Be My Valentine
Nikki Moore Teresa F. Morgan Brigid Coady
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Contents
About the Authors
The Love Letter
A Day in the Life …
Love Will Find You
Storm in a Coffee Cup
Half a Heart
About HarperImpulse
Copyright
About the Publisher
About the Authors
Nikki Moore
I’ve loved writing and reading since forever, and discovered the romance genre in my teens, so I’m absolutely delighted to join the HarperImpulse team!
A finalist in writing competitions since 2010, including Novelicious Undiscovered 2012, I’m a member of the fantastic Romantic Novelists’ Association.
You can find me on Twitter @NikkiMoore_Auth to chat about love, life and writing – please get in touch!
Teresa F. Morgan
I live in sunny Weston-super-Mare, trying to hold onto my Surrey accent where I was born and bred.
For years I persevered with boring jobs, until my two boys joined my nest. In an attempt to find something to work around them, and to ensure I never endured full time boredom again, I found writing.
Brigid Coady
I was born in the UK but raised round the world and spent most of my childhood with my nose in a book. I’m now a non-practicing engineer who works in project management. I write romance and young adult stories. I’ve been a voice-over and radio continuity artist. I love country music and used to have my own radio show. My boyfriend says I have an unhealthy obsession with Kenny Chesney.
The Love Letter
By Nikki Moore
He couldn’t do this any more. Couldn’t be with Lila like this - it was wrong. It was time they had The Talk.
Jake clutched the tattered heavy cream paper of the letter, fighting back the lump in his throat as he gazed at the setting sun casting shimmering rays on the turquoise sea. When it had first happened, time and again he’d unfolded and refolded the pages, repeatedly reading his wife’s words. Soaked them up as if to absorb them into himself. As if keeping her voice tangible would somehow keep her alive.
Guilt scorched through him. The letter had been tucked away for almost three years now, neglected. The grief counsellor had advised that at some point he must move forward, not linger on it. So after eighteen months he’d finally taken the advice. And it felt like her voice had faded. That he’d forgotten.
He ran a hand through his short blond hair. The truth was, he felt guilty about everything. Why couldn’t he have helped Shelley, done more? Why should he be here, when she wasn’t? Why should he get to breathe in the briny air, turn his face toward the warmth and light of the sun, appreciate the vibrant blue and red hues of the flowers spilling from balconies in the narrow paved streets of the sleepy Greek village his grandfather’s villa nestled in? Why should he get to feel love and hold hands and laugh with someone?
He let out a slow breath, broad chest expanding beneath the black polo shirt Lila said suited him, made him look sexy. Only twenty-seven years old, he felt at least a hundred with the regret that weighed him down. Still, at least Shelley’s letter had always been in his wallet, her words carried against his heart.
But now it was time; the right moment to face his wife’s slanting script and large loops again, the generous lines of hearts and kisses. The right moment to crystallise her voice.
Jake glanced self-consciously at the apartment behind him. Lila was showering and dressing for dinner after their day on the small sandy beach, aware that he needed to discuss something serious with her. It’d take her at least another ten minutes to get ready.
The crashing of waves on the pebbled beach sounded like a heartbeat as he raised the wine glass – full of Shelley’s favourite Chardonnay ‒ to toast it at the sunset. He shook open the letter, a sad smile curling his mouth.
Dear Jake,
To me, happiness is powdery white sand sloping down into endless blue sea, waves lapping on the shore. Happiness is the bright sun heating our faces and tanning our bodies, the air heavy with humidity that makes a midday nap seem like the best idea in the world.
Happiness is pineapple-scented sun cream that makes our skin glide and slide as we spoon together in a hammock under the coconut trees that provide welcome shade.
Happiness is our honeymoon, no matter what may come next.
And to think that I almost gave it all up …
We’d been together for what felt like a lifetime when you proposed, though in real terms it had only been six years. I suppose it felt longer because we’d met at the start of secondary school and had been friends for most of the intervening time, until discovering each other in an entirely different way on my fifteenth birthday.
I still remember that first day when you introduced yourself as I helped my mum and new step-dad unload another bulky box from the van, sullen at being transplanted three hundred miles across the country. I’d been torn away from everything and everyone I loved and was in no hurry to meet anyone new. I needed time to brood and to mope. Of course I didn’t think of it that way then but looking back that was the truth of it.
You were a skinny fair haired thing covered in freckles, a year older than me, determined to try and help a new neighbour out.
It took three months to wear me down, three months of turning up on my doorstep every morning to walk me to school, no matter what the weather, for us to become firm friends. You would talk and talk and talk all the way, telling me about the teachers who would give extensions, and the ones who would hand out detentions, the kids to avoid, the short cuts to use, the gossip in the year eight playground. Your reward was usually the silent treatment, but by the school gates I’d be smiling.
Within a year we were best friends. You were the person I confided in when things got rough at home, my mum’s optimism at her new marriage quickly fading to be replaced by disillusionment as angry shouting matches and tense silences became the norm. I gave you a unique perspective into girls’ minds, coached you through who the girls in my year fancied, sometimes you, though I didn’t understand it.
You grew up, filled out, but not before I did. Yes I teased you when I had curves and you were shooting up into a tall lanky beanpole with no muscles to speak of, but things changed quickly. Your muscles appeared, your voice deepened and when you were bed bound with mono for six weeks I missed you like mad. I missed your smile, your chatter, your laugh, the hundred tiny ways that you comforted me, though I’d never realised it.
Then you rescued me from that octopus classmate at my year ten disco. You should have been at home revising for your exams but instead were looking out for me, hanging around the school hall in the summer air, knowing that the back of the bike sheds was the place used for furtive snogging.
I was pinned awkwardly against corrugated metal and rusty screws trying to fend Darren Jenkins off when you arrived, wrenching him away from me and sending him off with a threatening look. Of course he wasn’t going to argue with a boy in the year above him, someone who by then was six feet tall with shoulders that seemed almost as broad.
‘Why did you do that?’ I shouted, embarrassed.
‘Because … ’
‘What?’
Stepping near, you twirled one of my blonde curls round your finger, pulled me close, and kissed me.
It was magical; the night air burned, fireworks sparked, a band struck up a tune and I was lost in you. It was the beginning of something beautiful.
Lots of things have changed since then, but one thing hasn’t - you’re still my best friend.
When I found the lump during my second
year of teaching, I thought it was nothing to worry about, ignored it. You were working long hours and I pined for you, but I understood you were trying to build a career that would support the family we’d have one day. A few months of normal life passed; work, shopping, seeing friends and family, housework, going down the pub, thrashing you silly on the X-box. One evening in the bath, I realised the lump was still there, that I should have some tests done.
I went to appointments alone because I didn’t want to worry you, but when they gave me the diagnosis, said it had already spread to other parts of my system, I shared it with you straight away. I still remember the way you held me so tightly, as if keeping all the parts of me pinned together.
After the operations and treatments and tests and the difficult conversations with all the professionals, we’ve had to face facts. We don’t know exactly how many days or weeks I have left, but they don’t think I’ll make it to our annual New Year’s Eve party, our tradition.
We’ve argued a lot recently. I love you so much that I’ve wanted to set you free. I don’t want to be an obligation or a burden. But you were determined to marry me. So here we are after a beautiful and fun-filled wedding day and long haul champagne-fuelled flight.
When at home in our poky but cosy flat, I feel awful, weary right down to my bones. But here, things that should exhaust me - fishing trips, scuba diving, island hopping, making love, sitting on the prow of a sailing boat with dolphins jumping and dancing through the waves beneath us - make me feel energised, ready for anything.
These are the moments that I know will remain with me, whether in this life or the next.
We sat at the sticky bar tonight, in the balmy air, complimentary bright green grasshopper cocktails at our elbows. You asked me if I was happy and I said yes. I could have elaborated, but I want to put it down on paper so that you have a lasting record.
So now I’ll elaborate Jake. Read carefully.
Happiness is our honeymoon. We’re in paradise, but truthfully we could be anywhere; the dark wilds of Scotland, the untamed coast of Cornwall. We could be doing anything – train spotting, rambling, riding roller coasters – and the weather could be miserable. As long as I’m with you, it would be paradise. I would be happy because you’re the centre of my world. Like I’m the centre of yours.
If you’re reading this I’m gone, and I know you’ll be devastated. But I want you to know how happy you’ve made me, what a good person you are, how much I’ve always laughed with you. You’ve helped me feel better about myself. Shown me I’m someone worth loving. And I want to thank you for all of that.
I don’t want you to mourn what you’ve lost. Don’t you dare sink into an abyss!I just won’t put up with it. Please just try to appreciate what we shared, even if it’s been cut short.
And in time, when it feels right, I want you to find someone else to love. I want you to give somebody else that incredible opportunity. If they do, they will be happy. You both will.
I love you Jake. You deserve to have a long and happy life.
Forever yours, Shelley xoxoxo xoxoxo xoxoxo
Jake fought to breathe through waves of sadness and love and gratitude, distantly aware of something digging into his hip as he folded up the letter she’d written only forty eight short hours before her death.
Her voice was clear again now.
He missed her. God, how he missed her.
‘Everything okay?’ Lila asked, stepping out onto the balcony, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.
‘Hmm?’ Shoving the letter into his left pocket he looked up at her.
She blew a stream of air out of pursed lips, ruffling her dark blunt fringe. ‘I asked if everything’s okay.’
‘Let’s go to dinner.’ He stood, pushing his chair back with a scrape.
‘Jake …’ Dropping into one of the other chairs she gripped the arms, fingers white. ‘Don’t keep me waiting until dinner. Tell me now. Please. Are you ending it?’ She paused briefly as he sank back down into his own seat. ‘You still miss her, don’t you? And love her. It’s okay. I understand.’
The strap of the funky pink sundress slipped off her tanned shoulder as she shrugged. It drew Jake’s eyes to the tiny freckles dotted along her collarbone, an adorable sprinkling that he’d counted a thousand times in their last year and a half together. It was something he’d started doing after the first time they’d made love. Along with, after a few weeks, always telling her to take care, and calling her at the end of every journey to check she’d arrived safely and buying her a book she’d love at least once a month. They had traipsed around shops, attended concerts, enjoyed dinners with friends, watched movies at the cinema, celebrated Valentine’s day and birthdays and Christmases, moaned about their jobs, laughed at the absurdities of life, supported each other through rubbish moments, spent nights at his place and at hers.
‘Jake?’ Grabbing his wine she gulped back several large mouthfuls even though she preferred rosé.
‘This isn’t fair on you Li.’ His pet name for her. ‘I care about you too much-‘
‘I’ll wait!’ She said desperately, voice shaking. ‘We’re good together.’
‘I know.’ He studied her straight nose, the beauty spot on her dewy cheekbone. Lila and Shelley couldn’t be more different; in appearance, in mannerisms, in interests and professions. But at core they were similar. Loving and clever and kind and impossibly stubborn at times. They both made him laugh. ‘But it isn’t right, to expect you to keep waiting.’
‘I won’t wait forever, that’s true.’ She nodded, sucking in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, large blue eyes determined. ‘But I love you, so I can hang in a bit longer.’
His fingers curled into his pocket, rubbing over the letter, seeking reassurance from Shelley’s words. The feeling of guilt didn’t surface. She’d wanted him to be happy. She’d told him. It was what he thought he’d remembered, but he’d had to be sure.
‘I can’t be with you like this any more. You deserve better.’ He told Lila, brushing a finger down her cheek. ‘Like I said, it isn’t right, to expect you to keep waiting. So I’m not going to ask you to.’ Pulling the small square box from his pocket, he got down on one knee and flipped open the lid to reveal a small diamond ring, a smile spreading across his face. ‘I’m ready. Are you?’
Her answer was in the loud squeal she gave, in the way she threw herself at him so they landed in a heap on the tiled floor with a joint oof! In the smoochy kisses she planted all over his face.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he laughed, pushing her hair out of her eyes before wrapping his arms around her and squeezing tight.
‘Yes! Yes.’ She giggled, eyes sparkling.
‘Good. Are you happy?’
She pulled back, planted a solemn kiss on the corner of his mouth. ‘Yes. Are you?’
He nodded solemnly, ‘I am.’
And it was true. Thanks to his wife’s love letter, he knew that it was all right to say hello to happiness again.
A Day in the Life …
By Nikki Moore
It’s stunning, Melissa thought, as she wandered down the wooden flight of stairs that lead straight from the idyllic wooden cabin onto the beach. She arched her arms above her head in a leisurely stretch then let them fall to her sides. It was balmy already and all she needed to wear was a pair of cut off denim shorts over a scarlet bikini in the early morning warmth. Not something she could do back home in the UK.
Sitting on the bottom step, the clear sparkling Indian Ocean swished up over the smooth white sand to tease her damp feet. She wiggled her toes, one of which was sporting a pretty silver ring Stuart had given her at the beginning of their short intense relationship on a romantic trip to Venice. It had been a getaway to a spectacular ancient city where they’d fallen into a fountain and emerged laughing, shaking off water droplets like a couple of shaggy dogs after a soaking in the rain.
‘You did that deliberately!’ He’d accused.
‘Nope.’
She denied, smiling. But it was true. He was so incredibly stressed, tension pulling his mouth down, his phone switched to silent but checking it with irritating regularity. Something radical had to be done to distract him.
His short dark hair was plastered to his head and he was scowling, but his pale grey eyes were full of humour as he picked her up and set her on the cobbles. When she carried through with the rest of her plan and leaned into him for a hot, teasing kiss, he’d lead her away to their hotel room for an afternoon of frantic sex. And he didn’t check his phone once.
That had been in the early days, before appearances and pride had become more important to him than she had.
Before he’d started trying to shoehorn her into ridiculous Stepford wives Chanel suits and trying to suggest that she should get a French manicure and do something to tame her long dark wild curls. Gypsy curls, he called them once scathingly in the middle of an argument.
But perhaps she’d never been that important to him? Perhaps he’d always aimed to subdue her, adjust her to fit the mould which would suit his status driven world perfectly. The conversation she’d overheard him having with his best man on the morning of their wedding seemed to confirm it.
‘You managed to wrestle her into the right wedding dress in the end then!’
Richard’s nasal tones had carried clearly through the mahogany door of the suite as Melissa had raised her hand to knock on it. Curling her fingers into a fist she rested it on the door frame instead, curiosity burning. The right dress?
‘Yes,’ Stuart replied. She heard the creak of wood and squeak of leather as he sat down. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things she wanted to wear. One of them had this ghastly purple sash around the waist.’
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