Page 23 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Seventeen

A fter waving Reece off, I returned inside the cottage and rustled up a baked potato with grated cheese and salad for lunch.

Bronte hoovered up the grated cheese I’d given her as a treat with obvious delight.

Then it was a walk with Bronte down to the harbour savouring the icy blast of wind across the water, before returning to the cottage.

I towelled Bronte after her insistence on splashing about in the waves and then made myself a warming mug of tea.

Cradling it in both hands, I made my way back down the hallway to begin sorting out my grandma’s studio. I decided to start with her desk first.

I studied the painting palettes, rolls of kitchen towels and brushes again. Her digital radio sat on top of some of the detritus, so I clicked it on. American rock wound out of it as I began to gather up the first few papers.

The rising wind gave the cottage windows a good shake and Bronte slumbered by the art studio doorway.

I wanted to keep some of her handwritten scribbled notes about the pieces of art she’d been working on: more blue tones needed for seascape; order two more of those horsehair brushes; check when pastel chalks are back in stock.

They were random, but they were pieces of her.

My throat constricted at the sight of her scatty, swirly handwriting.

I found an empty, pale pink envelope amongst her odd bits of stationery and slid the notes I wanted to keep inside.

I stretched and rose out of her desk chair. It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon now and darkness was beginning to swallow up the cliff faces and the harbour.

I strode up to the kitchen to get myself a glass of water.

From the kitchen window, I could see the lighthouse, dazzling with its swivelling golden eye washing over the horizon and lighting up the choppy waves.

It was a strangely calming sight in the descending dark, providing a warm, yellow hand of comfort.

I bet Mitch was wondering who Reece was, after seeing him leave the cottage.

I decided to keep that revelation to myself for now.

I poured myself a tumbler of water from the filter jug in the fridge, collected a few black bin liners from under the sink and slapped back down towards the art studio in my thermal socks.

Bronte stirred, so I let her out for a charge around the garden for a few minutes. Once she’d scooted back inside, I locked the door and gave her some kibble, before returning to what I was doing.

Sorting through the contents of Grandma’s room was painful, but in an odd way, comforting.

It made me feel even closer to her somehow, being here in her hallowed place and beside her chaotic art processes.

It was also temporarily blanking out Joe and giving me a little respite from the pain.

Every so often, my heartache would rear up like one of the big harbour waves and crash over my head, swamping me.

It could catch me off guard, as though I were drowning, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I pulled down the blind and switched on the main light. It was encased in a fancy, glass shade.

My grandmother’s desk contained three drawers, which were all shut. I tugged at the ornate, brass handles. The first two glided open revealing more tat. I smiled to myself. Broken pens, elastic bands and Post-it notes in the top one, and straws, blotters and pencils in the second.

I got one of the bin liners and deposited the broken pens in it together with pencils that had seen better days and some of the bent straws.

Once I was satisfied I’d got rid of what needed to be discarded from the first two, I reached for the third drawer and attempted to open it.

It wouldn’t budge.

I took a sip of my water and set the glass back on a coaster on top of the desk. The coaster said, ‘Painters know their art from their elbow.’

I tried to open the third drawer again. Maybe it was just a bit stiff?

Nope.

It seemed to be locked.

I frowned.

Why were the other two drawers not locked but this one was? And where was the key?

I searched around the desk and in the other two drawers in case she’d concealed it there. I also checked behind her glass butterfly ornaments and in her purple desk tidy. The irony of that wasn’t lost on me.

But there was no sign of a key.

I moved towards the window and checked along the window sill, just in case she’d placed it there. But I knew that if she had, I would’ve noticed it when I opened the blind earlier.

I proceeded to root around in a few of the Tupperware boxes stashed along the second shelf above the old fireplace, but there was no sign of a key in any of these either. Only tacks, blue tack, paperclips and Sellotape.

I was about to give up looking for this elusive key, when my attention alighted on something peeking out from behind one of her glass butterfly ornaments: the Swallow Tail, with its lemon and black markings.

I gently pushed it to one side.

It looked like a small, dark jewellery box.

There was an ornate motif of two peacocks on the top of the marble, oval box, their plumed tails entwined around each other in an elaborate display.

I couldn’t recall ever seeing this before. Although to be fair, it could’ve been in here for years and no one would have known, so protective of her art space was my grandma.

I picked up the little box. It was beautiful.

I lifted the lid to reveal a red velvet interior and some of my grandmother’s earrings inside. There were two pairs of simple pearl studs and a pair of dazzling, party-style earrings which looked like Roman gold coins.

I was about to close the lid again, when something made me caress the party earrings. They moved and I noticed an item move underneath them. It was a small brass key.

I carefully removed it out of the jewellery box and examined it. Could this be it?

I set the little box back on the shelf and moved over to the desk. I slid the key into the lock of the third drawer. It let out a satisfying click and eased open.

Stashed inside this drawer were a series of floral notebooks, all tied together with a strand of tartan green and blue ribbon.

I angled the notebooks out until a wodge of them were resting in my hands. I set them down on top of the desk and gently tugged the tartan ribbon. It slithered off.

Were they more notes about her art? Tough, self-critical observations about what she could do better? But if they were, why conceal them in here? What might be so special about these?

I sank back down into the desk chair, with its scuffed arm rests and weary, floral cushion, and slid the first notebook from the top of the pile. It had a daisy imprinted on the cover.

I opened it and my grandmother’s frantic handwriting stared up at me from the lined pages.

I’d expected maybe some random sketches, suggestions for possible titles for her art pieces, or notes about the best HB pencils.

But this notebook contained nothing like that.

It appeared to be a diary.

I started to read and as I suspected, it was a journal, detailing her thoughts, dreams, worries and hopes for the future.

Guilt tugged at me when I realised what I was holding in my hands.

As I took in what she’d written, turning page after page and allowing her words to sink into my head, I let out a troubled gasp.

Oh, Grandma.