Page 62 of Merry & Bright

“Come on, then,” he said. “You can call your sister while I cook.”

Chapter Seven

Rob’s cottage was lovely, as far from Cam’s as could be.

From the outside, it was a traditional two-storey cottage with white-painted walls, but inside it was sleek and modern with wooden floors and minimally-styled furniture in soft, neutral shades.

A couple of internal walls must have been knocked down to create the surprisingly sizeable living space. It was at least four times the size of Cam’s pokey lounge if you included the conservatory built onto the back of the house.

“This is really nice,” he said. “It must be fantastic looking out over the loch in the mornings.”

“Yeah, I usually have breakfast in the conservatory so I can do that.” Rob smiled, a little self-consciously. “Do you want to give me your coat?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Cam reached for the zip of his jacket but his gaze continued to roam round the room and his hand froze halfway when his attention was caught by the series of watercolours on the wall. Four of them arranged in perfect intervals in a horizontal line. The same man—just his face—sleeping in one, thoughtful in another. In one, smiling obliquely, eyes averted. In the last, troubled.

Painfully intimate, every one.

At last Cam dragged his gaze away and glanced at Rob who was watching him. “Did you paint those?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“They’re extraordinary. I thought you only did landscapes?”

Rob shrugged. “Landscapes sell better—but these were for me.”

“Is he—I mean, was he—” Cam broke off, wondering too late whether this was horribly intrusive.

“My partner? Yes, Andrew and I moved up here together.” Rob gave him a steady look. “Andrew died four years ago. You probably heard.”

Cam felt his cheeks warm. “Uh—yeah. Mrs. MacIver might’ve said something.”

Rob rolled his eyes at that, but he didn’t look angry so Cam didn’t feel too weird about returning his attention to the man in the paintings. He looked achingly fragile but that fragility wasn’t merely in the physical lines of his too-thin face and tired eyes. Cam felt like he was seeing the man through Rob’s eyes, could sense the helpless love and fear and anger in every brushstroke.

“Was he ill, when you painted these?”

“Yes,” Rob said quietly. “Dying.”