Page 27 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Chapter Twenty

R eece materialised behind me in the hallway.

‘Who’s your knight in shining armour?’

My cheeks popped with more colour. ‘The new lighthouse keeper. Tends to keep himself to himself.’

I knew I’d applied the same philosophy since arriving in Rowan Bay.

I mentally dismissed more images of Mitch’s green-ringed eyes and his thoughtfulness.

‘Come on,’ I urged Reece, watching Mitch’s dark-haired, muscular frame vanish up the cliff steps.

‘Let’s give this art gallery a call. We should hit the ground running. ’

Reece’s eye’s popped in surprise. ‘What? Now?’

‘Why not? No time like the present and all that.’

We returned to my grandma’s studio and I fetched my mobile from the desk. I pulled up the Lumiere Gallery’s website and located their phone number and dialled it. My stomach was flip-flapping around with a combination of nerves and excitement.

After several rings, a deep, modulated, Scottish female voice answered. ‘Good morning, the Lumiere Gallery. How may I help you?’

I smiled down the line. ‘Good morning, I was wondering if we might be able to make an appointment, please? We have some very impressive chalks and watercolours from a late, local artist. She was my grandmother. We hoped you might be interested in taking a look, with a possible view to exhibiting?’

‘Oh, I’m very sorry for your loss,’ replied the woman. ‘We would of course have to see the artwork before making a decision. Are they landscapes, portraits, still life…?’

‘A very eclectic mix,’ I explained, hoping I was doing a good job of verbally selling them.

Reece stood opposite me, listening to the phone conversation with interest.

‘My late grandma lived in Rowan Bay for years, so there’s a lovely, local angle to many of the pieces. In fact, some of her pictures feature Rowan Bay harbour, the lighthouse, the cliffs…’

‘Well, we could certainly take a look,’ mused the woman. I heard her tap the keys of a computer keyboard. ‘Could you give me some details first and then we can schedule a suitable appointment time for you to bring in a selection of your late grandma’s artwork?’

I stuck one thumb up in the air at Reece, delighted by how the phone call was playing out so far.

Reece beamed and jerked his thumb up at me in response.

‘Right. So can you give me your late grandma’s name please?’

‘Yes. It’s Tilda Michaels.’

The excited twittering from the woman at the other end of the phone vanished. I thought the line had crashed. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’ I asked.

The woman let out a weird cough. Her voice had morphed from friendly and enthusiastic to brittle in seconds. ‘I do apologise, but I’m afraid we won’t be able to consider your late grandmother’s work for exhibition. Our diary is very full right now.’

My shoulders stiffened in surprise. What on earth was going on here? Only a moment ago, she was all for it. ‘Sorry? I don’t understand.’

The woman was keen to wrap up the conversation. ‘Thank you for considering the Lumiere Gallery and I wish you success with finding another gallery for the work. Have a good day.’ The phone went dead.

I stared down at my mobile. She’d put the phone down on me!

Reece frowned down at my phone screen, back at me and then at my phone again. ‘What’s happened?’

I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I don’t know. She was so enthusiastic about seeing Grandma’s paintings, but as soon as I mentioned Grandma’s name, she realised their exhibition diary was choc-a-block and hung up!’

Reece’s bristly brows fenced. ‘Seriously? That sounds odd.’

‘I know. Tell me about it.’

I set my mobile back down on the desk, my head racing.

Reece shrugged under his woollen sweater. ‘Och, some of these arty types can be a bit unpredictable.’

I chewed my bottom lip. ‘But it was only when I gave her grandma’s name that she went all weird. Up until that point, she was charm itself.’

‘Did you get her name? The woman who you just spoke to?’

I shook my head in frustration. ‘No, she never gave it and I was so worked up about doing a good job of verbally selling the artwork, I never thought to ask.’

Reece brushed it off. ‘Like I said, arty types.’ He rubbed at his forehead. ‘We’ll just have to approach another gallery.’

I eyed my grandma’s collection of paintings leaning against the wall.

‘Maybe the Lumiere Gallery would change their mind, if they actually saw Grandma’s work for themselves, appreciate how talented she was.

’ I set my shoulders in defiance. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer, Reece.

I received so many rejections when I was starting out as a writer.

’ My determination took off. ‘I think we should just turn up at that gallery with a selection of Grandma’s best works.

Once they see it for themselves, I’m sure they’ll change their minds and be chomping at the bit to exhibit her paintings. ’

Reece didn’t look convinced. He sighed. ‘Okay. That’s what we’ll do, boss. But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’

* * *

After breakfast the next morning, I got ready and chose my smartest trousers, pink satin blouse and ankle boots that I was grateful I’d tossed into my case.

Reece was to meet me at the cottage at ten o’clock, so I could drive us to the gallery, along with some of Grandma’s paintings.

When Reece arrived he was dressed in his long coat with a crisp, white shirt, paisley tie and dark dress trousers.

‘You look very smart.’

Bronte sat, eyeing us both from the cottage sitting room.

I’d already loaded some of Grandma’s paintings into the boot of my car.

They ranged from her smudged, powder blue and lilac depiction of bluebells in the local woodland, to two different interpretations of the lighthouse at dawn and dusk, two contrasting portraits (one of an elderly woman reading and another of a little boy playing in mud) to a gorgeous depiction of cherry blossom swirling around on a spring day.

Once I’d reassured Bronte for the third time that I wouldn’t be long, I locked the cottage door and we pulled away with our precious cargo.

I thought it might be best to arrive at the gallery just after they opened so that we could catch them unawares when they were quiet. Hopefully, they’d be able to devote more time to appreciating and ultimately approving Grandma’s work.

The drive took us past stippled hedgerows and fields tipped with winter frost. Remnants of copper and russet leaves danced everywhere, and the scenery, with its glittery, silvery winter webs reminded me of an advent calendar. It was almost December and Christmas was drawing ever closer.

We caught glimpses of Rowan Bay sliding past us in a cool, steady line on the horizon as I negotiated my car along the country roads.

* * *

The Lumiere Gallery was a grand, white stucco affair, hugged by huge Scots pines.

It was situated just off the main road, on the outskirts of Rowan Bay, and was illuminated with subtle gold spotlights in the trees. In its panoramic window was a large, gilt-framed painting of a voluptuous, naked couple embracing.

Reece and I didn’t say anything. We just exchanged bemused glances. My grandmother’s artwork was streets ahead of that.

Once we clambered out of the car, we each took a couple of my grandma’s pictures, which we’d covered with pieces of canvas for protection, and made our way carefully towards the arched, glass entrance. We could come back to the car and collect the remainder of the paintings shortly.

Inside, the air in the gallery was brimming with spiced apple and clove potpourri.

There was no one around, so Reece and I took the opportunity to set the paintings down for a minute and take in what was displayed on the silky, burgundy gallery walls.

It looked like more of the same artist’s work that was in the window; pink, wobbly thighs under tables, a sweating, bulbous-faced man loosening his tie and assorted others of mean-looking children gobbling sweets. These artworks would give you nightmares!

No sooner had we wrinkled our noses in unison, than a handsome, but austere-looking older woman, who I estimated to be in her early seventies, emerged from a closed white door at the rear of the gallery.

She was wearing a slash of glamorous red lipstick and a well-cut, black trouser suit with a striped shirt peeking out from underneath.

Her hair was cut in a sharp, cheek-grazing, blue-grey bob.

She made me feel shabby, despite the effort I’d gone to, to look professional.

She offered a smile. ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’

As soon as she spoke, I recognised her smooth, Scottish voice.

It was the same woman who I’d spoken to yesterday, the one who’d been keen initially to see Grandma’s artwork, only to rudely close down the conversation moments later after she found out who my grandma was.

‘Yes, I hope you can,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know if you remember, but I spoke to you yesterday on the phone.’ I pinned on a friendly smile. ‘I’m Rosie Winters. I called you about my grandmother’s paintings for possible exhibition.’

It took a moment for the woman to register what I was saying. Her friendly expression vanished. Her eyes flew to the covered painting we each had by our sides.

‘There are more where these came from,’ interjected Reece.

The woman’s deep-set gaze hardened. ‘I’m not interested in these paintings or anything to do with your grandmother.’

What the hell was going on here? What was this woman’s problem?

I shot Reece a furious glance beside me. ‘May I ask why?’

She indicated to the illuminated walls and the fleshy artwork taking centre stage. ‘We only accept pieces of a certain standard.’

I could feel my ire being pricked. ‘I can tell you that my grandmother’s paintings are of a far higher quality than these.’ I pointed one finger at my grandma’s assorted, concealed pictures by our feet.

‘Art is subjective,’ clipped the woman. Her red slash of mouth twitched with a smirk. ‘Rather like the publishing industry.’