Page 87 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

‘So, what happened between them?’

‘He fell for a ceramic artist he met at her launch show in Glasgow. The ironic thing was she bore a passing resemblance to your grandmother, the same red curls and smiling eyes.’ Kirsty shook her head. ‘Well, you can imagine how painful that was for Ruth. Talk about adding insult to injury. She was riddled with jealousy about Tilda as it was, and then her own husband runs off with someone who looks like her.’

Kirsty sighed. ‘Your Grandpa Howard was everything Jacob Mangan wasn’t, and Ruth knew it. I don’t have to tell you what a kind, funny and interesting man he was.’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Nobody could wear a kilt like Howard Michaels!’

I grinned and nodded, taken back to years ago and the sound of the photograph album pages being turned by my mum to show me my grandpa done up in his full regalia with those sturdy legs of his, broad shoulders and rocking his kilt like no one else could. No wonder Ruth had reacted the way she had when I told her I was Tilda’s granddaughter and that the paintings were her work. I realised that I couldn’t confide in Kirsty about Ruth rejecting the idea of exhibiting Grandma’s art when she’d discovered that the paintings I’d taken there had been hers. Kirst might accidentally let something slip about what we were doing. One wrong word and it would drop Mitch in it and sabotage any chance we had of Grandma’s work being shown in the Lumiere Gallery.

As far as everyone else was concerned, Mitch was the painter of those pictures, not Tilda Michaels. At least not yet.

As though reading my innermost thoughts, Kirsty spoke again, breaking through my deliberations. ‘I hear that gorgeous new lighthouse keeper is hiding his light under a bushel.’

‘Sorry?’

Kirsty’s eyes shone. ‘Ruth could barely contain herself. I bumped into her at the hairdresser’s last week. She was going on about how talented he is, especially with watercolour.’ She sat forward in a confidential style pose in the armchair. ‘It’s lovely to have new artistic talent here in Rowan Bay!’

I fidgeted on the sofa.

I conjured up images of my late grandparents and Ruth.

A love triangle. Well, I never.

I took a long, slow mouthful of my tea.

It could almost be the plot of one of my novels; that’s if I’d still been writing.