Page 101 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

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.’