“Yes, staying at the Lighthouse Cottages.” She managed a smile, wondering if everyone in Starlight Shores was going to ask her about her business.
“Winnie’s place is wonderful. Such a special property.” Jan smiled as she got the order ready.
She paid and took her coffee and scone, grateful for something to hold. She should leave, go back to the cottage where she could be alone. She stepped outside, where she could see the man from the coffee shop walking down the street. Grant. Jan had called him Grant.
He moved with purpose, carrying his coffee and the bag with his scone, and heading toward a building near the end of the block. She stepped outside and followed at a distance, telling herself she was just exploring the town, not trailing a stranger who’d looked at her with such immediate wariness.
Stone’s Gallery. The sign was elegant but understated, much like the building itself. A renovated warehouse with large windows and exposed brick. Through the glass, Emily could see white walls displaying paintings and sculptures, carefully curated and beautifully lit.
She stopped across the street, sipping her coffee and studying the gallery.
He moved inside the gallery with the confidence of ownership, setting down his coffee before approaching a large canvas leaning against the wall. She watched as he carefully lifted it, studying the painting from different angles before positioning it on the wall. His movements were precise and deliberate, the actions of someone who understood exactly how to showcase art to its best advantage. This was his gallery, then?
Despite herself, she felt drawn to the scene. There was something in the way he handled the artwork with reverence and care that spoke to a deep appreciation for the creative process. He adjusted the painting minutely, stepped back to assess it, then made another small correction.
She missed this. The ache of it surprised her. The world of galleries and exhibitions, the careful curation of work, and the anticipation of sharing art with people who understood it. She’d lost all of that along with her reputation.
Grant turned suddenly toward the window, as if sensing her watching him. She spun away quickly and walked in the opposite direction.
Silly. She was being silly, standing there staring into a stranger’s gallery like some kind of stalker. What did she expect to find? Answers? Acceptance? Neither of those things waited for her in Starlight Shores or anywhere else.
She made it back to her car, slipped inside, and sat for a moment with her hands on the steering wheel. The morning’s expedition had been more draining than a simple supply run should have been. The curious looks, the whispered comments, and the way Grant had looked at her with that flash of recognition, followed by immediate withdrawal, were all too familiar, too reminiscent of the past months when she’d become an outcast in her own professional community.
As if mocking her, her phone dinged with a text message from an unknown number:Urgent. Open immediately.
She blocked the number, started the car, and drove back toward the lighthouse, fighting the urge to just keep driving until she hit a state line, then another one. But she had nowhere else to go. Her savings were limited, and her options even more so. The cottage represented the closest thing she had to a refuge.
The lighthouse came into view as she rounded the last curve, its white tower stark against the blue sky. Something about its solid presence steadied her. It had stood there for over a century. That counted for something.
Maybe that was enough for now. A place to stay, a roof over her head, and the promise that no one would demand more from her than she could give. Winnie had said privacy was respected at the lighthouse. She desperately hoped that was true.
She parked in the parking lot and carried her groceries inside, grateful not to encounter anyone in the courtyard. The cottage welcomed her with its quiet simplicity. She put away her supplies, placed her scone on a small plate, and settled onto the small sofa.
Through the window, she could see the edge of the courtyard, and beyond it, the lighthouse tower. The lighthouse that attracted artists and other lost souls, according to Winnie. She wasn’t sure she qualified as either anymore. She’d been an artist once, before everything fell apart. Now she was just someone trying to survive each day without falling completely apart. Okay, maybe the lost soul part fit her.
Her phone buzzed with a text from her lawyer. She ignored it. Whatever news he had could wait. Everything could wait.
She closed her eyes and listened to the distant sound of waves. In Chicago, she’d lived with the constant noise of traffic, sirens, and the elevated train rattling past her apartment. Here, the silence was broken only by the sounds of the wind, waves, and seabirds calling.
She’d have to get used to it. This was her life now, at least for the foreseeable future. A small cottage, a small town, and the growing certainty that she couldn’t hide from her past, no matter how far she ran.
The image of Grant’s face flashed through her mind. That moment of connection was followed by immediate retreat. She wondered what he’d heard about her, what version of her story had reached this small Gulf Coast town. Probably the worst version, the one that painted her as a fraud and a thief.
She opened her eyes and stared at the locked studio door. It could wait.
Chapter4
Afew days later, Emily stood at the edge of the farmer’s market, clutching her canvas bag and wondering if this had been a mistake. The morning sun cut between the vendor stalls, and the scent of fresh bread mingled with the salt air. She’d waited until late morning, hoping the early crowds would have thinned, but the market still buzzed with activity.
“Just get what you need and leave.” She adjusted her sunglasses and stepped into the flow of shoppers.
The first stall offered local honey, and she paused to examine the golden jars. The vendor, an older woman with weathered hands, smiled warmly.
“New to town?” The woman tilted her head toward the lighthouse barely visible in the distance. “I saw you walking up from that direction.”
“Just visiting.” She selected a small jar and handed over exact change, hoping to discourage further conversation.
She moved quickly through the market, gathering fresh herbs and a loaf of sourdough. Each transaction felt like exposure, and every friendly question a potential threat to her anonymity. Maybe she should have driven to the next town for groceries instead, but she could never pass up a farmer’s market with its fresh produce and interesting craft displays.
