Julian stood isolated now, the crowd flowing around him toward the paintings. His face reddened as people continued discussing technique and historical accuracy, their enthusiasm genuine and unforced. He walked over to her and leaned in close.“Enjoy your little moment while you can.”
A man with paint-stained fingers interrupted them. “The way you’ve captured light reflecting off brass. Are you using a glazing technique?”
She turned to the man. “Actually, it’s direct painting, but I work the metallic elements while the base layer is still tacky. It creates a different kind of luminosity.”
The painter nodded eagerly. “Would you mind if I tried something similar? I’ve been struggling with reflective surfaces.”
They talked technique while Julian faded into the background. When she glanced back, he was gone.
At least for now.
“Look at Grant’s sculptures.” Beth’s voice drew Emily’s attention to the corner where Grant had finally agreed to display his new work. A small crowd gathered around the driftwood and metal pieces.
The sculptures were raw and honest, nothing like his sophisticated New York pieces. These spoke of storms weathered, of things broken and reformed. They complemented her paintings in unexpected ways—his three-dimensional interpretations of the same forces she’d captured in paint.
“They’re talking to each other.” The SCAD instructor moved between Grant’s sculptures and her paintings. “Are you two collaborating? These feel like they’re talking to each other.”
Grant caught her eye across the room.
“We didn’t plan it,” she said. “But we’ve been walking the same beaches, watching the same lighthouse.”
The festival sounds washed over her, filled with conversations about art, not scandal, and questions about technique, not accusations. Her work stood on its own merit, speaking its own truth.
As the festival wound down, they headed for the lighthouse for what Emily found out was the annual first night of the Springtide Festival dinner. The cottage residents and friends gathered to celebrate.
Emily stepped into the courtyard, where string lights crisscrossed overhead, their warm glow competing with the sunset painting the Gulf in shades of coral and gold. She carried a plate of Sally’s famous crab cakes while Winnie directed the placement of tables with the precision of a general organizing troops. “The beverage station goes there, Clint. No, there. Where people can access it without blocking the garden path.” Winnie’s voice carried affectionate exasperation.
Emily set down the crab cakes and surveyed the growing spread. Jan from Harbor Brew had contributed several thermoses of coffee and her special lemon bars. The Sandpiper had sent over platters of fresh seafood.
Grant appeared at her elbow. “Your paintings sold. All three. The couple from Pensacola bought the storm painting, and a collector from Tampa wants the courtyard scene.”
“And the lighthouse?”
“It sold too.”
Sold. Not just displayed or tolerated, but valued enough that strangers would take them home. Would live with them. “I haven’t sold anything in years.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it.
“Then it’s about time.” His hand found the small of her back, warm and steady.
Melissa emerged from her cottage carrying her camera. She hesitated at the edge of the courtyard as she often did at gatherings. Emily caught her eye and waved her over. “Document this?” Emily gestured at the controlled chaos of setup. “Winnie’s been organizing this courtyard for decades. It’s its own kind of art.”
Melissa’s shoulders relaxed. Having a purpose always helped. “The light’s perfect right now. That golden hour glow against the lighthouse.” As if summoned by the mention of light, the lighthouse beam flickered on. Still an hour before true darkness, but Winnie always lit it early on celebration nights. The beam swept across the courtyard, a familiar constant rhythm.
“Speech time.” Sally clinked a spoon against her wine glass. “Winnie, you start.”
“I don’t make speeches.” Winnie smoothed her apron, but Emily caught the pleased flush in her cheeks. “I just want to say how proud I am of our artists today. Grant and Emily both showed work that took courage to create and even more courage to share.”
“To our artists,” someone called out.
“To selling paintings,” Sally added, raising her glass of sweet tea as everyone laughed.
Emily found herself surrounded by faces that had become familiar over the past weeks. Sally, who’d staunchly defended her. Jan, who’d banned Julian from the coffee shop. Clint, who’d offered protection in his gruff way.
“I should thank everyone.” Emily’s words tumbled out. “When I came here, I was just looking for somewhere to hide. But you all gave me something better. A place to belong.”
Winnie reached over and squeezed her hand. “The lighthouse has a way of keeping people here. We just helped it along.”
Chapter28
