Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘Good morning.’ Heath’s voice cut into my sleep daze. Cracking open a lid, I rolled over to face him, my lips lifting in a smile.

‘Morning.’ I rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was here, beside him, in bed. Okay, maybe not in bed exactly, but in settee. Memories of last night flashed through my head: Gareth proposing; Heath coming up to the office; us kissing . . . then going downstairs once Gareth had buggered off, and answering countless questions from journalists until Mel had shooed them away.

When everyone had finally left, Heath and I collapsed onto the settee in the lounge. He’d pulled me into his arms again and we’d picked up right where we’d left off. We’d chatted and kissed some more, he’d drawn an old crocheted blanket over us, and the next thing I remembered was waking up in the middle of the night, with his arms around me and my head tucked into the crook of his neck. It had been a perfect fit.

Now, in the grey light of a London morning, he looked beyond sexy, with a light sprinkling of stubble on his chin. I hated to think what was sprinkling my chin – most likely drool. The way Heath was staring at me, though, he didn’t seem to mind.  

‘I’m going to run out and grab a few dailies to see what they’ve said about the museum.’ Heath got up and stretched, and I couldn’t help admiring his broad shoulders. ‘Back in a sec.’ He dropped a kiss on my lips, then grinned back at me as he pushed out the door.

I padded to the loo, splashed some water on my face, and rinsed my mouth. Given that I was still in party attire and I’d spent the night on a small settee, I didn’t look half-bad. There was something in my eyes – happiness, excitement – that made me look alive.

Thank goodness I still had my work clothes from yesterday to change into. After scurrying up to Heath’s office where I’d dropped my bag, I pulled on my jeans and sweater, then tidied my curls back into a ponytail. I was just about to pat on some lip gloss when I heard the tap of the doorknocker. Had Heath forgotten his keys, I wondered as I rushed down the stairs?

‘Oh.’ A yelp of surprise escaped me as I swung open the door to see Liz. What on earth was she doing here?

‘Can I come in?’ Liz’s usually efficient and abrupt tone had disappeared, and she sounded exhausted. She looked exhausted, too, with big dark circles under her eyes and uncombed hair.

‘Er . . .’ I craned my neck to look over her shoulder, desperate to spot Heath.  What should I do? If I let her in, he might think I was interfering again. But the way she was looking at me – with a mixture of hope and fear – made me think this time, she really was here for her son. Could that be true, or had I reverted to La La Land again?

I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed Heath jogging down the street toward me, a brown bag from the Brick Lane beigel shop in his hand and a sheaf of newspapers shoved under his arm. His grin faded and his face went pinched and angry when he saw his mother.

‘I thought I told you not to come here again,’ he said, when he’d reached us at the doorway. I shivered at the icy tone.

Liz dropped her head. ‘You did. And you had every right to.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Look, can I come in? I’d love to talk to you.’

Heath shook his head. ‘No. No, you can’t. I think you said everything the last time you were here.’

Liz looked at him with a pleading expression, but Heath just gazed back steadily. Finally, she jammed her hands in her pockets, her shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. Could I ask you for one thing? Just one, and then I’ll go.’

Heath was silent.

 ‘I’d really like to have my locket back,’ she continued. ‘I never meant to leave it with Gran, you know. The clasp was faulty and it fell off one day. I searched everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. Obviously Gran came across it, and stashed it away. She must have forgotten to tell me.’

Heath was staring at his mother with a strange expression. ‘I found the locket with a bunch of my baby things in the cellar. I thought you’d got tired of it. Kind of like me.’ His voice was hoarse.

Liz reached out and put a hand on his arm. Heath flinched, but didn’t move away. ‘Oh, Heath. I made a lot of mistakes, but I never stopped wanting what was best for you. I thought leaving you with Gran while I worked to build a life for us was the best. Somewhere along the way, though, I lost sight of why I was doing it.’ She paused, and a tear dripped down her cheek. ‘For you.’

Liz wiped her face, shaking her head. ‘I can understand if you don’t want to see me again. Just please, give me the locket.’

My heart beat fast as I awaited Heath’s words. Would he tell her to go; refuse the request? Or . . .

I held my breath as Heath stepped closer to his mother. Then, he lifted his arms and gingerly put them around her, as if he was afraid she’d disappear. Trembling, Liz clasped him tightly, stroking his hair like he was still a tiny child.

They stood like that, on the doorstep of the museum in the foggy London morning, as commuters rushed by and shopkeepers’ greetings rang out in the chilly air.

And finally, I understood that real life – with all its ups and downs, complications, broken hearts, and triumphs – was a million times more satisfying than any fairy tale ever could be.

THE END

CONTINUE READING FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER OF BUILD A MAN, THE FIRST NOVEL IN THE BESTSELLING SERENITY HOLLAND SERIES.

Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts © Talli Roland 2011. E-edition published worldwide 2011

© Talli Roland

 All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.

 The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Cover design by Notting Hill Press In-house.All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.

hJyr{mmed with people jostling to hang up their coats. Pasting on a bright smile, I scurried over to welcome them in.

An hour later, the museum was swarming with people. Journalists, politicians, and representatives from arts organisations were jammed into the building, all ooing and awing over the unique concept and the tales behind the objects. My mouth was dry from answering so many questions, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Every once in a while, I’d catch Heath’s eye from across the room. I could see by his smile he was pleased with how the night was unfolding. He should be – if the admiring noises were anything to go by, the Museum of Broken Hearts was a hit.

I was right in the middle of giving a reporter from The Star a tour of the kitchen when there was a tug at my elbow.

‘Rose. You need to come with me,’ Mel hissed.

‘I’m just speaking to this gentleman,’ I said, furrowing my brow. What on earth was she doing?

‘No, you need to come with me now.’ She gave the reporter an apologetic look. ‘Sorry.’

He raised both hands. ‘No need to apologise. I’ve got everything I need, anyway.’

I nodded at him as Mel dragged me through the crowd in the foyer and toward the entrance. ‘What’s going on?’ I whispered, trying to keep my voice low.

Instead of answering, Mel just swung open the door. And there in the street – with an armful of red roses – was Gareth.