Page 12 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Eight

I spent the next few days sleeping in fits and starts, taking Bronte on long walks down by the bay and watching the gulls perform acrobatic displays.

Nancy and Jeremy had rung me in a state of confusion and horror after reading Greta’s letter. ‘We’re so sorry,’ stumbled Nancy down the line. ‘We feel so let down by Joe.’

‘If there’s anything we can do,’ chipped in Jeremy, ‘you only have to ask.’ He coughed. ‘We want to see you, Rosie. Stay in touch.’

‘There’s no need for either of you to feel guilty,’ I’d emphasised, watching from the sitting room as the waves tossed over one another down below. ‘This was all Joe’s doing.’ I forced a smile. ‘And yes, we’ll do that.’

I’d exchanged a few more phone calls with Mia and texted Lola; Mia had spoken to her about my decision to give up my writing, but she was more than open to giving me a leave of absence.

I’d rolled my eyes up to the cottage ceiling.

Weren’t they listening? Were they just trying to humour me?

Didn’t they realise that I was serious about this?

How on earth could they expect me to station myself at my writing desk and rattle off a couple of thousand words a day about romance, when my own relationship had been a sham?

No doubt she and Mia would do everything they could to try and make me think again, but my mind was made up. I wasn’t a three-year-old in a strop about her favourite broken toy.

It wasn’t like I needed to write from a financial point of view either.

My generous advances and royalties over the past few years had made sure of that.

I’d been very, very lucky and I never took that for granted.

Plus, Joe had been very canny with stocks and shares investments, which meant he’d left an additional cushion of money for me, should I ever need it.

My mouth curled up at one corner. The truth was, I didn’t want it, though. I was determined to manage by myself.

I mentally tried to brush aside the yearning in my chest for my old life before all this mess had happened and decided instead to visit my late grandparents’ final resting place at Rowan Bay Church and take some flowers to their grave.

Rowan Bay Church was a stout little Gothic-style place of worship set a couple of miles further up the country road from my grandparents’ cottage.

Its old graveyard, studded with headstones ranging from simple markings to elaborate and artistic carvings, was an echo of the community and its links to its past. The final resting places of sailors who’d perished at sea a hundred years ago jutted out of the grass beside the graves of a couple of local doctors and former reverends of the church.

The church’s stained-glass windows glistened out of its ruddy, steel-grey Coade stone.

The images depicted sea farers battling the elements.

The church doors were open and the stained-glass windows shone down like precious jewels.

Intermittent strobes of sunlight caught them, sending shafts of ruby reds, golden yellows and bottle greens onto the polished church floor.

On the way, I’d dropped by the local florists, Petal Power, and bought a big bouquet of amber and russet roses to leave at their grave.

I hugged it tighter to me as I made my way towards the cemetery. The air from the church was a heady scent of candle wax, flowers and musty bibles.

I glanced down at the pine cones and berries of the bouquet I’d bought, interspersed with the blooms. The florist was talking about taking Christmas orders, even though it was still early November. I’d arrange the flowers on their graves and have a few moments to myself with them.

Oh God. I was struggling to think about tomorrow, let alone Christmas. The prospect of that iced my heart over.

The colour and the cosiness of it; spending the holiday snuggled up with Joe, making Christmas dinner and having warm almond croissants for breakfast; taking brisk woodland, Boxing Day walks with Bronte and watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

That was all gone now. Just a series of memories tied together.

The tissue paper my flowers were wrapped in let out a flutter.

I buried my face in my bundle of dark green woollen scarf.

I didn’t want a repetition of Rhea Stafford’s incessant interrogations.

The way I was feeling, I was likely to bite someone else’s head off if they happened to spot me and ask me anything remotely personal.

I didn’t need the questions, the head tilts and the sympathetic looks.

At least there didn’t appear to have been anything new in the newspapers or magazines so far about Joe’s death and me.

That was something. And Mia, bless her, would deal with it anyway.

I was constantly and acutely aware of my life being a lie. I didn’t need to be reminded of it in newspaper and magazine headlines.

The wind had dropped and I could hear the waves slapping in the bay against the rocks.

A couple of gravediggers were chatting quietly a few feet away from me. They both nodded their heads, before resuming their conversation.

The last time I had been here was for my grandma’s funeral; it seemed a lifetime ago.

Odd bursts of pale sunshine strobed through the clouds. I offered the two gravediggers a fleeting, watery smile of gratitude and weaved my way over to where my grandparents were.

My booted feet crunched on the chipped gravel along the paths snaking between the headstones.

My grandparents were resting together at the other end of the churchyard, close to a couple of majestic Scots pines.

I studied their black and gold headstone and knelt down to arrange the flowers in the flower flute.

I flapped out the hem of my long coat. ‘What am I going to do?’ I asked them in a broken voice.

‘Joe died while cheating on me; Barclay has moved away; I’m staying in your cottage with Bronte and as for writing anything ever again…

well… that’s done. I can’t. I won’t.’ I moved a couple of the flowers.

‘I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore or what I’m supposed to be doing. ’

I laced and unlaced my gloved hands. ‘I honestly thought my life was sorted. I believed Joe loved me and that I had a marriage like yours and Mum and Dad’s.

’ My fingers tightened around each other, as I continued to crouch there.

‘But it turns out that Joe was just playing me for a fool. I thought I was writing about us. About him.’ I shook my head.

‘I don’t have faith in love anymore. I don’t have faith in romance and everything that’s supposed to go with it.

’ I studied their granite headstone and the gold, swirling letters of their inscription.

‘I won’t allow myself to become vulnerable like that again.

I’ve learnt my lesson. No more trusting anyone.

’ I gave the top of their headstone a gentle stroke and stood up.

I was rearranging my scarf around the bottom half of my face again to conceal it just in case anyone might recognise me, when a flicker of movement to my right, drew my attention.

Oh bugger! It was him. The new lighthouse keeper. Mitch Carlisle.

He had Kane with him and they appeared to be taking a walk. Panicking, I shoved my scarf further up my face and crouched down again at my grandparent’s headstone, mentally willing him to go away. He was the last person I wanted to speak to.

I was likely to give him another terse mouthful.

When I slowly rose a few moments later and peeked over, I was relieved to see they’d gone.