She looked furious. And she was right to be. He should have told her. How could he explain? Just tell her, she’s leaving anyway so what does it matter?
‘I told you, I didn’t mean to put the painting in an exhibition, that was Lady Thomwell’s idea,’ he blurted out. ‘I painted it for myself, as something to remember you by.’
Hattie was stunned. Why did Marcus want something to remember her by? Could he possibly have feelings for her like she did for him? If so, why hadn’t he said before, instead of leaving it until now, when she was leaving?
And the painting, it was beautiful. It made her look sexy, exciting . . . is that how he saw her?
He was looking at her now, and she was sure that was love she saw in his eyes. She couldn’t tear her gaze from him, she wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel his skin against hers.
God, this was hopeless. Why now?
‘Hattie . . .’ his voice seemed to come from deep within his throat.
She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I can’t do this.
Not now.’
Fighting back tears, she ran out of the bar into the reception, where her dad was talking to Mandy.
‘All right, love?’ he asked as she desperately tried to pull herself together.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. ‘Do you mind if we go home now?’
‘Of course we can.’
‘Remember to come and say goodbye to us before you leave,’ Mandy told her.
‘I will.’ Her voice sounded wobbly and she was sure she was going to burst into tears right there.
Her father followed her out of the hotel and they walked down the hill in silence, neither of them saying a word until they were back at Fisherman’s Rest. Still struggling to compose herself, Hattie put the kettle on.
‘Are you all right, love? Did the painting upset you?’
She tried to find the words to express how she felt without letting her dad know she was in love with Marcus. ‘It was a bit of a shock, that’s all. It’s the last thing I expected him to do. And to not tell me . . .’ Her voice trailed off and she stared down into her drink.
‘He must think a lot of you.’
Startled, she raised her head, her eyes flicking to her father’s face, then away again. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s obvious. He painted it in secret, and the painting is so personal to him that he won’t sell it. And as it’s the winning painting in the exhibition, I bet there are collectors who would pay a lot of money for it.’
Hattie bit her lip. She couldn’t cope with this now, thinking that Marcus might love her as she loved him.
‘Do you . . . think a lot of him too?’ Her father’s voice was quiet.
‘We’re friends, that’s all.’
‘Is that because you’re selling this cottage and moving away, so you both don’t want to take things any further?’
We have taken things further and it was wonderful. She forced herself to meet his scrutinising gaze. She didn’t want him feeling guilty about selling the cottage, he needed the money. ‘It just wouldn’t work between us, Dad. It’s a good job I am moving away,’ she told him.
‘If you’re sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
So why did she end up crying into her pillow that night, not able to hold back her tears at the thought of never seeing Marcus again?
The next morning, she pulled herself together, washed her face in cold water to ease her swollen eyes, and smoothed on a layer of foundation to try and reduce the redness. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Passable. Then she pasted a big smile on her face and went downstairs, where her dad was already up, sitting out in the back yard drinking a coffee.
‘You’re an early bird,’ she told him, pulling up the chair next to him and sitting on it. ‘Couldn’t you sleep? I know the seagulls are a bit noisy.’
He took a gulp of his coffee before replying. ‘It wasn’t the seagulls, it was my thoughts that kept me awake. I was thinking of all the holidays we had down here with Albert. They were good times, weren’t they?’
She nodded, surprised to hear that her dad had been reminiscing.
‘Albert loved this cottage. And I can see that you do too. You’ve transformed it, but still kept its character. You’ve made it your home instead of Albert’s home.’
That’s how she thought of the cottage, as her home. But it wasn’t, it was soon going to be home to a string of holidaymakers. ‘I made it nice so we could sell it quicker,’ she said, not wanting her dad to feel guilty about having to sell.
Owen drained his coffee and put the mug down on the table, then turned to her. He took both her hands in his, his gaze on her face. ‘Hattie, I want you to answer something truthfully for me. Will you do that?’
Uh-oh, was he going to ask her if she was in love with Marcus? She nodded slowly, bracing herself for the question.
‘If you could stay in this cottage, live here in Port Medden, would you want to?’
What should she say? She couldn’t live here and she didn’t want him to feel bad about selling but she had promised to tell the truth.
‘Well, I do like it here, but don’t worry, I’ll soon find somewhere else I like just as much,’ she told him. ‘Don’t feel bad about us having to sell. I always knew I was only here for a little while, and it’s done me good. I know what I want to do with my life now.’
‘Be a self-employed photographer, you mean?’
‘Yes, you’d be amazed how many commissions I’ve had, Dad. I really think I can make a go of it.’
He was still holding her hands. ‘Then let’s not sell the cottage. You stay here.
