Page 95 of A Scottish Lighthouse Escape

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Mitch and I spent the next couple of weeks tangled up in bed in his bijoux little bothy.

We made love, laughed, teased each other, ate stollen and other assorted festive fayre, talked and revealed more of ourselves to each other, took the dogs for long, romantic, wintery walks, and all the while struggling to get bed space with Bronte and Kane!

Thankfully, there weren’t too many more dramatic storms for Mitch to contend with in the lighthouse, but I would accompany him up there to watch him guide the fishing boats home as the stars shone like tossed diamonds over our heads and the water glinted blueberry black.

Reece came to visit on numerous occasions, bringing tasty treats for Bronte and Kane, and was delighted about Mitch and me. ‘You’re a young woman still with your whole life ahead of you,’ he smiled kindly at me. ‘Love your life and live it to the full.’

Christmas was almost here, and I realised I wasn’t dreading it anymore. In fact, I was relishing it and looking forward to turning the page on this year and starting the next with renewed hope and optimism.

With Mitch’s help, I’d fetched my grandparents’ white six-foot imitation Christmas tree down from the loft and bought a new set of rose-gold fairy lights to decorate it with. Grandpa’s old set, a tangled-up ball in a carrier bag, no longer worked. I also bought another two sets – one to lace along the top of the garden fence and another to frame the doorway of the bothy.

Mitch wasn’t too convinced by the idea, but once he’d tacked them in place and we had a grand switch on, with both Bronte and Kane sitting there transfixed by the comings and goings, he changed his mind.

We’d been pre-occupied, too, with getting everything ready for Grandma’s gallery exhibition.

I’d already contacted my solicitor back in London and asked him to set things in motion regarding putting the Hampstead apartment on the market. I’d also started tying up legal proceedings concerning Joe’s will. He’d left everything to me.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that but decided to make a contribution to a few charities with it and start a bursary scheme for writers from disadvantaged backgrounds. At least the money would do something positive.

As soon as I’d made a start, it felt like I’d taken a giant step in carving out a different set of memories for myself.

A pang of sadness hit me nonetheless. As it turned out, Joe had treated not only me badly, but Greta too. She’d fallen for his charm and his lies every bit as much as I had. After some mental to-ing and fro-ing, I obtained her address from Mia and decided to drop her a line. I said in my letter that I’d moved on from everything and that leaving London and coming to Scotland had helped me to find closure. I also told her that I hoped she was able to do the same and that we shouldn’t allow what Joe did to taint our lives and follow us around. We were worth more than that, and how he’d decided to behave had no bearing on either of us.

Just a few days after she’d received the letter, Greta sent a reply to Mia for my attention, thanking me so much for reaching out and saying how grateful she was that I’d said what I had. She said the guilt she’d been carrying around after discovering Joe’s lies about his marriage, had been on the verge of breaking her. And even though the remaining words of her letter were still full of apology, I sensed a lifting and relief when she wished me well.

In a whirlwind, the 13th December, my late grandma’s birthday and the night of her art exhibition came rushing up to greet us.

I’d chosen the twelve paintings to exhibit, the ones I felt best represented her talent and creativity, as well as her personality and passion. They consisted of a couple of the bay at dawn and dusk, a few of her other still life table arrangements featuring a dressing table with a mirror and hairbrushes, some of her chalk drawings of daffodils and lilies, and three of her portraits works of Rowan Bay fishermen tending to their nets or aboard their boats.

A few days before the exhibition, Mitch, with me secreted in his car, had ferried them up to the Lumiere Gallery, with Ruth enthusing over the artwork choices and extolling again how talented he was. Little did she know, but she’d soon find out.

Christmas had arrived in all its splendour to Rowan Bay, with the centre of the town illuminated by its Norwegian tree. The shop windows sparkled with festive decorations and strung up between the lampposts were Santa and his reindeer shining down on the excited, hyped-up faces of the local children.

Last Christmas had haunted me at first. The memories of twelve months ago with Joe, spending a romantic Christmas Day together with warm croissants and Buck’s Fizz had been tarnished by the thought of him making excuses to pop out. Even on Christmas Day he’d dashed somewhere and been gone a couple of hours, citing an emergency at his cousin’s. I hadn’t questioned it at the time, but now, I knew otherwise.

But Mitch had banished the dread that had been consuming me. He’d revealed hope and ripped up my pessimism. He’d made me realise that I deserved to be happy.

* * *

It was almost seven o’clock on the evening of the exhibition and the Lumiere Gallery was lit up every bit as much as the centre of Rowan Bay.

Tasteful white and silver festive lights were laced around its panoramic window glistening against the dark, and more lights were entwined through the bare trees situated at each side of the gallery.

The subtle lighting highlighted my grandma’s depiction of the lighthouse during a stormy night and was hanging in the gallery window; her passionate brush strokes of the forceful waves made my spine tingle with pride.

If only she could see this now.

I gave an emotional smile. My insides were tumbling over each other, but I assured myself everything would be okay. If I didn’t do this for Grandma while I had the chance, I’d regret it, and I’d had enough of regret.

The air inside the gallery was languid with soft panpipes, and the scent of Scottish salmon and seafood canapés intermingled with expensive perfume.

Elegant flutes of champagne were being whirled around on trays by a couple of students suited and booted in black waistcoats, trousers and fitted white shirts.

Exhibition guests ranged from a couple of newspaper reporters and art critics to local dignitaries, councillors and other artists.

There was a rather bored-looking young man checking off names at the door. Getting me inside as Mitch’s plus one had been fine, but gaining Reece access had meant conducting a bit of a distraction. We wanted to keep our heads down until we revealed who the real artist of the paintings was.