Page 11 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Seven

H alloween had come and gone in a blur of tumbling copper leaves, flapping witches’ costumes, scary clowns and Barclay and Mags’ goodbye celebrations at The Sea Shanty.

All the locals had bid them farewell, in a riot of bagpipes, fresh seafood buffet and raucous sea-shanty karaoke.

Being surrounded by other people was the last thing I wanted to do, but I’d steeled myself, slipped in the back of the pub with its fishing nets and shells plastering the walls and given them both my best wishes for the future.

I presented them with an ornamental lighthouse, which they loved.

‘We’ll keep in touch,’ a watery-eyed Mags had said to me, her dangling, jewelled, raindrop-shaped earrings dancing under her purple-coloured hair.

Now the first of November was promising the imminent arrival of Bonfire Night.

I tried to keep busy, faffing around in the cottage, walking Bronte until we were both exhausted and trying not to think about Barclay no longer in situ at the lighthouse.

Barclay’s replacement was expected to arrive anytime, but I found myself mentally comparing them– even though I had no idea who his successor was– and felt guilty I was being rather childish.

Mia had called to inform me that Nancy and Jeremy had been in touch yesterday and asked for a scanned copy of Greta’s letter to be emailed to them. ‘I sent it to them straight away,’ she said. ‘They probably decided they should see it for themselves.’

It was a crisp, brisk afternoon and Bronte was champing to get out to the woodland close by and investigate the carpet of leaves.

I bundled myself into my coat, hat and scarf and secured Bronte in her harness and lead.

I’d just closed the door behind me, locked it and was pushing my phone into my coat pocket, when another dog– a German Shepherd– came bounding over the garden picket fence and launched itself at me, its friendly tongue flapping around.

Its big paws were clotted with mud.

I found myself staggering backwards but managed to keep myself upright.

‘Kane! Stop that! I’m so sorry! Come here!’

I brushed the mud off my coat.

The dog’s owner was standing just a few feet away. He was tall and dark-haired. He shoved his curly hair back from his face as he appraised me out of arresting eyes that were the colour of the Mediterranean. ‘Are you okay? He’s over excited. We’ve just moved in up there and it’s all a bit new.’

Beside him, Kane gave a lash of his tail.

It took me a few moments for my brain to unscramble this. Moved in up there. ‘Sorry, where?’

‘The lighthouse. I’m the new lighthouse keeper.’

I could feel my eyes boring into him. My chest gave an odd clench of sadness about Barclay’s departure. ‘You’ve got very big boots to fill, I can tell you that.’

He eyed me. His attention flitted to Bronte beside me and back again. ‘Sorry, who are you?’ His Scottish accent was a deep rumble. I was aware that this man was studying me from head to toe. I straightened my back. ‘I’m Rosie. Rosie Winters.’

He shifted from foot to foot in his heavy black boots. He hesitated. ‘Are you a relative of Barclay’s?’

‘No. A friend. An old family friend.’

His dog, who was wearing a blue collar with his name, Kane , emblazoned across a gold disc dangling from it, trotted forwards a few paces and gave Bronte a curious sniff. Bronte eyed him and then did the same back. They were circling each other tentatively.

‘I’m Mitch Carlisle.’ He angled his head to one side. He continued to watch me from under his dark, arched brows.

My thoughts skittered around.

I was aggrieved that this man was standing where Barclay should be. It seemed almost incomprehensible that there would no longer be a Hogan as the lighthouse keeper in Rowan Bay. Hundreds of years of continuity and tradition had been ended by love. It was bitter-sweet.

I found myself glowering over at Mitch, unable to disguise my disapproval of him. His broad frame cast a wintery shadow.

My jaw clenched. The testy, acerbic Rosie was back again in full force.

‘Well, you certainly didn’t hang around, did you?

’ Barclay was born and bred in Rowan Bay, grew up for a spell in industrial Greenock.

I thought of his love of the sea, of his career in the merchant navy before he became Rowan Bay’s lighthouse keeper in 1983.

He was built into Rowan Bay’s fabric, just like his lighthouse ancestors before him.

I knew I was being unreasonable, but I couldn’t help it.

Mitch clocked my tight expression. ‘I’m sorry if you think I’ve stepped into Barclay’s shoes rather fast.’ His direct gaze made me stand up straighter.

‘Barclay was originally going to stay for the winter, but I wanted to start right away, so we agreed on first November.’ He pointed back over his shoulder at the lighthouse. ‘It can’t just be left vacant.’

My mouth flatlined. I knew he had a point.

Bronte, seeming to sense my tumultuous emotions, pressed her head against my leg.

I fixed Mitch with a steely look. It wasn’t his fault Barclay had retired.

But this man, with his slicked-back, dark curls and serious stare, shouldn’t be here.

Barclay should. Of course, I was delighted about Mags and Barclay getting together, but looking at his replacement made everything more final.

It was the end of an era where Barclay was concerned. My insides gave a lurch of desolation.

I should just have led Bronte away and returned to the cottage for a good, self-indulgent cry. I wanted to retreat to the armchair by the window, cradle a mug of tea, and wallow in the injustice of everything while the Rowan Bay waves swallowed the shoreline.

Mitch folded his muscular arms.

I curled my lip. I could feel tears banking up behind my eyes, ready to flow at any moment. But I was damned if I was going to crumble into an emotional wreck in front of this man. Hot lava of determination raced through me.

‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Ms Winters, but we have a dangerous stretch of water. I have to be here to warn mariners of the shallows. Can’t you see how perilous this rocky coastline is?’

My mouth pursed with irritation. Sarcastic sod.

Talking to me as though I was some idiotic tourist from the city.

‘Yes, I’m well aware of what it’s like around here, Mr Carlisle.

My late grandparents lived in this cottage for forty years, and I spent all my summer holidays here in Rowan Bay.

’ I flashed him a white-hot look of anger.

‘I’ve swum in this water more times than you’ve had a hot toddy. ’

He looked supremely unimpressed, which only wound me up even more. ‘I take it you’re not from here?’

‘No, I’m not. I’m from Strathyre in the central belt.’

I gave him a challenging look. ‘I thought as much.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

But I didn’t reply. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ And with that, I clicked my tongue at Bronte and began to make my way down towards the bay.

I didn’t process the dramatic views as I stomped my way back down the cliff path. I failed to notice the water splashing against the rocks and the rippling edges of the coastline. I wasn’t savouring the unmistakable scent of sea salt and the zing of the wind whirling in across the waves.

As I mooched along the shore with Bronte, my mind was cartwheeling. It was like my life was one of those tablets you pop in a glass of water and watch as it fizzles away to nothing.

I’d been so looking forward to reconnecting with Barclay, and now I had to confront the prospect of being alone here, with just the wild scenery. Shame pricked me. He was moving on with Mags, which was wonderful, but just like Joe, that was another person who was leaving my life.

After Bronte chased the waves and skittered across the sand, we made our way back up to the cottage.

I yanked the door key from my coat pocket and jammed it into the lock. Bronte stood beside me on the top step, her eyes wide like a Disney dog, taking in my every move.

I stepped inside and peeled off my coat. Bronte gave a little bark, waggled her tail and then ran to fetch one of her toys from her basket, which I’d popped into the sitting room.

I tugged off my boots and tossed them away from me.

I strode into the sitting room and made straight for the panoramic window, which provided enviable views of the cliffs racing along and the glistening sea lolling and waving in the light.

A couple of gulls dipped and weaved over the top of the water.

What was I doing here? Why had I come? What lay ahead for me? It was as though I was stuck down there in the water, thrashing around and not getting anywhere. The waves were pulling me down.

And what about the new lighthouse keeper? Captain Birdseye and his dog?

Nothing would be the same here. Nothing would be the same again.

All I’d done, I came to the conclusion as the spray arched over the rocks, was change my setting for another one.

I knew nothing ever stayed the same, but why couldn’t Joe have come to his senses?

Why had he thrown away what we had? Six years together.

Married for five. Having an affair for three of them.

It was no good. The awkward conversation with Mitch Carlisle just now, together with Barclay leaving the lighthouse and more jostling thoughts of Joe and his deception, was too much.

Surrendering to the torrent of emotion pressing down on me, I slumped onto the sofa and dissolved into tears.