A Miracle on Hope Street: The most heartwarming Christmas romance of 2018!. Emma Heatherington

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СКАЧАТЬ I can . . . but what do you think I should do to make things better, apart from selling the house?’ I ask her, feeling like the teenage girl who used to come to her with my problems when I felt my dad was finding it tough and I didn’t want to burden him with my worries on top of his own.

      ‘You need to find something or someone to give all that love inside you to,’ she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. ‘You need real friendship, real love.’

      ‘If only it was as easy as that,’ I tell her. ‘You know me by now. I don’t do the whole love thing. I can’t.’

      ‘Yes you can!’ she tells me right back. ‘You and your sister were always special people and I hate to see you looking so low. It’s not the real you. You deserve so much more. I’m not talking necessarily about romantic love, Ruth, but when was the last time you loved someone that wasn’t your dad or your sister?’

      Her question stuns me. I don’t know what to say.

      ‘I dunno,’ I reply with a shrug. ‘Maybe never? And what is love, anyway?’

      Gloria looks at me in mock disgust.

      ‘Ah, come on, girl! How can someone so young and with the world at her feet be so cynical?’ she bellows. ‘What is love? It’s the greatest thing in the world!’

      I laugh as Gloria expresses herself with her hands waving in the air.

      ‘Love is what fills us up inside and what makes us feel like we belong on this planet,’ she says. ‘Love is a sense of purpose. To be in love and to love in return is the best gift you can ever give or receive. I don’t believe you, Ruth Ryans! You are saying you never felt that warm, fuzzy feeling of finding someone who gets you and who you can’t wait to see and with whom you feel like the world just stops when you’re in their company?’

      ‘I thought that was lust,’ I say with a smirk. ‘I learned very young to be very independent, Gloria, you know that. I don’t know if I’d trust anyone to love me in the way I’d want them to. I’ve been hurt a few times along the way, as well as breaking hearts myself. I can’t do it. I’m just not good at it.’

      Gloria’s face changes and she clasps my hand across the table as I stare out the window onto the busy city street.

      ‘Please don’t be so afraid, Ruth,’ Gloria whispers when I turn back to face her. ‘I’m not being foolish and romantic, but just open your heart to be loved again, please. You deserve it so, so much. You know, I remember when you were very little and you’d come in here and sense that I was having a bad day and you’d always just come out and ask straight up if I was okay. You had always the ability to know when someone was a bit down – and better than that, you knew how to pick them up. You’ve always had so much love to give. You still do.’

      I raise a smile. I’m almost thirty-three years old and I don’t even know if I’ve ever been in love before. I’ve never let anyone get even close. How sad is that?

      ‘I’ll work on it,’ I say and she brightens up again.

      ‘Tell yourself you deserve it,’ she says. ‘And don’t ever doubt it for one second.’

      I would agree wholeheartedly with Gloria that I deserve to love and to be loved, but I know she is just a tad biased when it comes to me and my sister. My dad helped her get her first job in this café and he later helped her get a bank loan to take on the lease by acting as guarantor, then he helped her to promote it by spreading the word amongst his colleagues at the university and his large circle of friends. My father gave Gloria a chance when not many others would, and she has never forgotten it, but she isn’t the only one to have told me I knew how to spot when someone needed some help up if they’re feeling down. I fear I may have lost that a little.

      ‘I feel like I’m a fake,’ I whisper to Gloria. ‘You know, all this pretending on the outside and feeling so low on the inside. I want to scream and get so much of this feeling of loss and death out of my system and move on. What do I have to do to get to that stage? I really want to just feel like “me” again.’

      Gloria leans across to me and I wait for her to come out with some sort of angelic guidance that will help me change my life forever. But her solution for now is a lot simpler.

      ‘Take one day at a time, don’t put yourself under pressure and it will all come to you,’ she tells me. ‘Now, can I get you one of my new cinnamon lattes with fresh cream to warm you up even more before you go? On the house? My customers who’ve tried it already believe it may just be magic.’

      I check the time. I’ve been here almost an hour as it is, but what the heck. It’s snowing outside and I can check my emails on my phone from here, plus, I want to compose myself a little before I venture out into the frosty afternoon to make my way home.

      ‘A bit of magic would be just lovely please, thanks, Gloria. You’re the kindest.’

      ‘No, you are my love,’ she says. ‘You’re one of the kindest, most loyal, generous people I know but you’re also a little impatient and you lack in self-belief. Stay true to your own heart and you won’t be feeling like this for much longer. I just know it. People around here need you. Don’t ever forget that.’

       Nicholas Taylor

      Nicholas Taylor hadn’t played his piano in 242 days.

      He knew this because the last day he tinkled the ivories was the day he turned seventy-five which coincided with the day his neighbours reported him to the council for noise pollution, and it was also the day he was issued a summons for harassment for telling the council official in a very non-polite manner where to go.

      Nicholas Taylor wasn’t an angry man or a violent man. He was, in fact, a very gentle soul who relied on playing his music as an escape from reality and as a way to get out some of the inner frustrations he felt when he allowed how his life might have turned out differently creep into his weary mind again.

      Nicholas had always loved music, as a child growing up in Germany, then Sweden, then England and eventually settling in Ireland where he’d got a job at the Concert Hall which he’d had until his retirement. He had made a fine career out of his music, yet after all that, now he only had his cat to come home to, and as much company as old Boris was these days, Nicholas yearned for someone who would talk back when he shared his stories of music and travel that had taken him all over the world.

      ‘When you play music, you’ll never feel lonely,’ were the words his late father had told him any time that Nicholas tried to back out of his piano lessons in childhood. As an only child to Dutch parents who both worked in banking and moved around a lot, he often relied on his music for company, and even though it still filled his heart and soul when he sat down and tinkled out a tune, it wasn’t worth it when the walls were like paper and there was a young baby next door who didn’t seem to appreciate his mighty fine talent.

      Without music, and without Rosemary, his ex-wife, Nicholas didn’t really know how to spend his days any more. It was too cold at this time of year to even busk outside and if he was being really honest with himself, his health wouldn’t allow it no matter what time of year it was, but the long evenings were suffocating and the radio and Boris were growing a bit tired now when it came to occupying his wandering mind.

      He read a lot, which sometimes helped. He read everything he could get his hands on – novels, autobiographies, magazines on art and literature and music of course, newspapers СКАЧАТЬ