Page 47 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

She stiffened and looked away. ‘Yes.’ Her words sounded like they were about to crumble, but she fought to keep it together.

‘I loved my husband, but he wasn’t in love with me.

I deluded myself by thinking he was.’ She swallowed.

‘Jacob only married me for what he could get out of me. He knew my parents had money and he wanted a slice of the good life.’ She tried to compose herself.

‘Then Tilda and Howard moved to Rowan Bay, and I was smitten with this gorgeous, kind, funny man who loved to play rugby and go fishing down by the harbour.’ Her smile wobbled.

‘Howard had the most twinkly eyes I’d ever seen.

’ She shook her head. ‘But your grandfather never gave me so much as a second glance. He was only ever in love with one woman and that was your grandma.’ Her voice finally broke.

‘I was eaten up with envy. It consumed me. This charismatic, lovely young woman had moved to the area and everyone admired her and her art. I couldn’t deal with it.

I became someone I didn’t like, but it was as if I couldn’t help myself. ’

I glanced over at Mitch.

Ruth pushed a lock of hair back behind one ear.

‘There was Tilda Michaels, this stunning young woman with the flame red curls and the artistic talent to match, married to a man I adored. She seemed to have everything.’ Her fingers laced and unlaced themselves.

‘And so, I decided that she wasn’t going to get everything her own way.

’ Tears glistened in Ruth’s eyes. ‘I tried to make her feel unwelcome here, never included her in anything, drove her out of the local artists’ society, I even tried to spread some gossip about her. ’ She blanched with embarrassment.

Mitch and I watched Ruth, the confessions tumbling out of her, then she suddenly shot up from behind her desk.

Without a word, she made straight towards her office door, opened it and stepped out towards the exhibition guests.

‘Ruth?’ I called after her, scraping my chair behind me. ‘What are you doing?’

She didn’t answer.

Mitch and I picked up speed and followed her back out into the gallery.

Ruth drew up. She stood there in her shiny, dark court shoes as my grandma’s paintings shone down on her from the art gallery walls.

Outside, there was a flurry of snow spinning down from the black sky.

Ruth looked lost in her own thoughts. Then she thrust up one hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention for a few moments, please?’

The talk and bubbles of laughter died down. Someone clicked off the music wafting from the sound system.

Reece spotted us and came dashing over and hissed. ‘What’s going on?’

Mitch slid one supportive arm around my waist. ‘I think it might be confession time.’

Ruth waited until all sets of eyes were focused on her. Outside the gallery, the December snow continued to waltz down and settle over the roads and pavements.

I noticed her shoulders stiffen under her fitted suit jacket. She took in one long inhalation of air before she spoke. ‘Mitch Carlisle didn’t paint these beautiful pictures that are all around you.’ She pushed out her jaw. ‘It was a lady by the name of Tilda Michaels.’

The guests swapped frowns and confused looks.

‘And the sad thing is, if I’d known at the time that Tilda had painted them, I would never have offered to exhibit them.’ She paused. ‘And that would have been a travesty.’

She composed herself and carried on. ‘And the reason why I wouldn’t have exhibited her paintings is because I was jealous of her.

Both professionally and for personal reasons.

’ She flapped one hand in the air. I could see tears shimmering in her eyes.

‘I was eaten up with envy, because Tilda was everything I wasn’t. ’

The guests exchanged more looks between each other as they listened avidly.

Ruth gestured at the watercolours on the walls, lit up by the spotlights.

‘As you can see for yourselves, the late Tilda Michaels was such a unique and passionate artist. All her paintings show her talent and what a genuine person she was.’ Ruth took a deep breath.

‘I don’t feel at all proud of the way I behaved towards Tilda.

I did everything I could to make her feel unwelcome here in Rowan Bay.

There was and is no excuse for it.’ Ruth turned to me.

Her face was etched with regret. ‘I just hope that Rosie here, Tilda’s granddaughter, can accept my heartfelt apology.

I don’t deserve it, but I’m begging for it. ’

And with that, Ruth left the stunned crowd and headed straight back into her office and shut the door behind her.

The gallery was stunned into silence before bursts of chatter about what had just happened filled the air.

I waited a few seconds. ‘I’d better go and see if she’s okay.’ Reece and Mitch lingered with the other guests.

I approached the office door and tapped on it. ‘Ruth? It’s Rosie.’

There was no answer.

‘Ruth?’

Still nothing. I pushed my face closer to the closed door and tried the handle. It was locked. ‘Ruth, please let me in. We need to talk. We should clear the air.’ I let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Do you know that today is her birthday? Thirteenth December.’

For a few moments there was nothing, and then I thought I detected the faint sound of sniffling from the other side of the door.

Finally, there was the sound of the key in the lock and the door eased open.

I slid inside and closed the door behind me.

Ruth sat back down, hunched in her chair, her lit black and silver desk lamp casting shadows down the planes of her taught face.

‘We all have to move on,’ I commented, smoothing my dress as I sat opposite her. Pictures of Joe cartwheeled through my mind. ‘We can’t live in the past, however much we want to.’

Her attention drifted out of her office window, where we could see slivers of snow through the partially closed, wooden blinds. The amber street lamps lit up the snow, and it looked so festive.

‘My grandma harboured a dream for years that she might one day have her work exhibited, but she kept it to herself, and if any of us asked her about it, she’d laugh it off and deny it.

’ I studied her. ‘I only found out her true ambition after she passed away, when I stumbled across journals she’d kept. ’

Ruth’s haunted expression met my solemn one.

‘This was the only way we could get her work in here, by pretending that Mitch had painted those pictures and not her.’

Ruth looked shamefaced.

‘Grandma often mentioned what a gorgeous gallery this was and she’d name the artists who’d been fortunate enough to have their work exhibited here.’ I leant forward. ‘You obviously were deeply in love with my grandfather.’

She swallowed and looked away, back out at the snow swirling against the dark.

Pictures of Joe and the apartment in Hampstead, our married life together, us dancing to our first song at our wedding– ‘Everywhere’ by Fleetwood Mac– which we used to belt out in the car, him becoming hoarse shouting instructions to the TV for the football referee, Joe making me laugh with his impersonation of Owen Wilson; they were packed away now.

They’d meant so much at the time, but they weren’t treasured memories anymore. They were no longer real to me.

Mitch was.

I stood up and moved to leave Ruth’s office.

I cranked open the office door.

Ruth rose up from her desk and walked slowly towards me. Her papery voice carried around her office. ‘Thank you. I mean it.’ She jammed her lips together to try and stop herself from crying. ‘You’re a credit to Tilda and Howard. They both would’ve been so proud of you.’

Then, to my surprise, she opened her arms and tentatively embraced me.

I gave a fleeting smile and departed her office.

Mitch spotted me and approached. He took me in his arms and delivered the most tender kiss on my mouth.

Reece squeezed my shoulder and as the snow continued to spin down from the sky, I knew that being with Mitch here in Rowan Bay was where I was meant to be all along.