Page 51 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

I blinked back more pictures of Joe and cleared my throat. I studied the older man, hunched over in my grandma’s scuffed swivel desk chair, regret pressing down on him. ‘Look, Reece, you can’t keep dwelling on it.’

‘I should’ve fought for her. I should’ve given her a reason to come back to me. I was weak and cowed by my parents. If only I’d stood up to them.’

‘Regrets are painful things,’ I admitted. The irony of what I was saying lodged itself inside me. ‘But they can be avoided, if only you grasp opportunities where and when you can.’

But Reece didn’t reply. He was staring down, his gaze drilling into the pink journal still resting in his lap. ‘Reece?’

He gazed back up at me, looking for a moment as though he’d forgotten I was standing there. ‘Oh, sorry, lass. I was miles away then.’

I gave him an understanding smile. ‘It’s okay.’ I paused. ‘Look, there was something I wanted to talk to you about. After reading some of Grandma’s entries, I came up with an idea.’ I leant against the side of the desk. ‘What if we could get some of Grandma’s art exhibited?’

Reece looked up at me from the swivel chair.

‘It’s the least we could do,’ I carried on, ‘and her work does deserve to be seen, don’t you think?’ I dragged a hand through my hair. ‘I don’t know how easy it would be, but I think we should try.’

Reece’s expression was one of bewilderment. He stared past me at the blank wall over my shoulder for a moment. ‘Yes, of course it does. She possessed such talent. Anyone can see that.’ He risked a look down at his lap again, at the notebook resting on it. ‘But what gallery or galleries were you thinking of, though? Would they take us seriously? That sort of thing is very competitive.’

‘I know it is, but I don’t see why they wouldn’t give her work serious consideration. I know we’re probably a bit biased, but her paintings are wonderful.’ I could sense a kernel of optimism flourishing. ‘There’s that prestigious Lumiere Gallery on the outskirts of Rowan Bay for starters. I remember her mentioning how artists fought like rats in a sack to get their work exhibited there. She’s even mentioned it in her journal.’ What was it she’d said? That it would be a dream to have a piece of work exhibited there?

My enthusiasm started to fly. ‘She said lots of prestigious Scottish artists have had their artwork showcased in that gallery: Jack Vettriano, William Turnbull, Joyce Cairns.’ I could feel my excitement stacking higher in my chest. ‘I know it’s a bit of a gamble, but isn’t it worth a try?’

I could see the cogs whirring in Reece’s mind.

‘What do you think? She lived here in Rowan Bay for forty years, so that might be an added advantage. Local artist and all that.’

Reece’s attention slid from me, back down the journal in his lap. He gave it a tender pat. ‘Aye. I think we should at least try. It would be a fitting tribute to her, if we could get this off the ground. Tilda deserves that much at least.’

Both his hands reached for the journal and placed themselves on top of it. ‘I feel like I owe her, Rosie. Especially now. Especially after reading this. I want to do something to show her how sorry I am.’ He sighed. It was a painful noise that burrowed in his chest. ‘At least I’ll feel like I’ve tried to make amends.’

I nodded and was about to reply, when my mobile trilled in my back pocket. I pulled it out and peered at the screen.

It was Lola.

Reece’s silver brows arched. ‘Everything alright?’

‘Yes, yes. Fine, thanks,’ I trilled through a forced smile.

My phone then let out a series of frantic blips.

Texts from Lola rippled and glowed out of the screen.

Can we talk? No pressure, sweetheart, but readers are reaching out to us, begging you to write again. Maybe we could have an informal chat, you, me and Mia, if you feel up to it?

I couldn’t help myself. ‘Oh, piss off, Lola. Just leave me alone!’

Reece took his time. He gave me a look. ‘Doesn’t sound like everything’s fine to me.’ He picked up my grandma’s pink journal from his lap and set it back down on her old desk.

I didn’t want to talk about it, but Reece kept examining me with a soft, expectant expression that I couldn’t ignore. I knew he was being kind, offering to listen to me wittering on.

I sighed in a defeated way and dragged over the other spare, rickety wooden chair in the corner. I flopped down into it, resigned to the fact that I was about to confide in my late grandma’s ex-fiancé. I hadn’t seen this coming.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ clarified Reece. ‘But it might help.’

My chest deflated. ‘Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

And I proceeded to relay to him my decision not to write any more books.

Reece listened and nodded and murmured in the right places. ‘You’re an author?’