by Kate Hardy
If he’d stayed in London with Rochelle, and taught instead of playing, he knew he would probably have resented her for holding him back. He’d promised to come home at every opportunity; and he’d called Rochelle every single day. He’d sent her flowers and treats he’d thought she’d like. He’d tried to make everything work.
Then, two weeks after he’d left for the tour, the real nightmare had begun...
He shook himself. No. That had been then. This was now.
He knew he’d used contraception; he would never have been so reckless as to ignore that. This wasn’t a repeat of the situation with Rochelle. He and Holly had never met before, and nobody would deliberately try to get pregnant by a complete stranger.
Another memory from that night flickered back. Holly been very careful to check that he was single, and he’d assumed that she was, too. Maybe his assumption had been wrong. Could she really have slept with him, knowing that she was already pregnant by another man?
Yet he was sure the woman he’d met in Bath wasn’t like that. The woman he was getting to know all over again was lovely. Warm and sweet.
Then again, Rochelle had also been warm and sweet when they’d been students and after they’d started dating and moved in together. It had started out so well. But, oh, how quickly their love had turned sour.
Cross with himself, because she was his guest and he should be looking after her better instead of brooding, he handed her the glass of water, and waited for her to take a couple of sips. ‘Better?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’
‘Not a problem,’ he said, wanting to reassure her. ‘So you’re through the first trimester?’
‘Yes, I’m about fourteen weeks,’ she said.
So the baby had to be his.
But knowing how complicated relationships could be, and wary from his experience with Rochelle, he couldn’t help saying, ‘Your partner must worry about you while you’re working away.’
Her face shuttered. ‘He isn’t around.’
Meaning either the man had let her down—or he really was the father. It really wouldn’t be tactful to probe any more right now. Besides, how exactly was he going to say to her, ‘Hey, you don’t remember me, but I’m very probably the father of your baby’? Especially when the children might come in and overhear. He was going to have to take this carefully. Tactfully. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘Let me deal with the dining table, and then come back with us,’ he said.
Thankfully the children had scoffed all the garlic bread, and he was able to call Holly back to the table to finish her pizza and salad.
* * *
‘Now will you play for us, Uncle Harry?’ Henry asked when supper was over. ‘Please?’
‘Do you mind?’ Harry asked, looking at Holly.
‘It would be lovely,’ she said.
‘Clear the table for me, please, guys. I’ll sort out the dishwasher later,’ Harry directed, and went to wash his hands.
Holly helped the children, and when they went back to the dining room Harry had moved a chair next to the piano.
‘Yesterday, George and Alice showed me what they were learning at piano lessons first, and then we played a bit together,’ he said. ‘Shall we do that?’
The children agreed enthusiastically. Celia played ‘Who Said Mice?’ from Cats, and Harry played ‘The March of the Lion’ from The Carnival of Animals.
Both Holly and Harry clapped loudly.
‘Uncle Harry plays the really famous one from The Carnival of Animals,’ Henry said.
‘Oh, please play that one! I love it,’ Celia said imploringly.
Harry spread his hands. ‘All right, guys. Here we go.’
Holly was totally transfixed when he played ‘The Swan’, and the piece actually moved her to tears.
‘Don’t cry, Holly!’ Celia fetched her a box of tissues.
‘Thank you.’ She took the tissues gratefully. ‘That was so beautiful. Sorry for being wet.’
‘That piece makes a lot of people cry,’ Harry said.
There was something intense and searching in the way he looked at her, but Holly couldn’t work out what he was looking for. She also couldn’t work out why she felt something so familiar about the situation. Nobody had ever played a cello for her in a family home, she was sure. What was she half remembering?
‘Let’s do something a bit more upbeat,’ Harry said. ‘Celia, this is what I want you to play for four bars, and repeat.’ He showed her, then let her play the four bars until he was happy that she was comfortable with the piece. ‘Brilliant. Henry, this is your bit.’ He played the melody, and let Henry practise that. ‘Right. Let’s do it together. And what do we do if we mess up a note?’
‘Smile and keep going,’ the children chorused.
‘Excellent.’ He winked at them, counted them in, and together they played ‘Heart and Soul’.
‘That was wonderful,’ Holly said.
Harry gave her a speculative look. ‘Do you play the piano, by any chance?’
‘No,’ she said.
’Then we’ll teach you,’ he said. ‘We’re going to play a round. Something everyone knows. “Frère Jacques”.’
‘But—’ she began.
‘It’s easy, Holly,’ Celia said. ‘And it’s fun.’
‘We’ll have the three of you at the piano. Henry at the bottom, Celia at the top, and Holly in the middle. Or,’ he said, ‘if you’d rather sing than play, Holly?’
‘No, I’ll have a go at the piano,’ she said, very aware of the expectant looks of the children. ‘And if I miss a note...’
‘Smile and keep going,’ the children chorused.
She sat in the middle of the piano stool and Harry showed her the note pattern, breaking it down into manageable chunks for her and correcting her gently so she played the notes with the right fingers. He was kind, she noticed, and gentle. Qualities she really valued. And it made her blink back unexpected tears.
‘Are we ready for this? Celia first, then Holly, then Henry, then me,’ Harry directed.
And then, before she knew it, the children were sitting either side of her and she was playing the round with Harry and the children.
‘That was amazing,’ she said when they’d finished. Totally absorbing. She could understand why Harry loved what he did.
‘Do you want to hear how amazing?’ Harry waved his phone at her.
‘You recorded it?’ she asked, shocked.
‘Yup.’ He smiled, and played the piece back.
To her surprise, all the notes were in the right places—including hers. ‘Nobody in my family has ever played an instrument. This is...’ She shook her head in disbelief.
Harry Moran was amazing. And he was brilliant with children. It made her wonder why he wasn’t married with children of his own—though that was a question she couldn’t ask. It was way too rude and intrusive. Not to mention being none of her business.
‘More, please!’ Henry begged.
Harry looked at his watch. ‘One more. Then it’s bedtime, or your mum and dad won’t let me do this again.’
‘Will you play “The Bumblebee”?’ Henry asked.
‘That’s a bit excitable. I was looking for something calming.’
Henry looked devastated. ‘But you said earlier you’d play it for me.’
‘I know,’ Celia said. ‘“The Bumblebee” is really short, so if you do that first you’ll have time to do another little one. The one I really like. “Sis...”’ Her face screwed up in concentration as she tried to remember the name of the piece, and then she shook her head and hummed it.
‘“Sicilienne”,’ Harry said, getting her to repeat the word, then he effortlessly zoomed through ‘The Flight
of the Bumblebee’ for Henry before slowing down for Fauré’s ‘Sicilienne’.
‘Now, bed. Or else I will be toast!’
‘With jam!’ Henry said, and squealed with delight as Harry chased him out of the room.
Harry returned just long enough to apologise to Holly. ‘Do you mind if I read them just one chapter of Harry Potter?’
‘Actually, I’d be happy to read the story, if you like,’ she said. ‘I do that with my niece and nephew.’
‘Thank you. Then I’ll sort out the dishwasher while you do that,’ he said.
She was halfway through reading the chapter when Harry came up to join her. When she’d finished the chapter and Harry had kissed the children goodnight, they headed downstairs.
‘You were very good with them,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll be an amazing mum.’
There was something wistful in his expression. So did he have kids he didn’t see, or did he perhaps want kids but couldn’t have them and so he’d thrown himself into his music?
‘Thank you. I hope that getting in some practice as an aunt will help,’ she said lightly.
‘I’m sure it will.’
She almost told him about her lost weekend, but she didn’t want to risk spoiling things. Right now she felt safe with Harry. Cosseted. Valued, too. The way he looked at her... He made her feel attractive, something she wasn’t used to, and she liked that feeling. Even though she knew it was wrong and it was selfish, she wanted more.
‘Let me make us some tea, and then you can tell me all about the dig,’ he said.
He made the tea just how she liked it—clearly, as a musician who played pieces without a score in front of him, he must have a good memory—and they settled in the living room at opposite ends of the sofa. She took him through what they’d found so far, and what she expected to find, and how they organised the work and catalogued the finds. And he did actually seem interested, asking questions every so often.
It was really easy to relax with Harry. She didn’t know him very well, but she really liked what she’d seen of him so far. Plus he was gorgeous, even in jeans and a casual T-shirt; when he was dressed formally for work, no doubt all the women in the audience sighed over him.
Dressed maybe in historical costume: white pantaloons, a white shirt and cravat, a cream silk waistcoat and a navy tailcoat...
Where on earth had that come from?
She shook herself. How ridiculous.
‘So what made you become an archaeologist?’ he asked.
‘My parents took me to the British Museum to see the mummies. And then there was an exhibition about Roman treasure—it was seeing the mosaic floors that thrilled me most,’ she said. ‘There was one with a peacock, and I just couldn’t believe that someone had spent ages putting all those tiny tiles together to make a picture. And how amazing it must’ve been to discover it, to be the first person who’d seen it for centuries. From then on, I knew what I wanted to do.’ She paused. ‘Was it like that for you with music?’
‘Granny Beckett—my mother’s mother—played the piano,’ he said. ‘As soon as I could sit up, I used to point to the piano. She would let me sit on her lap and press the keys, and I loved it.’ He smiled. ‘Most kids like to watch cartoons and what have you, but I liked listening to music more than anything else in the world. I didn’t care whether it was a recording or live. Granny Beckett had lots of Jacqueline du Pré records and she put one on. I was tiny—I must’ve been about five—and I was just transfixed when I heard du Pré playing the cello. Granny Beckett had a friend who taught the cello, and she came round one afternoon with a child-sized one so I could try it out. And that was it. The second I moved the bow across the strings, I’d found what I was born to do. I’ve never looked back.’
‘Your grandmother sounds like a really special woman,’ Holly said, seeing the way his face lit up as he talked about her.
‘She was,’ Harry agreed. ‘If it wasn’t for her, I would probably have ended up in the family business, hating every second of it. But she pointed out that Dom would always be the heir, Nell was the one with the head for business who’d do well in the biscuit business, and I had a gift so I should be allowed to bring people the joy of music.’ He smiled. ‘It’s one of the reasons why I like playing joint pieces with the kids. I loved doing duets with Granny Beckett, and the kids like doing the same thing with me.’
‘Do you think any of them will end up following in your footsteps?’ she asked.
‘Maybe Henry. He’s got a real feel for the piano. And even though he’s the oldest and he’ll eventually take over from Dominic, I know Dom would let Henry follow his dreams without any fights.’
Which told her that there had been a few fights with Harry’s parents over his choice of career. ‘I’m glad your grandmother supported you,’ she said. ‘I loved what you played earlier.’
‘Thank you. I’m so grateful that I’ve been able to do what I love most in the world for a living,’ he said. ‘And I was privileged to play both my sister and my sister-in-law down the aisle on their wedding days.’
‘Would you play something for me, or will it wake Henry and Celia?’ she asked.
‘It’s fine. What would you like?’
‘You mentioned a piece of music to me the other day.’
‘“Hushabye Mountain”.’ His midnight-blue eyes were almost black. ‘OK.’
They went back into the dining room. He gestured to her to have a seat; then he moved a chair, sat down and checked the cello’s tuning before he began to play.
The music was beautiful, and Holly closed her eyes, letting the sounds draw pictures in her head. It was slow and sweet and soothing; yet at the same time it made her tingle. As if it was a prelude to something. Weirdly she was filled with the sensation of déjà vu, though she didn’t understand why. Where on earth could she have heard this before? And why was it making her feel breathless and tingly? Was it the music, or was it something else? ‘That’s incredibly beautiful,’ she said.
‘It’s really popular on the quartet’s set list,’ he said. He looked slightly sad, and she had no idea why, though she didn’t want to be rude and ask.
‘So you play at lots of different places?’ she asked instead.
‘Weddings, stately homes—we sometimes work with a company that does fireworks—and corporate events. We’ll play pretty much any event, and we have a decent repertoire,’ he said. ‘Though my colleagues are more on the traditional side, and they get a bit cross with me when I mess about with radical arrangements.’
‘What do you mean, radical?’
‘Playing the cello like a guitar instead of with a bow,’ he said.
‘I don’t get it,’ she said.
‘Neither,’ he said with a sigh, ‘do they.’
‘No, I mean I don’t get why they don’t like it. Alan Rickman does it in Truly Madly Deeply, and it’s one of my favourite film clips ever.’
‘I know the one.’ He looked at her. ‘Do you know the words to that song?’
‘Not all of them,’ she admitted.
‘Give me a sec.’ He took his phone from his pocket, looked something up, and handed it to her. ‘Here are the lyrics. Let’s do it.’ Then he picked up the cello and started to pluck the introduction to the song. It was just like the film. And all of a sudden Holly felt weak at the knees. This gorgeous, gorgeous man wanted to play a duet with her, mimicking one of the most romantic films she’d ever seen.
Her voice was a bit shaky at first as she began to sing ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Any More’, but grew stronger as he joined in. Even though he was a professional musician, he wasn’t judging her or pointing out where she sang flat. He was singing with her, seeming to enjoy it as much as she was. This was fun.
And then, subtly, it changed. Every time she glanced up from the lyrics she noticed he was looking at her. Looking at her mouth,
then catching her gaze: and it made her feel hot all over. By the end of the song she was actually quivering with yearning. Her gaze met his, and for a moment she thought he was going to lean over and kiss her.
If he did, there was no way she could stop herself kissing him back, baby or no baby. She wanted him. Really, really wanted him.
She felt her lips parting, and her skin tingled all over with anticipation. Her lower lip felt super-sensitive.
Moth to a flame.
He reached out and rubbed the pad of his thumb against her lower lip, and excitement coiled deep in her belly. Everything was forgotten except this moment, this feeling, this connection. She was dimly aware of Harry propping the cello against the piano, and then somehow he was sitting next to her on the piano stool, his arms were wrapped around her waist, her fingers were tangled in his hair and her wrists resting against the nape of his neck, and he was kissing her—really kissing her.
And it felt like fireworks going off overhead. Sparkles of silver and pink and gold.
When he broke the kiss, she was shaking. It felt really familiar—but how could it? She’d known him for a matter of days, not a lifetime. They’d never kissed before. This couldn’t feel so right.
* * *
Oh, help. He’d really done it now. He’d rushed in and kissed her when he should’ve given her time. At the very least he should have told her about the night she’d forgotten. The night that the accident had wiped out of her memory.
Right now, she looked slightly dazed.
Did she remember what had happened in Bath? Had the kiss and the music he’d played her been enough to unlock her memories?
But she didn’t say a word.
And Harry didn’t know what to say.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
