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

I thought about my grandparents’ furniture, books and my late mum’s belongings; they would still be here too, boxed up and piled in the loft.

There would also be the eclectic mix of bric-a-brac my grandparents had accumulated throughout their lives.

Grandma Tilda, God bless her, had not been the most organised or tidiest of people.

My grandpa was forever telling her to have regular sort-outs and get rid of anything she didn’t want or use anymore, but Grandma Tilda would tut, grab the item out of my grandpa’s arms and protest that said item was an heirloom/she used it/she might use it/it had sentimental value and that she’d hang on to it ‘for the time being’.

I sighed. One thing at a time, Rosie. One thing at a time.

The house was silent, except for the ticking of a carriage clock on the heavy, grey stone fireplace in the sitting room, which was off to the right. There was also just the teasing rush of the waves from down below in the bay.

Bronte ambled around beside me.

I allowed my fingers to trail over the top of my grandparents’ old cream leather couch and two matching armchairs.

It felt alien, being in this house without them here to greet me. I expected them to both come puffing in through the front door, complaining about the way the tourists insisted on parking along the main street.

Grandpa Howard had been an avid reader and a lover of horse racing. Copies of his dog-eared and much-loved Dick Francis novels nestled side by side in the bookcase at the rear of the sitting room, beside my grandmother’s PD James’s and her glossy, art tomes.

The white, fitted galley kitchen was opposite the sitting room to the left. A daffodil yellow scrolling blind hung at the window, and a mug tree and mugs in the same bright shade stood on the ledge.

Their old, wooden retro radio was resting on the kitchen windowsill.

I ventured a bit further down the hallway towards their bedroom.

My downturned mouth hinted at a smile as I gazed down at the crisp, lilac-patterned quilt cover and pillows. Everything was almost as it was when my grandma had passed away.

Next to their bedroom was the guest room where Joe and I slept when we came here and where I used to stay during the school holidays.

There was another one of Grandma Tilda’s paintings on the opposite wall, of a bouquet of pink roses.

It looked so lifelike; it felt like I could reach out and touch their frilly petals.

A chair sat in the corner of the room; on it was a sparkly cushion with the words, Be Happy, emblazoned across it in sequins.

Apart from that, the room carried a muted, understated edge.

I resolved to buy some pretty autumnal flowers for in here and pop them in a vase on the windowsill.

Despite the chill, I opened some of the sitting room and bedroom windows to clear my head.

I then hauled my denim jacket back on and took Bronte back outside with me into the sea-whipped air. I shuttled backwards and forwards between my car and the cottage, retrieving my belongings and all of Bronte’s paraphernalia.

The weather was dry, but cold. The late September chill was evident, made worse by the exposed bay. It was still beautiful though, even on a gnarly, grey day like this.

I eyed the lighthouse across the way, stippled on the broken cliff face. It would be wonderful to see Barclay again.

I clicked the front door closed behind me.

Realisation of what I’d done and what I was doing gave me a brutal shake. I wrapped my arms around myself. Had I just driven nudging five hundred miles to swap one empty property for another? One set of scenery for another? One set of ghosts for another?

I bit my lip, trying to stem another wave of emotion.

Bronte plonked herself on her bottom by my feet and thumped her bushy tail on the hall carpet. I dropped down beside her and nuzzled my face into her curly body.

I squeezed my eyes shut. For the first time in my life, I felt completely alone, like a shadow no one noticed. My stomach let out a gurgle of hunger.

Bronte gave me a knowing look. ‘I know. I know. I need to eat something.’

I kicked off my trainers and padded through to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Oh, bless Barclay. He’d been shopping and had popped some essentials in; bread, milk, fruit, vegetables, fresh orange juice, cereal and a couple of ready-made meals to get me started.

I’d need some more kibble for Bronte, so I decided to pop down to the local supermarket and get that now, before having something to eat. Food was the last thing on my mind, but my stomach was telling me otherwise.

My insides sagged at the prospect. What if I got recognised?

The last thing I wanted to do was engage in small talk with anyone.

I didn’t want to be pinned to the spot by doleful eyes, being asked how I was doing and listening to them talk about Joe.

Folks around here must’ve heard about what had happened to Joe by now.

When I’d rung him, Barclay had said that he’d mention Joe to a few of the locals and ask that I was given some space.

Mia, Lola and my in-laws had done a commendable job of trying to steer me away from the headlines, so I wouldn’t be witness to photographs of Joe and me together or to the headshot of him on the publisher’s website, looking all dapper and dimpled at the camera.

But all the same I would often get the urge to go on my phone– like an itching wound that was begging to be scratched– and end up coming across more comments, more headlines, more condolences; and they clouded my brain.

I thought again about stocking up on Bronte’s kibble.

Barclay didn’t have a dog or any pet, so he probably hadn’t thought to get Bronte some food.

If I kept my head down and avoided eye contact, I might be able to do a quick smash-and-grab and get away with it.

My proud grandparents would often remind the locals who their writer granddaughter was and how I visited them often as a small, red-headed, nosey child.

Some insisted they remembered me from all those years ago.

I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip. I just hoped none of them who remembered me happened to be knocking around when I went shopping. I wanted to be anonymous. Iwanted to be invisible. I just wanted to seek solace in the cottage, snuggle up beside Bronte and remain in the past.

Snatching up my bag from the top of the kitchen table, I returned to the hall and picked up Bronte’s lead. A walk though would be good for the both of us. ‘Come on then, honey. Let’s go get you some more grub.’

* * *

‘Rosie? Is that you?’

My hope of making a quick exit withered.

From the rear of the corner shop came Rhea Stafford, its owner and Rowan Bay’s answer to the BBC.

She came barrelling down the aisle like one of the town’s tourist boats, but with deep-claret-coloured, short hair.

‘I’d recognise those stunning red curls anywhere!

How are you? Oh, what a stupid question to ask!

Oh God, I was so shocked and sorry to hear about that lovely husband of yours.

’ She tilted her head to one side, like a pet budgie.

‘Barclay dropped by earlier. Said you were on your way. It’s been a while since we’ve seen you around here. ’

I gripped the handle of my basket. Was she ever going to take a breath? My brief smile was brittle. ‘Thank you. But it’s not that long ago since I was last up here. I came up in March, for my grandma’s funeral.’

Bronte was poking her head into the shop door.

I’d tied her up just outside and popped her quilted, waterproof, fuchsia coat on her for extra warmth.

Maybe I should’ve gone to the large supermarket in the next town, Castle Hamilton.

I would’ve been less likely to be spotted there.

But I’d done so much driving to get here and the walk to the next town would have taken me a good fifteen to twenty minutes.

I knew I didn’t have the energy or inclination.

‘So sad,’ she sighed, looking pensive. ‘Your Joe was so young. Just goes to show we don’t know the minute, do we? And they broke the mould when they made your grandma.’

My empty basket banged against my leg with frustration. ‘Yes, they most certainly did. Right, sorry, I don’t mean to be rude but?—’

‘Ah. So much to do when you lose someone, isn’t there? The phone calls, the emails, the documents. It’s never ending.’

It was like she was waiting for me to fill the space, but I couldn’t dredge up anything to say. She carried on. ‘I remember when I lost my Freddie; you feel like you’re lost in this fog.’

She tried to push some buoyancy back into her voice to compensate.

‘On another writing deadline, too, eh?’ Her curious pale eyes studied me out of her ruddy, sixty-something face.

‘I take it that you’ll be getting back to writing all those books of yours.

Best to keep busy. I love your stories. All those wonderful, gorgeous heroes of yours. I can’t get enough of them.’

The inside of my mouth turned to sandpaper. I was having difficulty looking her in the eye. Don’t start crying, Rosie. Hold it together, at least until you get out of the shop.

Rhea Stafford’s features carried an expectant expression.

My attention fell on the pet section. I reached over and snatched up a brown bag of salmon flavoured kibble for Bronte.

I wasn’t going to hang around here longer than I had to. Rhea Stafford was here for the foreseeable. Any minute now, I expected her to go and get a bright light and shine it in my face. ‘Sorry, Mrs Stafford, but I really do have to go now.’

‘Aye, you’ll have that cottage to sort out too now, I suspect?

’ she continued, relentless. She folded her arms against her plastic grocery apron, making it crinkle.

‘Is that why you’ve come up here? To clear out the cottage?

You don’t want squatters hearing about it lying empty.

That sort will be in there and having orgies in no time.

’ She let out a dramatic breath. ‘Tilda and Howard were such a sweet couple. She was a bit arty and unconventional perhaps, but her heart was in the right place.’

Unconventional? Arty? Of course she was. That was what made my late grandmother so special; so, her. She had the biggest heart of anyone I’d ever known.

Rhea Stafford’s critical inference about my grandma nipped at me. She was known for her enviable talent of being able to weigh many a comment with a passive-aggressive undertone.

Spotting a display of tins of biscuits by the till, I reached for one and thumped it down on top of the counter beside my basket with the kibble inside. I would take the biscuits to Barclay.

My gaze was steely. Before, I might have just brushed off Rhea Stafford’s niggling asides, but not now. Not today. ‘If you’re not going to go to the trouble of putting my groceries through your till, you can have this. That should cover it.’

I dived one hand into my bag, pulled out my purse and snatched a twenty-pound note from it.

I threw it down on top of the counter. I didn’t feel like me.

I didn’t sound like me either, but I realised I didn’t care.

I didn’t think I’d ever feel like Rosie Winters or even Rosie Ward for the rest of my life.

Rhea Stafford gawped at me as I thrust the kibble and Barclay’s biscuits into a carrier bag I brought with me.

‘Well, there’s really no need for that, I’m sure. I was just being neighbourly. In fact, I was just about to ask if Barclay had told you his news yet…’

But I was already whirling out of the shop and untying Bronte.

I was all for supporting local businesses, but I decided there and then that it’d be better for the sake of my privacy, blood pressure and Rhea Stafford’s personal safety, if I shopped at the supermarket up the road next time.