Page 40 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

He shook his head. ‘No. Never happened for us.’ Reece drained his tea and set the mug down on a coaster on the occasional table. He looked agonised. ‘Rosie, you can say no if you want to. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘What is it?’

He fidgeted while giving Bronte another fuss. ‘Would I be able to buy one of your grandmother’s paintings? I’d love to have one to remind me of her.’

He dropped his eyes to the carpet for a few moments. ‘I don’t care what it’s of. You can choose which picture I could have. I’d just like to have something of hers, something she painted herself.’ He flashed me a look of embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds selfish.’

I realised that despite the fact he’d called off his engagement to my grandmother and hurt her, I felt touched by his openness and honesty. The way he was sitting there now in front of me, racked with regret, made me feel sorry for him. ‘No. It doesn’t sound selfish. Not at all.’

There were several of Grandma’s pictures on display here in this room. But I could sense my attention shifting from Reece and down the hallway to my grandmother’s makeshift art studio. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the heart to go into her studio and begin sorting things out yet,’ I confessed. ‘I just haven’t been able to steel myself and what with other things going on…’ I didn’t elaborate. Reece wouldn’t want to hear my woes. This poor man was still haunted by memories of my grandmother. I’m sure the last thing he wanted to hear about was me recently losing my adulterous husband.

I turned over his request. ‘But perhaps we could go in there together and you can take a look? Then you can choose one yourself. Oh, and I’m not accepting payment for it.’

Reece’s watery blue eyes sparkled with a mixture of relief and apprehension. ‘Are you sure? I’m more than happy to pay you for the painting.’ He sat forward. ‘I don’t want to impose or force you into doing something you don’t want to or don’t feel ready to do yet.’

I shook my head. ‘You’re not. On either of those counts. And, like I said, it has to be done at some point, so why not now? It won’t seem as bad, having someone here with me.’

Reece offered me a small, flickering smile of gratitude.

‘No time like the present, and like I said, at least I’m not having to go in there on my own. I have moral support now.’ I got to my feet and gave my hands a decisive clap, hoping that would charge me up for entering Grandma’s studio. We both moved off together down the hallway, with an intrigued Bronte bringing up the rear.

The wooden, panelled door to my grandmother’s studio was closed. I approached it with Reece behind me.

He gazed at the closed door as Bronte skittered around my heels. ‘When was the last time you ventured in here?’

‘I haven’t been in since she passed away.’ I turned and half smiled over my shoulder.

Reece shook his head. ‘I should never have asked you for one of Tilda’s paintings. It’s remiss of me to expect you to do this. I’m sorry.’ He started to move back up the hallway. ‘Please forget I said anything.’

I reassured him. ‘No. It’s fine. I can’t keep avoiding it. I have to bite the bullet and do it some time. As I said, at least I’m not doing this on my own.’

I reached for the gold-coloured door handle and cranked it upwards. It let out a subtle creak and I entered.

The rattan blind at the window on the left was pulled down. The room smelled of turpentine and paint.

Reece hovered in the doorway as I tugged up the blind, allowing the light to spiral in. The coastline rising upwards, with the bay swaying in front of it, became visible.

My grandmother’s heavy, wooden desk sat on the right, creaking under the weight of assorted papers, and beside that was another, slightly smaller table, with piled-up paint palettes. Jars of brushes in assorted sizes were thrusting out in all directions and a couple of easels were propped over in a corner.

Various pieces of artwork leaned against the back wall in two separate rows. Above them ran a couple of long shelves, the first of which was dotted with an assortment of the ceramic butterflies my grandmother loved so much, and a few family photographs.

There were a couple of shots of my mum and dad, together with a few of me. One showed me as a gappy-toothed schoolgirl; in another I was beaming on my wedding day, grasping my bouquet of gerbera, eyes shining with love for Joe.

I forced my attention away. I didn’t want to be reminded of how happy I’d been then. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, as if all those special, treasured memories and moments had only been lent to me for a short time until they had to be returned – a bit like borrowing a favourite library book.

I turned my eyes instead to a few photographs of my Grandpa Howard, tall, proud and distinguished, with his lopsided smile and kind, crinkly eyes.

My mind shot back to when I was younger, and I would visit here during the holidays. My grandmother would allow me into her art studio on the proviso that I’d be very careful. She would entrust me with some paper, paints and a brush and encourage me to produce my own little pieces of artistry.

I gazed around, taking in her desk, the empty velvet chair and the Tupperware boxes she stashed with various bits and bobs sitting on the lower shelf above the old, disused fireplace.

I still expected her to come bustling in, bursting with ideas for her next painting, her earnest, navy blue eyes glowing and her messy, silvery curls bouncing on top of her shoulders.

It felt as though I’d taken a momentous step coming in here, finally. The relief that I’d made it through the door without collapsing into an emotional heap was a step in the right direction. That was down to Reece.

He was still lingering in the doorway, as though debating whether he should be here at all.

What would my grandmother say if she knew Reece was here now? Something told me she wouldn’t mind. No doubt, she’d be shocked. But she had never been the sort of woman to lash out and be spiteful just for the sake of it.