Page 8 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape (Scottish Escapes #9)

I clutched at the steering wheel. Even though I’d showered this morning, I felt grubby again. Well, I supposed I had been all but bathing in my own tears for the vast majority of the journey.

I hadn’t eaten properly either. Before we’d set off, I’d nibbled at the banana and taken a few, reluctant bites of the cereal bar. If Mia had seen me doing that, she’d have been horrified.

My stomach let out an irritated, hollow growl so loud, Bronte’s ears shot up. She let out an unsettled whine.

‘Aww, it’s okay, sweetheart. You’ve been such a good girl. We’re almost there.’

My grandparents’ cottage was located ten minutes’ walk away from the main street on a higher enclave, which overlooked the bay.

The famous local lighthouse was situated almost directly opposite it, and perched slightly higher up, on the ragged cliffs.

I gazed at it and felt the memories flooding back.

I used to love it when, as a kid, Barclay would take Grandpa and me around the lighthouse explaining all the jobs that he did inside, everything from cleaning the windows and lenses, winding the clocks and sounding the deep, loud, trumpeting fog signal, to providing technical and historical information to any curious tourists.

He’d been so proud of being a lighthouse keeper and never tired of reminding anyone who cared to listen that the role ran through the Hogan family’s veins.

Their DNA was virtually stamped into every crevice of Rowan Bay lighthouse.

Even though Grandpa and I had been on these excursions to the lighthouse with Barclay on numerous occasions, we never got bored. Each time he gave us a tour around the lantern room or stopped to explain how sturdy the glass storm panes were, we’d be as fascinated as if it were the first time.

‘Thank Christ there’s no bloody gift shop in here,’ he’d often say to me, gesturing around. ‘Can you imagine me selling sticks of lighthouse rock or pencils as well?’

I would sort out Bronte and then we’d go up to the lighthouse and see Barclay.

I’m sure he’d be as pleased to see me as I would be to see him.

I conjured up pictures of his twinkly, powder blue, lined eyes, white sweep of hair and a dashing moustache.

I needed one of his fatherly hugs and to be regaled with sea-faring tall tales.

Barclay Hogan was every much a part of Rowan Bay as the bay itself was, and it was such a comfort that Barclay had volunteered to look after the cottage after Grandma Tilda passed away.

My car crawled up the incline before it slid away and flattened out.

An emotional lump lodged itself in my throat and refused to budge.

Sat there on the right was the cosy, white-painted cottage, which had been home to my late grandparents for forty years, with its pillar box red front door and picket fence.

The windows were shining, but there was a stillness about the place that made my heart sag.

The last time I’d been up here had been six months ago for Grandma’s funeral.

My grandparents had visited us in London on occasion, but I think they felt that down there they were like odd pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that didn’t quite fit. They couldn’t wait to get back to their beloved Rowan Bay, with its lighthouse, dramatic sunsets and crashing waves.

It was a strange experience, just being here with Bronte. Slivers of apprehension and disbelief took over. What the hell was I doing? Had I thought this through properly? I’d jumped in my car and driven hundreds of miles, trying to escape the pain of losing Joe and what he’d done.

A mixture of loss and anger brewed inside of me again and I tried to ignore it.

I eased my car towards the cottage and looked across the way to the lighthouse, balanced on the cliff face.

It stood there like one, solid, white sentry.

Its dome was painted sea blue as was its panelled door.

Beside it sat its various, white-painted outbuildings, which included Barclays’ living quarters, the fuel house, a boathouse and the fog signalling building, which housed the boilers needed for the loud, fog signal to operate.

It was like a little world on its own up there: compact, self-contained and ready to protect the rest of us.

Despite the leaden sensation in my chest and my head screaming at me, What the hell do you think you’re doing, my mouth managed another brief smile at the thought of coming face to face with Barclay again.

I’d last seen him in person in March, when Joe and I had come up to Rowan Bay for my grandma’s funeral.

Barclay had been wonderful then, hugging me, giving me a supportive shoulder to cry on and listening to my endless tales about what an enigmatic and wonderful woman Tilda had been.

I remember standing outside the cottage, the hem of my black dress flapping in the sea breeze.

I craved a friendly face and a warm welcome from the memories of my past. I knew I could rely on sweet old Barclay for that.

I parked up at the side of the cottage and let a relieved Bronte out of the back seat for a run-around. Anyone would’ve thought she’d been incarcerated for the past five years, the way she was bounding about.

Below in the bay, the waves were sending white froth spraying into the air.

It was comforting to know that if those white horses became untamed and started crashing against the rocks, the lighthouse beacon would come on and pepper the top of the harbour and the horizon in a comforting, bright golden light.

Barclay would be doing his duty as always and help those at possible peril on the sea.

I fetched the front door key to the cottage from my jeans’ back pocket while Bronte zoomed ahead of me, up the crazy paved path.

There were modest hanging baskets at either side of the door, and tubs of heather frothed at the top of the path.

I slid the key in the lock.

Bronte hesitated as I eased open the door and gestured for her to go in. ‘It’s okay, honey.’

She sniffed the air, unsure of where she was. I knew how that felt. It smelled of fresh laundry and looked clean and welcoming. Barclay had done a sterling job of taking care of the place by the looks of things.

My heart stilled as I followed Bronte inside and took in my surroundings. It was like time had juddered to a halt. Long-lost holidays spent up here came rushing back to greet me while I stood, taking in the familiar hallway carpet with its black and red swirls.

Grandma Tilda had been a keen artist, especially with watercolours, and a few of her impressive artistic efforts remained on the walls. A painting of a vase of snowdrops hung beside a depiction of a robin on a bird table alongside a tea pot, cup and a bowl of apples.

It was as though her talented hands, with their unique brushstrokes, had been captured for all eternity on those canvases. They seemed to breathe and move every time I looked their way, which gave me a shred of comfort.

I looked down the shadowy hallway to where my grandma’s artist studio was. She’d turned the smaller bedroom into her own little painting haven. The door was closed. It looked forlorn somehow.

Sadness clung to me.

I couldn’t face going in there. Not yet.

At some point, it would be a good idea to start sorting through her paintings and the assorted bits she had stashed in there, but I couldn’t do that right now.

I didn’t feel emotionally up to it. Being surrounded by her beloved paint brushes and easels was just too much to deal with.

At the back of my mind lurked the realisation that this cottage would have to be cleared and put up for sale.

This and then turning my attention to our flat and Joe’s belongings.

The prospect of it all and what I had to do washed over me and snatched me up in its vice-like grip.

I tried to calm my breathing. It was as if the walls of the cottage were squeezing the life out of me.

I should’ve set aside some time after Grandma’s funeral to travel up here and get the ball rolling.

But time had slipped away from me. Edits, plotting out my next book, publicity and interview demands had consumed my weeks.

Joe kept insisting he would be more than happy to come up with me and we could start making progress on getting the place sorted out, but the very idea had filled me with dread.

Joe had always given the impression of being so supportive and empathetic. Even in his legal career, he’d carried this air of approachability and understanding, which made his clients relax and put their faith in him. How was I supposed to remember him like that now?

I remembered Joe’s funeral service and what Charles Headley, his boss, had said about him in his regal-sounding but croaky voice.

His hazel eyes had misted over behind his round spectacles as he spoke.

He’d made a funny comment about Joe’s reputation for running late; ‘ Many was the time Joe would come racing through the door, clutching his takeaway coffee cup, ’ which elicited melancholy smiles and laughter from family, friends and colleagues.

Then Charles had straightened his black tie.

‘ Joe Hutton was one of those people in our profession who didn’t become a solicitor for the money or the prestige.

He became a solicitor because he wanted to right wrongs.

The legal community will mourn the tragic passing of a young man who didn’t get the chance to fulfil his potential, and yet, he leaves a legacy of kindness and decency. ’

My shoulders sagged under my jumper, as I gazed around myself, feeling overwhelmed with the responsibility I was heaving upon myself. Had they all been taken in by him too?