when I see it.” Margaret paused, then smiled. “And because my son hasn’t looked at anyone the way he looks at you since—well, in a very long time.”
Heat crept up Emily’s neck. Grant squeezed her shoulder.
“So, what do you want to do with this information?” Margaret straightened the folders. “You could send copies to the Chicago papers that ran the original story. Clear your name publicly.”
Emily winced at the thought of more attention, more scrutiny, and more people picking apart her life.
“Or you could simply keep it as protection. Sometimes the best weapon is one you never have to use.” Winnie poured them all fresh coffee.
Margaret accepted the coffee with a grateful nod. “Julian’s betting you’ll do what you did before. Run.” She shrugged. “Different situation now. You’re not alone.”
She looked around the kitchen. Grant beside her. His mother, who had no reason to help her. Winnie, refilling coffee like this was any normal morning.
“I don’t want to drag you all into this mess.”
“Too late.” Grant’s thumb traced gentle circles on her shoulder. “We’re already here.”
“The festival opens tomorrow.” Winnie’s eyes held that knowing look. “And this town’s already made up its mind about you. Might as well accept it.”
Margaret stood and patted Emily’s hand. “Anyway, it’s all there if you need it.”
After she left, Emily sat staring at the folders filled with evidence of her innocence and proof that she had honored Franklin’s wishes.
Chapter27
Emily stood at the gallery’s entrance, adjusting her skirt for the third time. The Springtide Festival banners fluttered in the morning breeze. Crowds had already gathered along the waterfront, their voices carrying across the courtyard.
“Ready?” Grant touched her elbow.
She nodded, not trusting her voice. The last time she’d shown her work publicly, everything had fallen apart. Chicago felt like a lifetime ago. Yet the fear remained. She caught herself checking for exits.
Inside the back gallery room, her three paintings commanded the prime wall. The lighthouse interior, the stormy seascape, and the courtyard gathering told a story she hadn’t intended to write. They told a story about running and what happens when you stop.
“They look good.” Grant’s voice held quiet pride.
They did look good. Better than good. The lighting he’d adjusted yesterday—yet again—brought out subtleties in the brushwork.
The first visitors trickled in. She couldn’t help herself as she braced against the possibility of Julian showing up. Luckily, a couple from Pensacola studied the painting of the lighthouse interior. She forced herself to stay near the paintings instead of hiding in the back office like she wanted.
“The detail in the brass work is extraordinary.” The woman leaned closer. “You can almost feel the weight of that lamp.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you the artist?”
That simple question. Once, it would have filled her with pride. Then shame. Now... something in between.
“Yes.”
