Page 44 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Seventeen

After waving Reece off, I returned inside the cottage and rustled up a baked potato with grated cheese and salad for lunch.

Bronte hoovered up the grated cheese I’d given her as a treat with obvious delight.

Then it was a walk with Bronte down to the harbour savouring the icy blast of wind across the water, before returning to the cottage.

I towelled Bronte after her insistence on splashing about in the waves and then made myself a warming mug of tea.

Cradling it in both hands, I made my way back down the hallway to begin sorting out my grandma’s studio. I decided to start with her desk first.

I studied the painting palettes, rolls of kitchen towels and brushes again. Her digital radio sat on top of some of the detritus, so I clicked it on. American rock wound out of it as I began to gather up the first few papers.

The rising wind gave the cottage windows a good shake and Bronte slumbered by the art studio doorway.

I wanted to keep some of her handwritten scribbled notes about the pieces of art she’d been working on: more blue tones needed for seascape; order two more of those horsehair brushes; check when pastel chalks are back in stock. They were random, but they were pieces of her. My throat constricted at the sight of her scatty, swirly handwriting.

I found an empty, pale pink envelope amongst her odd bits of stationery and slid the notes I wanted to keep inside.

I stretched and rose out of her desk chair. It was almost four o’clock in the afternoon now and darkness was beginning to swallow up the cliff faces and the harbour.

I strode up to the kitchen to get myself a glass of water. From the kitchen window, I could see the lighthouse, dazzling with its swivelling golden eye washing over the horizon and lighting up the choppy waves. It was a strangely calming sight in the descending dark, providing a warm, yellow hand of comfort. I bet Mitch was wondering who Reece was, after seeing him leave the cottage. I decided to keep that revelation to myself for now.

I poured myself a tumbler of water from the filter jug in the fridge, collected a few black bin liners from under the sink and slapped back down towards the art studio in my thermal socks.

Bronte stirred, so I let her out for a charge around the garden for a few minutes. Once she’d scooted back inside, I locked the door and gave her some kibble, before returning to what I was doing.

Sorting through the contents of Grandma’s room was painful, but in an odd way, comforting.

It made me feel even closer to her somehow, being here in her hallowed place and beside her chaotic art processes. It was also temporarily blanking out Joe and giving me a little respite from the pain. Every so often, my heartache would rear up like one of the big harbour waves and crash over my head, swamping me. It could catch me off guard, as though I were drowning, stealing the breath from my lungs.

I pulled down the blind and switched on the main light. It was encased in a fancy, glass shade.

My grandmother’s desk contained three drawers, which were all shut. I tugged at the ornate, brass handles. The first two glided open revealing more tat. I smiled to myself. Broken pens, elastic bands and Post-it notes in the top one, and straws, blotters and pencils in the second.

I got one of the bin liners and deposited the broken pens in it together with pencils that had seen better days and some of the bent straws.

Once I was satisfied I’d got rid of what needed to be discarded from the first two, I reached for the third drawer and attempted to open it.

It wouldn’t budge.

I took a sip of my water and set the glass back on a coaster on top of the desk. The coaster said, ‘Painters know their art from their elbow.’

I tried to open the third drawer again. Maybe it was just a bit stiff?

Nope.

It seemed to be locked.

I frowned.

Why were the other two drawers not locked but this one was? And where was the key?

I searched around the desk and in the other two drawers in case she’d concealed it there. I also checked behind her glass butterfly ornaments and in her purple desk tidy. The irony of that wasn’t lost on me.

But there was no sign of a key.

I moved towards the window and checked along the window sill, just in case she’d placed it there. But I knew that if she had, I would’ve noticed it when I opened the blind earlier.