Page 31 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

Mitch looked like someone had stood on his foot. ‘Things have become a little complicated.’

‘In what way?’

He squirmed in his driver’s seat. ‘She thinks I painted those pictures.’

‘You?!’ I sat up straighter. ‘Are you joking? What did you say to her? You pretended you painted them?!’

‘You’re doing it again! Firing a volley of bloody questions at me!’ He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I did not lie about painting those pictures. I’m not in the habit of going around passing myself off as Scotland’s answer to Constable.’

I squinted at him. ‘Then how the hell does she think you’re the artist?’

Mitch let out a rush of exasperated air. ‘I’ve no idea. You would need to ask her that. She just jumped to conclusions.’ He looked rueful. ‘She barely let me get a word in, rather like someone else sitting inches away from me.’

I glowered at him.

‘She just assumed I’d painted them, and the conversation carried on like that.’

‘And you didn’t think to try and tell her that you weren’t the artist, but Tilda Michaels was?’

Mitch rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I tried. But she just went off on one, praising the paintings and saying how beautiful they were, that they were mesmerising. Then she said she wanted to hold an exhibition, and she hoped there were more where these came from.’

I made a noise that was a cross between a laugh and a snort. ‘This is crazy. You can’t pretend you’re the artist and take credit for those pictures. It’s wrong. We’ll have to go back in there and tell her who the real painter is.’

But a nagging thought nipped at me, taking me by surprise.

Hold on. If we did that, what were the chances Ruth Mangan would change her mind again, just like she did the other day?

For whatever reason, this woman was determined that my grandma’s pictures wouldn’t be appearing in her gallery, no matter how great they were.

‘Rosie,’ said Mitch, his voice cutting through my internal deliberations. ‘Let’s grab this opportunity. I know it’s a bit left field, but it might be worth taking the risk.’

‘A bit?’ I choked. ‘That’s an understatement.’

I avoided staring into Mitch’s green-speckled aquamarine eyes. ‘How is this supposed to work? You’re a lighthouse keeper, not a painter.’

‘We get the go-ahead to have the paintings exhibited, play along that I’m the artist and then on the opening night of the exhibition, I come clean.’

My stomach sank. Could my life get any more complicated? Could it become any more of a shit show than it already was?

And now I was about to get involved in an art deception. I rubbed at my face so hard; I thought I might remove a layer of skin. ‘So, Picasso, what did the sabre-toothed tigress say about the exhibition?’

Mitch offered me a long look. ‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’ He sighed. ‘She checked the gallery’s exhibition diary and said they’d just had an artist cancel their pre-Christmas exhibition due to family matters, and so there’s a spot on December 13 th to launch it. It would run for a month.’

A month? My grandma’s paintings hanging in her favourite gallery under those spotlights, in all their glossy, bright glory? For four weeks? If she was here right now, she wouldn’t believe a word of it. I drew up in the passenger seat. ‘Hang on. Did you just say December 13 th ?’

‘Aye, I did. Why?’

A mix of sadness and happiness took over. ‘That was my grandma’s birthday.’

Mitch offered me a knowing look. ‘Then maybe this is serendipity?’

‘Do you believe in that?’ I asked him.

‘I’m not sure,’ he conceded. ‘This is a bit of a coincidence though.’

Maybe all the stars were aligning. Perhaps it was all meant to work out this way: messy, chaotic, and all.

My eyebrows rose at Mitch. ‘Bloody hell! You must’ve made a big impression on our Ms Mangan.’

‘Well, like I said, I’m not bad when it comes to the pitching game.

’ No doubt she’d spotted his tall, dark, handsome looks the previous times he’d visited the gallery.

He would be hard to ignore, I admitted to myself.

I dismissed any further inspections of Mitch’s maleness and wondered what kind of pitching he meant.

I waited to see if Mitch might expand again about his life before Rowan Bay, but he didn’t.

I slumped my head back against the passenger seat.

Mitch did the same on the driver’s side and appraised me from under his lashes. ‘I had a quick look at the paintings when the gallery phone rang, and Ruth darted off to answer it, but I couldn’t see your grandma’s signature on any of them.’

‘You wouldn’t have done. She never signed her work. Well, not in the traditional way.’ I eyed him. ‘She always painted a very small, yellow butterfly somewhere in her pictures. Often, they’re so discreet, you struggle to see them.’

‘Oh.’ Mitch rubbed at his chin. ‘Look, Rosie, I know this isn’t how you probably imagined things to play out.’

‘You think?’

‘But it’s still an opportunity for you to make your grandma’s wishes come true. What if a chance like this doesn’t come by again?’

Mitch was silent for so long; I wondered for a moment if he’d passed out. ‘Life’s too short. Dreams, opportunities, chances– whatever you want to call them. They might only come around the once, so you have to grab them with both hands.’

When I didn’t say anything, Mitch trained his earnest gaze on me even harder. It reminded me of the lighthouse, casting its full beam across the dark night water. ‘We’re not going to deceive anyone longer than we have to.’

‘Then we get arrested.’

Mitch let out a shout of laughter. ‘Yeah. Right.’

I slid him another look. This was ridiculous. But then again, Ruth Mangan had sneered at Reece and me when she’d discovered my grandma had been the painter behind those gorgeous pictures. I wanted to find out why. Then there had been her bitchy comment about publishing being subjective.

‘Rosie? Hello?’

I pulled my attention away from the car windscreen and the view of the stormy, ghost-grey sky outside.

Knowing my grandma like I had, all this would’ve made her laugh.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth when I thought about her, and about the fact the exhibition would be on her birthday too.

It would have been her eightieth birthday.

What if Mitch was right? What if we decided not to go ahead with this and didn’t get another opportunity with another gallery?

I’d be sitting, kicking myself that I hadn’t taken this chance.

After all, that was what Grandma did. She didn’t put herself out there and take a chance, and she’d spent the rest of her life regretting it.

I could feel myself wavering. What if this was the only opportunity we had to have Grandma’s art shown to the public?

I angled round to Mitch. ‘You promise me that as soon as it’s opening night, we come clean and tell Ruth Mangan the truth.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, we will. I’m bricking it in case she or anyone else starts asking me about perspective and tonal aspects.’

I ignored a warning voice whispering in my ear that I could very well be launching myself into an embarrassing situation. No, scrub that. In all likelihood, I was launching myself into an embarrassing situation. But the way I saw it, what other choice did we have?

‘So, we’re going to do this?’ Mitch asked.

‘Yes. Okay. I’ll tell Reece, but no one else. Don’t you either.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t. I’ve given Ruth my contact details, so she’ll be in touch shortly with more information on how everything will pan out. We have free reign to have whatever sort of opening night we want.’

Mitch fired up the ignition.

My stomach somersaulted when I thought about what we were doing. Perhaps getting what you wished for wasn’t always a good thing.