Page 21 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

‘No. Not after losing Tilda. I ended up in the bespoke furniture business after that and made quite a success of it.’

‘I see. Sorry to interrupt. Please do go on.’

Reece hunched over and patted Bronte on the top of her head.

‘No need to apologise, young lady.’ There was a light in his blue eyes as he continued to talk.

‘On the day I met your grandma for the first time, I’d noticed there were a few exhibitions on, but there was one in particular at The Royal Art Gallery that appealed to me.

It was the works of John Duncan Fergusson, so I decided to check that out.

’ He gave his head a shake. ‘I still can’t believe that it’s been sixty-two years since I first saw her.

It only seems like yesterday.’ He paused.

‘I can still see it now. It was February and bloody cold. It was a relief to get back into the warm and wander around, marvelling at all the stunning paintings of Paris in gilt frames.’

Reece paused and then continued, ‘I’d only been in there about ten minutes when a blur of red caught my eye.’

Reece cradled his mug in his hands and nodded over at me. ‘Like I said before, she had those wild, red curls just like you and she was wearing a bright pink beret.’ Reece let out an embarrassed laugh. ‘I should’ve been admiring the artwork, not your grandmother, but goodness me, she was beautiful.’

My heart shifted at Reece’s words. I found myself shuffling forward in my chair. Even Bronte appeared to be listening. She’d stopped squeaking her toy apple and was gazing up at Reece, bewitched.

‘I was as nervous as hell, but I managed to pluck up enough courage to go over and talk to her.’ He reddened. ‘Well, that’s not exactly true. I deliberately dropped some loose change to get her attention.’

I let out a laugh. ‘And then what?’

‘Tilda scrambled around the art gallery floor to help me pick up the pennies. Then I insisted on taking her for a coffee to say thank you. She said yes.’

I raised my brows, encouraging Reece to continue with his story.

‘We fell in love so quickly. It was as if I could see myself reflected in her. Does that make sense?’

I gulped back a tide of emotion. I’d thought the same thing about Joe at one time. I pushed out my chin to reset myself. I nodded. ‘Yes. It makes perfect sense.’

Reece spoke again. ‘Your grandmother was everything I wasn’t.

She had so much promise and ability and wanted to become a successful artist. I did too, but…

’ His voice faltered. ‘I wanted to be as brave as Tilda. But I was nowhere near. Compared to her, I was a coward, and because of that, I lost her.’

There was a heavy silence. Reece took his time before continuing.

His attention swam to the scenery outside the cottage’s sitting room window and the cold ripple of the sky.

‘I took a part-time job at a legal firm not long after Tilda and I got engaged on that Christmas Eve. It was a friend of my parents who got me in. Mum and Dad thought that getting legal work experience would stand me in good stead after graduation.’ He flashed me a look.

‘Once again, I did it just to keep the old folks off my back.’

‘And how did they react to your engagement?’

‘They were furious. They couldn’t accept Tilda. They didn’t even try to get to know her. They just saw this young, struggling artist and decided she wasn’t good enough for me.’

Reece grimaced. ‘I kept insisting to Tilda that everything would settle down and that they just had to get to know her. Then they’d realise how wonderful she was, how much in love we were, and then everything would be fine.’

‘But?’

Reece eyed a seagull swooping around outside.

‘But I underestimated what they were capable of.’ He shook his head in disbelief.

‘They said if I went ahead and married your grandmother, they’d disown me.

’ He exhaled. ‘It meant I wouldn’t get a penny from their publishing business.

I’m embarrassed to say I capitulated.’ His eyes took on a haunted expression.

‘I regretted it for the rest of my life. I still do.’

My sympathy gathered for Reece and for my grandmother. ‘And how did Tilda take it when you broke off the engagement?’

‘She was heartbroken, but she did what she always did. She tried to act like she could deal with anything, if she set her shoulders and smiled.’ Reece’s mouth flatlined. ‘I never saw her or heard from her again, until I came across her Facebook profile last year.’

I gripped my mug of tea. ‘Did you end up marrying someone else?’

Reece nodded. ‘The daughter of a business acquaintance of my father’s.

Five years after Tilda and I broke up. Nice girl.

Her name was Lilian. I was fond of her, but I wasn’t in love with her.

’ He considered what to say next. ‘I think she knew it too, that my heart belonged to someone else and always would, but we both tried to make the best of it.’

‘Are you still married?’

‘No. I’m a widower. Lilian passed away ten years ago from dementia.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Any children?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Never happened for us.’ Reece drained his tea and set the mug down on a coaster on the occasional table. He looked agonised. ‘Rosie, you can say no if you want to. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘What is it?’

He fidgeted while giving Bronte another fuss. ‘Would I be able to buy one of your grandmother’s paintings? I’d love to have one to remind me of her.’

He dropped his eyes to the carpet for a few moments. ‘I don’t care what it’s of. You can choose which picture I could have. I’d just like to have something of hers, something she painted herself.’ He flashed me a look of embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds selfish.’

I realised that despite the fact he’d called off his engagement to my grandmother and hurt her, I felt touched by his openness and honesty. The way he was sitting there now in front of me, racked with regret, made me feel sorry for him. ‘No. It doesn’t sound selfish. Not at all.’

There were several of Grandma’s pictures on display here in this room.

But I could sense my attention shifting from Reece and down the hallway to my grandmother’s makeshift art studio.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the heart to go into her studio and begin sorting things out yet,’ I confessed.

‘I just haven’t been able to steel myself and what with other things going on…

’ I didn’t elaborate. Reece wouldn’t want to hear my woes.

This poor man was still haunted by memories of my grandmother.

I’m sure the last thing he wanted to hear about was me recently losing my adulterous husband.

I turned over his request. ‘But perhaps we could go in there together and you can take a look? Then you can choose one yourself. Oh, and I’m not accepting payment for it.’

Reece’s watery blue eyes sparkled with a mixture of relief and apprehension. ‘Are you sure? I’m more than happy to pay you for the painting.’ He sat forward. ‘I don’t want to impose or force you into doing something you don’t want to or don’t feel ready to do yet.’

I shook my head. ‘You’re not. On either of those counts. And, like I said, it has to be done at some point, so why not now? It won’t seem as bad, having someone here with me.’

Reece offered me a small, flickering smile of gratitude.

‘No time like the present, and like I said, at least I’m not having to go in there on my own.

I have moral support now.’ I got to my feet and gave my hands a decisive clap, hoping that would charge me up for entering Grandma’s studio.

We both moved off together down the hallway, with an intrigued Bronte bringing up the rear.

The wooden, panelled door to my grandmother’s studio was closed. I approached it with Reece behind me.

He gazed at the closed door as Bronte skittered around my heels. ‘When was the last time you ventured in here?’

‘I haven’t been in since she passed away.’ I turned and half smiled over my shoulder.

Reece shook his head. ‘I should never have asked you for one of Tilda’s paintings. It’s remiss of me to expect you to do this. I’m sorry.’ He started to move back up the hallway. ‘Please forget I said anything.’

I reassured him. ‘No. It’s fine. I can’t keep avoiding it. I have to bite the bullet and do it some time. As I said, at least I’m not doing this on my own.’

I reached for the gold-coloured door handle and cranked it upwards. It let out a subtle creak and I entered.

The rattan blind at the window on the left was pulled down. The room smelled of turpentine and paint.

Reece hovered in the doorway as I tugged up the blind, allowing the light to spiral in. The coastline rising upwards, with the bay swaying in front of it, became visible.

My grandmother’s heavy, wooden desk sat on the right, creaking under the weight of assorted papers, and beside that was another, slightly smaller table, with piled-up paint palettes.

Jars of brushes in assorted sizes were thrusting out in all directions and a couple of easels were propped over in a corner.

Various pieces of artwork leaned against the back wall in two separate rows. Above them ran a couple of long shelves, the first of which was dotted with an assortment of the ceramic butterflies my grandmother loved so much, and a few family photographs.

There were a couple of shots of my mum and dad, together with a few of me. One showed me as a gappy-toothed schoolgirl; in another I was beaming on my wedding day, grasping my bouquet of gerbera, eyes shining with love for Joe.

I forced my attention away. I didn’t want to be reminded of how happy I’d been then. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, as if all those special, treasured memories and moments had only been lent to me for a short time until they had to be returned– a bit like borrowing a favourite library book.

I turned my eyes instead to a few photographs of my Grandpa Howard, tall, proud and distinguished, with his lopsided smile and kind, crinkly eyes.

My mind shot back to when I was younger, and I would visit here during the holidays. My grandmother would allow me into her art studio on the proviso that I’d be very careful. She would entrust me with some paper, paints and a brush and encourage me to produce my own little pieces of artistry.

I gazed around, taking in her desk, the empty velvet chair and the Tupperware boxes she stashed with various bits and bobs sitting on the lower shelf above the old, disused fireplace.

I still expected her to come bustling in, bursting with ideas for her next painting, her earnest, navy blue eyes glowing and her messy, silvery curls bouncing on top of her shoulders.

It felt as though I’d taken a momentous step coming in here, finally. The relief that I’d made it through the door without collapsing into an emotional heap was a step in the right direction. That was down to Reece.

He was still lingering in the doorway, as though debating whether he should be here at all.

What would my grandmother say if she knew Reece was here now? Something told me she wouldn’t mind. No doubt, she’d be shocked. But she had never been the sort of woman to lash out and be spiteful just for the sake of it.

I knew I should follow her lead. I beckoned him in. ‘Please look at Tilda’s paintings and take one. Whichever you like. There seems to be quite the eclectic mix.’

Reece’s cheeks coloured. ‘Thank you.’ He pulled up an old, rickety chair from the corner while I knelt down beside him.

We sat in silence for a time, revelling in the quiet, serene atmosphere with my grandmother’s presence everywhere.

The various swirling flower arrangements, angry sea landscapes and the odd, dynamic portrait she’d painted of people I didn’t recognise leapt out of the canvas. Reece was stationed in front of the first stack of paintings whilst I was looking through the second.

My attention drifted over each one, appreciating the swirls of colour, the dancing shadows and the textures.

I shot a sideways glance at Reece. He was studying a still life of a small vase of bluebells, together with a bowl of apples, an old wine bottle and a half-filled glass sat beside it. It gave the impression of some French, louche lunch.

Reece’s lips quivered. He raised one finger. ‘I see she still continued with her unique little moniker.’

I followed his gaze to where there was a discreet, tiny, yellow butterfly just visible on one of the table legs. ‘Oh yes. She’d never sign her name on any of her paintings, but she always slipped that little butterfly in somewhere.’

One of Rowan Bay harbour at dusk made me stop. It was the way my grandmother had made the sky look spilt with raspberry and rose golds. The water on the canvas seemed to swish under my fingertips.

Grandma had always been rather shy about her capabilities.

Despite being a confident, together person, when it came to her creative prowess she was reticent.

She would ignore our protestations that she should try to sell her work or attempt to have them exhibited.

Instead, she insisted she wasn’t good enough and that gaining satisfaction and enjoyment from her art was what she cared about, not having them suspended from a wall or being bid for in some opulent auction room.

I admired a few more pictures. One was of a little girl with a pink flower in her hair and another was of a vase of sunflowers by a rainy bedroom window.

Reece was sighing with appreciation at a watercolour of the harbour lights at dawn.

I’d just started to take a look at a painting of a half-empty milk jug alongside a bowl of glossy pears when, beside me, Reece let out a gasp that made me jump.

‘Oh my God… Oh, Tilda…’

His eyes were big and glistening. He continued to stare at the painting for a few moments as if he couldn’t believe what he was looking at.

Finally, he took the portrait in both hands and turned it round to face me. His eyes were wide and shining. ‘Look what your grandmother painted, Rosie. Or should I say, who?’