Page 25 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Nineteen

I called Reece while I slid two slices of pumpkin-seeded bread into the toaster.

‘Would you be able to pop round in an hour or so?’ I asked him.

‘Is everything alright, Rosie?’ Reece sounded concerned.

‘Yes, I think so. It’s just there’s something I’d like you to see.’

I wandered through to the sitting room and watched the chilly light slide across the cliff face outside. The water looked like a still, ice-blue curtain.

‘Och, sure. I just need to pop to the supermarket to get a couple of things and then I’ll drop by.’

I showered, dressed and took Bronte out for a walk in the woodland opposite. She bounded over the cross work of twigs and branches scattered over the woodland floor.

We’d just arrived back inside the cottage; I’d closed the front door and was swiping off my hat, when there was a knock.

Bronte let out an excited bark.

I opened it to see Reece standing there on the step. He was sporting a snazzy tartan peaked cap like Peaky Blinders and was huddled in his winter coat and a matching scarf that was knotted at his throat.

His hands were behind his back. Like a magician, he produced a beautiful, festive looking bouquet of roses and carnations, interspersed with berries and holly and ivy. He proffered them to me. ‘For you.’

I gawped at him, touched by his thoughtfulness.

‘They’re beautiful. Thank you.’ A lump clotted in my throat as I accepted them.

The fragrant, perfumed scent wafted up out of the red and white tissue paper they were wrapped in.

A huge, silky green bow was holding them together. ‘What have I done to deserve these?’

I beckoned Reece in from the cold.

Bronte jumped up at him as he entered and she was rewarded with pats on her head.

Reece pulled a dismissive face at my question. ‘You were so kind and welcoming to me yesterday, even after I told you about what happened between your grandmother and me. I appreciate it.’ He gave me a wink. ‘And it’s also to apologise for almost frightening you half to death.’

I gazed down at the delicate heads of the flowers.

As if out of nowhere, everything hit me with brute force: Joe, Mum and Dad, Christmas looming, my grandparents no longer here, Barclay moving on, my writing career finished and my loss of direction.

I tried to bury a tearful gulp, but it was no good.

Out it came, followed by a tear sliding down my face.

Horror shone out of Reece. ‘Oh no. Och lass, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m such an old eejit!’

I shook my head and swallowed. ‘It’s not you. I’m just letting things get on top of me, that’s all. It’s been rather a tough time of late.’

I dashed my face with the back of my right hand while still clutching the flowers. I hurried into the kitchen. I placed them in the sink and rooted around for one of Grandma’s vases, which she’d stored in a cupboard under the plates.

I found a pretty, cranberry coloured vase with white dots painted around the rim, and filled it with cold water.

I fetched a pair of scissors from the cutlery drawer, snipped off the ends of the stems and cut open the sachet of flower food.

I watched it swirl and drift to the bottom of the vase– a bit like how I felt at the moment.

I gave my head a mental shake. Come on, Winters!

I set the flowers on the kitchen window sill and turned.

Reece was watching me with concern from the kitchen doorway. ‘Are you sure you’re alright? I know we don’t know each other very well, but I’m a good listener. Well, actually, I think I’m beginning to go a bit deaf.’

I managed a laugh.

Reece cocked one greying brow at me.

I found myself fiddling with the flowers. ‘My husband died in July. He was knocked over by a car and killed.’

Reece’s jaw dropped. ‘Och lass. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’

I shrugged, not knowing what else to say myself. ‘It’s tough, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘It is. You just have to give yourself time. There’s no textbook for this.’

I shook my head. ‘No, there certainly isn’t.’ I gave him a long look. He was easy to talk to. A good listener, with those compassionate, world-weary eyes. I readied myself. ‘I found out in September that he’d been cheating on me with another woman for three years.’

There was a heavy silence. Reece let out a long, low gasp. ‘The bastard.’ He coloured. ‘Och lass, I’m sorry for speaking ill of the dead, but still.’

I flung my hands in the air for something to do. ‘Please don’t apologise. I’ve been doing the same thing.’

He shook his head in shock. ‘And how are you doing? I mean, how are you coping with it all?’

‘Sometimes I think I’m beginning to cope, and then other times I know I’m not. Sometimes I wish he was here, so I could scream at him. Other times a part of me is glad he isn’t.’ I managed a brief smile. ‘Keeping busy helps. Right. Come on. Let me show you something.’

I led a still-stunned Reece down the hallway and back into Grandma’s studio.

The light spiralled and twisted through the window and down onto her paintings resting there.

I reached over to her desk and retrieved one of the journals.

‘I was tidying up Grandma’s desk last night as you can see, when I came across these.

There’s a whole stack of them and they were all together in that bottom drawer.

I couldn’t open it at first. It was locked.

But after a bit of searching around, I located the key. ’

Reece shrugged off his coat and draped it over one arm. ‘What are they?’

‘Journals. Diaries. My grandma’s.’

Reece’s brows lifted. ‘I didn’t know she kept diaries.’

‘Neither did I.’ I picked up the pink, suede one in which I’d placed a few strips of coloured Post-it notes for reference, so I wouldn’t lose the place. ‘Take a look at the pages I’ve marked.’

Reece ran one hand over the cover, as though trying to connect, by touch, with my grandma. His fingertips caressed it for a few seconds. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course. Here, let me take your coat.’

I took it from him, while Reece eased himself into the desk chair and turned to the page I’d flagged up with a sliver of zesty yellow Post-it. He hesitated again.

‘I didn’t realise what they were at first, but when I started reading some of her entries… Well, I’m glad I did to be honest.’

Reece gave a silent nod of understanding and turned his attention to my grandma’s loopy swirls of handwriting. He began to read.

I watched his faraway expression shift from sadness to surprise. ‘Rosie,’ he choked, jerking his head up to look at me.

‘I know. Turn to the next page I’ve marked.’

Reece opened and closed his mouth a few times, but did as I asked him. His gnarly fingers moved the pages with the utmost care.

The next entry was the one I’d earmarked with a purple Post-it note.

Reece started to read again. An emotional crack escaped from the back of his throat.

‘Och, no. Oh, my Tilda. My beautiful Tilda.’ He set the journal down in his lap as though in slow motion.

‘What the hell was I thinking of? What did I think I was doing?’ His pale eyes shimmered.

‘I loved her. I never loved anyone else the way I loved her. And yet I let her walk away. I ended our engagement and took the coward’s way out. ’

I reached out and patted him on his right shoulder. ‘You were a lot younger then. You were under pressure from your parents. If you’d been a bit older and more independent, it probably would’ve been a different story.’

Reece’s eyes shone with regret. ‘I wish I’d come to see her sooner.’ His heavy eyes dropped back to look at the journal he was holding.

Now it was my turn to have glistening tears. ‘Take your time. When you’re ready, turn to the page marked up with the blue Post-it note.’

Reece turned to the page I’d mentioned. It was the one where she’d poured out her heart, just after Reece had ended their engagement. She’d spoken of wanting to believe in herself and her art, but she didn’t think she could do it. She didn’t think she had enough self-belief.

Reece’s eyes scanned the diary entry. As he took in what she’d written, his shoulders sagged.

‘So, she did want that after all.’ His voice faltered.

‘She did want to become a successful artist.’ He closed his eyes and then spoke again as though murmuring to himself.

‘I knew she was never satisfied, working in that bloody picture framer’s shop.

’ His frustration changed to pensiveness for a few moments. ‘What was the name of it again?’

‘Picture Perfect.’

‘Aye. Of course it was.’ His small smile vanished.

‘She’d always bat away my suggestions when I tried to encourage her.

’ He looked agonised. ‘Was that because of me, Rosie? Because I never fought for her? Did I make Tilda feel that way about her talent? That she wasn’t good enough?

’ His mouth became grim. ‘My damned parents made her think she was beneath me, beneath us all, and I knew she was growing tired of me not standing up to them.’ A dark expression clung to Reece’s face and refused to let go.

‘I didn’t deserve her. Even after all these years, she still thought about me, though.

She painted my bloody portrait, for heaven’s sake! ’

He let out a shallow, dark laugh. ‘Some people go through their entire lives never experiencing a love like that, and I had it, but I ruined it. I was a coward.’

I blinked back more pictures of Joe and cleared my throat. I studied the older man, hunched over in my grandma’s scuffed swivel desk chair, regret pressing down on him. ‘Look, Reece, you can’t keep dwelling on it.’

‘I should’ve fought for her. I should’ve given her a reason to come back to me. I was weak and cowed by my parents. If only I’d stood up to them.’

‘Regrets are painful things,’ I admitted. The irony of what I was saying lodged itself inside me. ‘But they can be avoided, if only you grasp opportunities where and when you can.’