Page 55 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

It took a moment for the woman to register what I was saying. Her friendly expression vanished. Her eyes flew to the covered painting we each had by our sides.

‘There are more where these came from,’ interjected Reece.

The woman’s deep-set gaze hardened. ‘I’m not interested in these paintings or anything to do with your grandmother.’

What the hell was going on here? What was this woman’s problem?

I shot Reece a furious glance beside me. ‘May I ask why?’

She indicated to the illuminated walls and the fleshy artwork taking centre stage. ‘We only accept pieces of a certain standard.’

I could feel my ire being pricked. ‘I can tell you that my grandmother’s paintings are of a far higher quality than these.’ I pointed one finger at my grandma’s assorted, concealed pictures by our feet.

‘Art is subjective,’ clipped the woman. Her red slash of mouth twitched with a smirk. ‘Rather like the publishing industry.’

My jaw tightened. The rude cow! She was taking a shot at my writing! She obviously knew about me having been an author.

We stared each other out.

I straightened my back and was about to give her a mouthful, but Reece jumped in. He shot out one rough hand and rested it on my coat sleeve. ‘Thank you for your time. Come on, Rosie. We’re done here.’

I whirled round so fast; I almost cricked my neck. ‘What?’

But Reece was already steering me and the paintings back towards the gallery entrance.

I shot her a dark look over my shoulder. She folded her arms.

Once we’d set the pictures back in the boot of my car, I opened the driver’s door, slumped heavily in the seat and then thumped the steering wheel in annoyance. ‘Who the hell does she think she is? Did you hear the way she spoke about Grandma? Did you see the way she was looking down her nose at us?’ I shook my updo in exasperation. ‘Something isn’t right about all this.’

Reece frowned out of his passenger side window. ‘It does seem strange; I’ll give you that.’ He settled himself back in his seat. ‘Let’s not waste any more time or energy worrying about this place. I’m sure with a bit of research, we’ll find another gallery that’s more appreciative of Tilda’s work.’

I fired up the car ignition. ‘You’re right.’ I glowered out of the windscreen. ‘But I know it would’ve meant so much to her to have her pieces exhibited there.’

‘Rosie, it would mean a lot to your grandmother to know you’re putting in so much effort to get her work exhibited anyway.’

I struggled to smile at him. I knew Reece meant well, but my frustration was at boiling point. That bloody woman! Who the hell was she anyway and what was her issue with my late grandma?

As I pulled away from the kerb, I caught a glimpse of the woman, her twisted red mouth examining us through the gallery window.

* * *

The journey back was shrouded in disappointment.

Reece and I exchanged the odd bit of chatter, but it was rather forced.

What the hell was that woman’s problem? My late grandma deserved her talent to be recognised.

We arrived back at the cottage and I parked up beside Reece’s car.

Bronte’s delighted barks could be heard before I even unlocked the front door. There was a blur of movement up by the cliffs, which caught my attention.

It was Mitch, who was cleaning the exterior of the lighthouse. He was armed with a bucket of hot, soapy water, cleaning cloths, and his devoted Kane by his side.

Mitch Carlisle really was an enigma. He insisted on helping me search for Bronte and then checking in on me yesterday to make sure I was alright. He’d shown genuine concern for me but at the same time, he seemed keen to keep himself to himself.

I wondered what might have happened to him to make him be like that. A broken marriage? A deception of some kind? Friends ghosting him over something? Okay, I was giving this a bit too much thought. I had my own issues to deal with, without getting embroiled in other people’s.

I found myself watching him clean the lighthouse, his long, muscular legs bending and stretching. He appeared lost in what he was doing. His movements were methodical and rhythmical.