Page 42 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Sixteen

I stared at the portrait Reece was holding.

It was of him as a young man.

It was a spellbinding, intense painting.

His dark hair was swept to one side, hiding his brow. His light, wise eyes shone, and he was wearing a white, crisp shirt open at the neck. The backdrop was the palest blue, making his eyes even more captivating. He carried a devilish air. There was something intimate about the way my grandma had him looking out of the canvas.

Reece kept gazing at the painting in disbelief and then at me. I thought at one point he might crick his neck. ‘It’s amazing,’ he managed. ‘When did Tilda paint this?’

I admired the smudges of ghost grey she’d captured in Reece’s eyes and the strong angle to his chin. I shook my head. ‘Goodness knows. Grandma was very private and protective about her paintings. You never knew what she was working on until you saw it. That’s if she felt it was good enough.’

Reece marvelled at his portrait. ‘She was so talented.’ His voice was laden with awe. ‘I can’t believe she took the time to paint me.’ He let out a long breath. ‘She never forgot me and I never forgot her.’

Reece sat back in the chair, his attention still lingering on the painting of his younger self. ‘She never told me in the messages we exchanged, that she’d painted me. Maybe she felt embarrassed about it. I wish she had told me.’

He rubbed at his chin. ‘All these gorgeous pieces of her artwork; how many exhibitions did she do?’

‘None,’ I replied with a simple shrug.

Reece’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Not at all? You mean never?’

‘No. She always said she painted for her own enjoyment. I think it was more of a confidence issue. She never considered herself a good-enough artist. She was always so self-critical.’

I sat back on my hunches and stretched out my legs.

Reece leant forward on his creaky chair. I assisted him to prop the portrait back.

He looked pensive. ‘I had hoped she might change her mind about that. I used to encourage her to try and sell her work but she was even apprehensive about trying to do that.’

Reece gazed in wonder at his former fiancée’s volume of work. His kaleidoscope of expressions changed again from sadness to shock and then to a melancholy smile.

He pointed at his portrait leaning in front of him. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous, but I don’t suppose I could buy this one?’

‘Please take it Reece, but like I said, I’m not accepting any money for it. I’m sure my grandmother would have wanted you to have it.’

Reece’s weathered face broke into a delighted smile. ‘Thank you. That’s so kind of you. The fact that Tilda painted this…’ His words tailed off.

We both stood up and I handed Reece the painting. We angled it out of the open studio door.

Reece jerked his head towards the windows and the bay below. ‘I can understand why Tilda felt so inspired living here. Rowan Bay has such stunning scenery.’

‘Yes, she and my grandpa were very settled here. They loved Edinburgh, but I think they wanted somewhere more rural.’ As we departed the room, I took the opportunity to steal another appreciative look around. My grandmother’s desk was littered with papers, clotted pots of paint and fine brushes. The intermittent sun fighting its way through the window, glancing off her glass butterfly ornaments, brought them to life.

I almost felt like an intruder, having ventured into my grandma’s hallowed space. Even my grandfather had only been allowed limited access to this room, except to bring her a cup of tea or tell her about some breaking news item. She would vanish in there, singing along to her radio through the closed door.

But a glow of satisfaction and relief burst inside me. I hadn’t been able to face going in there after losing her, and I had avoided it since my arrival, but thanks to Reece, I’d finally done it.

Reece and I reached the top of the hallway, carrying his portrait between us. Bronte was scampering beside me.

It was like a weight had shifted; I could begin to leave the grief of her passing behind for a little while at least and allow life to once again start its ebb and flow.

My thoughts drifted back to the top of her desk scattered with assorted papers. It looked like a mish-mash of rough sketches, receipts and to-do lists which were only half completed. My lips promised a smile. Grandma Tilda had tried to be more organised, but failed. Her often scatter-brained approach to life used to drive my grandfather and mother mad. Mum had always been the epitome of efficiency.

I liked to think I was a crazy hybrid of them both.

I helped Reece to place the picture beside his armchair in the sitting toom. Bronte was gazing up at him again, her apple toy now back in her mouth, making her look like one of Henry VIII’s stuffed boars.