Page 28 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

My jaw tightened. The rude cow! She was taking a shot at my writing! She obviously knew about me having been an author.

We stared each other out.

I straightened my back and was about to give her a mouthful, but Reece jumped in. He shot out one rough hand and rested it on my coat sleeve. ‘Thank you for your time. Come on, Rosie. We’re done here.’

I whirled round so fast; I almost cricked my neck. ‘What?’

But Reece was already steering me and the paintings back towards the gallery entrance.

I shot her a dark look over my shoulder. She folded her arms.

Once we’d set the pictures back in the boot of my car, I opened the driver’s door, slumped heavily in the seat and then thumped the steering wheel in annoyance.

‘Who the hell does she think she is? Did you hear the way she spoke about Grandma? Did you see the way she was looking down her nose at us?’ I shook my updo in exasperation. ‘Something isn’t right about all this.’

Reece frowned out of his passenger side window. ‘It does seem strange; I’ll give you that.’ He settled himself back in his seat. ‘Let’s not waste any more time or energy worrying about this place. I’m sure with a bit of research, we’ll find another gallery that’s more appreciative of Tilda’s work.’

I fired up the car ignition. ‘You’re right.’ I glowered out of the windscreen. ‘But I know it would’ve meant so much to her to have her pieces exhibited there.’

‘Rosie, it would mean a lot to your grandmother to know you’re putting in so much effort to get her work exhibited anyway.’

I struggled to smile at him. I knew Reece meant well, but my frustration was at boiling point. That bloody woman! Who the hell was she anyway and what was her issue with my late grandma?

As I pulled away from the kerb, I caught a glimpse of the woman, her twisted red mouth examining us through the gallery window.

* * *

The journey back was shrouded in disappointment.

Reece and I exchanged the odd bit of chatter, but it was rather forced.

What the hell was that woman’s problem? My late grandma deserved her talent to be recognised.

We arrived back at the cottage and I parked up beside Reece’s car.

Bronte’s delighted barks could be heard before I even unlocked the front door. There was a blur of movement up by the cliffs, which caught my attention.

It was Mitch, who was cleaning the exterior of the lighthouse. He was armed with a bucket of hot, soapy water, cleaning cloths, and his devoted Kane by his side.

Mitch Carlisle really was an enigma. He insisted on helping me search for Bronte and then checking in on me yesterday to make sure I was alright. He’d shown genuine concern for me but at the same time, he seemed keen to keep himself to himself.

I wondered what might have happened to him to make him be like that. A broken marriage? A deception of some kind? Friends ghosting him over something? Okay, I was giving this a bit too much thought. I had my own issues to deal with, without getting embroiled in other people’s.

I found myself watching him clean the lighthouse, his long, muscular legs bending and stretching. He appeared lost in what he was doing. His movements were methodical and rhythmical.

I gave myself a mental shake, and Reece and I began to retrieve my grandma’s artwork from the boot of the car to return them inside.

I was angling the last painting– one of the lighthouse scenes at sunset– back through the open cottage door when Mitch’s intrigued voice startled me.

‘Hi there. Wow. Did you paint that, Rosie? It’s fantastic.’

I spun round, startled by his soft-footed approach. Mitch’s appreciative expression drifted over the painting. There was an odd look on his stubbled face, which I couldn’t decipher.

‘No. If only. It was my late grandma. She was the artist.’

I was about to push the door open wider, but Mitch spotted what I was trying to do and gallantly jumped ahead of me. ‘Here. Let me help.’

‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’

Mitch eased the picture inside and set it down just inside the hallway. We were very close now, almost brushing against one another.

He was in no hurry to move.

I could see the sweep of his lashes and the way the corners of his mouth lifted when he was interested. We both stood there, our thighs almost touching. Mitch held my gaze. My breathing fluttered in my chest. Then I dragged myself back and moved away.

He swiped his hands down the front of his jeans. ‘So, your grandma painted?’

I clasped and unclasped my hands for something to do. ‘Oh yes. She was prolific. Mainly watercolours, but she dabbled with chalks, too. Her studio is full of her pieces and she painted these too.’ I gestured to some of her artwork on the walls.

He nodded. ‘So where were you taking her artwork?’

‘Trying to get them exhibited,’ I explained. ‘We visited that posh Lumiere Gallery.’

Mitch angled a brow. ‘We?’

‘Reece and me.’

‘Oh. Right, Your visitor from yesterday.’ There was that odd, loaded look again. ‘So, what happened?’

‘No good. The stuck-up bint in there wasn’t interested.’

Mitch blinked at me in surprise. ‘Seriously? They turned her art down?’

‘Yep. Without even taking a look at it.’

Mitch pulled a face. ‘I mean, I’m no art expert, but from what I can see, your grandma’s paintings are terrific. What’s the issue?’

Mitch wasn’t going to let this drop. He was looking at me like Bronte did whenever she wanted a treat. Shit. Oh, what the hell. What did it matter if I told him? It wouldn’t make any difference anyway.

I shrugged. ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea why they rejected them.

I spoke to the woman at the gallery on the phone yesterday, and she seemed very keen.

But as soon as I told her the artist’s name, she changed her mind about taking a look at the paintings and put the phone down on me.

’ I shook my head in disbelief. ‘I thought if she saw the paintings, she’d change her mind, but as soon as I told her I was Tilda’s granddaughter, she was very rude and said she wanted nothing to do with the art or my grandmother. ’

Reece had reappeared at the cottage entrance.

‘Oh, sorry. Let me introduce you both. Mitch, this is Reece, an old friend of my late grandmother’s. Reece, this is the new lighthouse keeper, Mitch. And this big, gorgeous boy is his dog, Kane.’

Both men swapped handshakes.

Mitch blinked and looked from me to Reece and back again. The strange expression he carried before cleared. ‘Oh. Right. So, this is Reece?’

‘Yes. Why?’

Mitch said, ‘No, no reason.’

What was he going on about? What was the matter with him?

Having examined Reece sufficiently, Mitch concentrated again. ‘Wow. That’s odd that the gallery wouldn’t even take a look.’

I ground my teeth. ‘I know you’ll think I’m biased. I probably am, but most of those paintings being exhibited in that gallery right now can’t hold a candle to my grandma’s.’

‘Oh, I know that,’ agreed Mitch. ‘I’ve seen them for myself.’

‘You go up there often then? To the Lumiere Gallery?’ I asked him, intrigued.

‘I do. Just for something to do. To get away from the confines of the lighthouse and the bothy for a bit.’ His lips hinted at a small smile and I found myself fiddling with the hem of my coat as he looked at me.

‘Nice and peaceful up there. Languid atmosphere and just the art for company. Suits me fine.’

I examined him again. He really did prefer his own company.

‘Well, we’ll just have to try and find another gallery who might be interested.

It’s just… the Lumiere Gallery was a place my grandma was rather in awe of, considering all the prestigious Scottish artists who’ve exhibited there.

’ A faraway look entered my eyes. ‘Ever since I was small, she was always armed with a paintbrush. She was able to capture the essence and shadow of life.’

Mitch listened. Another indecipherable look passed across his face, which had adopted a sudden and serious edge. ‘It takes such talent and dedication to be able to paint. I don’t think it’s something you can learn. You’re born with it. It’s a gift.’

I found myself surprised by his sudden openness. ‘Yes. You’re right. It is.’

I noticed he’d produced a stray cleaning cloth from his fleece pocket and was turning it over and over in his hands.

His fingers began to knot it, wrapping the material around and around his fingers.

If he continued doing that, he’d shred the thing.

He noticed me watching his hands and pushed the cloth back inside his pocket.

‘You’ve had a real time of it, haven’t you? ’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your grandma, your husband and then Barclay leaving.’

‘Yes, I’ve had better times in my life.’

I was aware his expression had softened as he continued to study me. Bloody hell, those eyes of his. They were lethal. I refocused. ‘We just wanted to do something special for her, that’s all. It turns out that she always wanted to have her work exhibited, but she was terrified of failing.’

I realised I was under scrutiny again from Reece’s hypnotic, blue-green gaze.

I shuffled from foot to foot in my ankle boots.

I was doing it again! Reacting to this man.

Well, that would have to stop. He carried on looking at me, a pensive expression clutching at his features. ‘Let me help. Please.’

‘You just did,’ I assured him. ‘That’s all the paintings back inside now. Thank you for lending a hand with them.’

‘No. I don’t mean that.’ He hesitated and pushed his hands into his jean’s pockets. ‘Could I come inside for a few moments please? I wouldn’t mind taking a look at some of your grandma’s other work, and I can help you back down to her studio with these ones.’

Before I could debate it, Mitch was inside, almost filling the hall with his tall, dark presence. I watched him pick up the lighthouse picture again. ‘Her studio is at the bottom of the hall, you said?’

I shot a look at Reece, who offered me a small, cryptic smile. I didn’t know what that meant. ‘Er… yes… Right at the bottom, facing you. Thank you.’