Page 22 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Sixteen

I stared at the portrait Reece was holding.

It was of him as a young man.

It was a spellbinding, intense painting.

His dark hair was swept to one side, hiding his brow.

His light, wise eyes shone, and he was wearing a white, crisp shirt open at the neck.

The backdrop was the palest blue, making his eyes even more captivating.

He carried a devilish air. There was something intimate about the way my grandma had him looking out of the canvas.

Reece kept gazing at the painting in disbelief and then at me. I thought at one point he might crick his neck. ‘It’s amazing,’ he managed. ‘When did Tilda paint this?’

I admired the smudges of ghost grey she’d captured in Reece’s eyes and the strong angle to his chin. I shook my head. ‘Goodness knows. Grandma was very private and protective about her paintings. You never knew what she was working on until you saw it. That’s if she felt it was good enough.’

Reece marvelled at his portrait. ‘She was so talented.’ His voice was laden with awe. ‘I can’t believe she took the time to paint me.’ He let out a long breath. ‘She never forgot me and I never forgot her.’

Reece sat back in the chair, his attention still lingering on the painting of his younger self. ‘She never told me in the messages we exchanged, that she’d painted me. Maybe she felt embarrassed about it. I wish she had told me.’

He rubbed at his chin. ‘All these gorgeous pieces of her artwork; how many exhibitions did she do?’

‘None,’ I replied with a simple shrug.

Reece’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Not at all? You mean never?’

‘No. She always said she painted for her own enjoyment. I think it was more of a confidence issue. She never considered herself a good-enough artist. She was always so self-critical.’

I sat back on my hunches and stretched out my legs.

Reece leant forward on his creaky chair. I assisted him to prop the portrait back.

He looked pensive. ‘I had hoped she might change her mind about that. I used to encourage her to try and sell her work but she was even apprehensive about trying to do that.’

Reece gazed in wonder at his former fiancée’s volume of work. His kaleidoscope of expressions changed again from sadness to shock and then to a melancholy smile.

He pointed at his portrait leaning in front of him. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous, but I don’t suppose I could buy this one?’

‘Please take it Reece, but like I said, I’m not accepting any money for it. I’m sure my grandmother would have wanted you to have it.’

Reece’s weathered face broke into a delighted smile. ‘Thank you. That’s so kind of you. The fact that Tilda painted this…’ His words tailed off.

We both stood up and I handed Reece the painting. We angled it out of the open studio door.

Reece jerked his head towards the windows and the bay below. ‘I can understand why Tilda felt so inspired living here. Rowan Bay has such stunning scenery.’

‘Yes, she and my grandpa were very settled here. They loved Edinburgh, but I think they wanted somewhere more rural.’ As we departed the room, I took the opportunity to steal another appreciative look around.

My grandmother’s desk was littered with papers, clotted pots of paint and fine brushes.

The intermittent sun fighting its way through the window, glancing off her glass butterfly ornaments, brought them to life.

I almost felt like an intruder, having ventured into my grandma’s hallowed space.

Even my grandfather had only been allowed limited access to this room, except to bring her a cup of tea or tell her about some breaking news item.

She would vanish in there, singing along to her radio through the closed door.

But a glow of satisfaction and relief burst inside me. Ihadn’t been able to face going in there after losing her, and I had avoided it since my arrival, but thanks to Reece, I’d finally done it.

Reece and I reached the top of the hallway, carrying his portrait between us. Bronte was scampering beside me.

It was like a weight had shifted; I could begin to leave the grief of her passing behind for a little while at least and allow life to once again start its ebb and flow.

My thoughts drifted back to the top of her desk scattered with assorted papers.

It looked like a mish-mash of rough sketches, receipts and to-do lists which were only half completed.

My lips promised a smile. Grandma Tilda had tried to be more organised, but failed.

Her often scatter-brained approach to life used to drive my grandfather and mother mad.

Mum had always been the epitome of efficiency.

I liked to think I was a crazy hybrid of them both.

I helped Reece to place the picture beside his armchair in the sitting toom. Bronte was gazing up at him again, her apple toy now back in her mouth, making her look like one of Henry VIII’s stuffed boars.

This afternoon, I would make a start on tidying up my grandma’s desk.

Little wins, Rosie. Little wins.

Reece shrugged on his winter coat and lingered in the hallway with his painting beside him. ‘I hope my presence here today hasn’t upset you, Rosie. I’d hoped to see where Tilda lived, but you’ve given me so much more.’

‘It’s fine. I mean, it did all come as a bit of a shock. I’m just sorry you weren’t able to see my grandmother before she…’ I didn’t finish the sentence.

Reece gave an understanding nod and picked up his portrait. ‘Me too. How long are you intending on staying here for?’

A sliver of panic raced through me. Sooner or later, I would have to take decisive action and decide what I was going to do.

I forced a smile. ‘I’m not sure yet. Just playing things by ear at the moment.’

I gestured to his portrait in his arms. ‘I know the weather is alright at the minute, but let me see if I can find something to cover your painting with, to protect it from the elements.’

I darted back down to the art studio and after a bit of rooting around in my grandma’s cupboard, I came across a couple of sheets of canvas rolled up and stuffed in the far corner. One of these would be big enough to cover the portrait of Reece.

I returned back up the hallway with it rolled up and tucked under one arm. ‘Here. Let me help you.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Rosie. Thank you.’

I assisted Reece with the painting and held it, while he draped the canvas down and over the top of it.

‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but would you like to give me your contact details?

’ I asked him, jerking my head down the hallway, indicating the art studio and its door now ajar.

‘I’m intending on making a start on tidying it up this afternoon, now that I’ve managed to step inside the place.

IfI find anything else that might relate to you, I could pass it on? ’

Reece’s face blossomed with gratitude. ‘Would you? Oh, thank you so much. I’d appreciate that.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t deserve your kindness. Not after how I treated your grandmother.’

‘That was over sixty years ago.’

‘It still only feels like last week to me.’ His eyes clouded. ‘Believe me, I regret it. I never stopped loving her, you know.’

I took in the pain wavering in his eyes. ‘I can see that.’

I dashed into the kitchen, located an old envelope and pen and asked Reece to scribble down his contact details for me.

‘I’m staying in one of those Airbnb places a bit further up the coastal road.

It’s an apartment and very nice. I was planning on staying here a few more days and then heading back to Edinburgh.

’ He handed the envelope back to me, containing his temporary address and mobile phone number. His writing was all loops.

‘Thank you.’

Reece looked like he wanted to say something else. He fidgeted on the spot in his winter boots.

Bronte circled us both.

‘Tilda’s granddaughter,’ he sighed at me, as though reluctant to leave. ‘I can scarcely believe it. Could I visit again before I leave?’

‘I’d like that,’ I reassured him. I helped him out of the cottage door with the painting, even though he insisted he could manage, and angled it down the garden path and out of the gate to Reece’s car.

He clicked open the expansive boot and was lowering it in with reverence when a flicker of movement to my left caught my attention.

It was Mitch and Kane, who looked as if they’d just returned from a walk. They were up by the lighthouse.

I raised one hand and gave a brief wave. I found myself noticing the way the wind was rifling through his dark curls, before checking myself.

Mitch did the same before burying his face into the upturned collar of his coat.

Kane followed obediently.