A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series)
Read A Change of Heart (The Heartfelt Series) Online
Authors: Adrienne Vaughan
Sometimes a heart will tell,
The keeper of the well,
That wishes have come true,
There’s nothing left to do.
But though these words are said,
There’s something in the head,
That’s not all as it seems,
For locked away are dreams,
And further depths to find,
Of heart and soul and mind.
Yet richer veins lie deep,
Within the spirit’s keep,
And mining there will show,
There’s still more love to grow,
As loyalty and faith,
Humility and grace,
Such solid virtues true,
Will change the rosy hue,
Of love’s first lustful charm,
To solid, granite calm,
That forms a bed of rock,
Withstanding every shock,
So nought is torn apart,
Thus turns the change of heart.
A Change of Heart © Adrienne Vaughan 2013
First Edition
The moral right of the author has been asserted in accordance with Copyright Design and Patents Act 1998.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Kindle Edition
This book is a work of fiction. The characters and incidents are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any real person or incident is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN 978-0-9573949-4-0
Other books by Adrienne Vaughan
The Hollow Heart
Praise for Adrienne Vaughan’s debut
The Hollow Heart
For a début novel this was simply astounding, fantastic descriptions of Ireland, warmth and hospitality, the characters were believable and friendships were the kind you wished you had. A tale full of love and laughter.
F. Keegan, Northern Ireland.
B
eautifully written, the characters are so well drawn, the descriptions are vivid and colourful, and the Irish background shines through. I loved it!
June Tate, a
uthor.
There is romance, drama, heartache and trauma, you will be wiping a tear away one minute and smiling the next.
Elaine G, Top 50 Reviewer.
I absolutely loved this - with beautifully crafted characters, it’s an emotional roller-coaster of a read. I really didn't want it to end and can't wait to get my hands on the next book in the series.
Jennie Findley, journalist.
I only put The Hollow Heart down to sleep and go to work.
K.Wyatt, Amazon Review.
I absolutely loved everything about this book - the quirky characters, the humour and the romance. Cleverly written, full of surprises and hugely enjoyable. The twist at the end was the icing on the cake.
Rosy Dickinson, Amazon Review.
I
was hooked from the first chapter and by the end of the book felt like I actually knew these people. The story made me smile, lifted my heart and even brought a tear to my eye. I've never been to Ireland but I could feel the pull on my heartstrings to be part of such a place. I hope the sequel follows quickly.
Linda Bensberg, Sidcup, Kent.
This book is dedicated to
my grandmothers,
Molly Wrafter and Alice Houlihan.
Two very different, yet surprisingly similar Irish women, who influence every word I write, whether I want them to or not!
Chapter Two - Come Fly With Me
Chapter Three - The Postmistress Always Rings Twice
Chapter Four - A Hopeless Case
Chapter Five - Rules Of Engagement
Chapter Six - A New Career In A New Town
Chapter Eight - The Man From Atlantis
Chapter Nine - Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner?
Chapter Ten - Call In The Cavalry
Chapter Eleven - A Means To An End
Chapter Twelve - A Deal To Be Done
Chapter Thirteen - All That Glitters
Chapter Fourteen - The Lynx Effect
Chapter Fifteen - Ship To Shore
Chapter Sixteen - Engaging The Enemy
Chapter Seventeen - A Place In The Clouds
Chapter Eighteen - An Arresting Situation
Chapter Nineteen - One Of Our Own
Chapter Twenty - The High Commander
Chapter Twenty One - Nothing To Forgive
Chapter Twenty - Two The Lost Babies
Chapter Twenty Three - The Prodigal Daughter
Chapter Twenty Four - Trick Or Treat?
Chapter Twenty Five - To Catch A Thief
Chapter Twenty Six - Ring A Ding Ding
Chapter Twenty Seven - Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder
Chapter Twenty Eight - Big Girlie Wuss
Chapter Twenty Nine - New York, New York
Chapter Thirty - A Leap Of Faith
Chapter Thirty One - May The Road Rise Up
Dear Brian
I don’t know where you are, how you are or what has become of you, but I had to put pen to paper to try to communicate with you somehow. I’ve the most wonderful news.
Our daughter, our beautiful, baby girl, is not dead at all. She’s alive and well; what I’ve always known in my heart of hearts is true. I was lied to, and that lie tore our world apart.
She was stolen by those we trusted to look after her, the nursing sisters who were taking care of her when I was so desperately ill, and while I was fighting for my life, they sold our baby - like a commodity, a by-product.
They told me she died, but they lied
.
She was adopted, educated in Dublin and worked as a journalist in England, and now Brian, and this is what’s so utterly amazing, she’s on the island, Innishmahon; the gods, fate or whatever, has brought her home! She’s living here, and everyone knows I’m her mother and she’s my daughter and no-one gives a damn. Don’t talk to me about the good old days; times have changed alright and for the better, thank goodness.
So, you have a daughter, our daughter, and guess what? She’s called Marianne. They never changed her name, the name we chose for her, and our exquisite, fragile, baby girl, is a feisty, opinionated, warm and loving young woman. She has your eyes and beaming smile, and it breaks my heart a little bit more every time I see her, to think what we could have had, what we’ve missed.
I still miss you Brian, and I just needed you to know that we’re here waiting for you, if you ever did want to come home. But you never will, will you? And that’s okay, sort of, you’ve the right to choose how and where you live your life; we all do. Now I’m having, what did you used to call it? A
philosophical ramble.
You see, I’m still the same, never changed.
How I used to love those long, into the night discussions, particularly when we argued: huge, passionate rows declaring we’d never speak to each other again, with you storming off, me calling you back and then, barely able to keep our hands to ourselves, falling on each other like wild things. Oh, how I loved the making up.
I’m rambling again.
Anyway Brian, I needed to write it all down, so wherever you are, I’m wishing you could share even just the tiniest fragment of this joy. Having Marianne back in my life has made all the heartache we went through worthwhile.
I may never forgive you, but I will always love you, Kathleen. X
Miss MacReady signed off with a flourish, re-read the cream pages filled with curly writing in green ink and smiled. She folded the letter and taking a matching envelope slid it inside and sealed it. She wrote:
For the personal attention of Dr Brian Maguire
on the front, waited for the ink to dry then placed the document in the small wooden box she kept under lock and key in her desk. The box she kept Marianne’s original birth and forged death certificates in, together with the tiny black and white photograph of her daughter as a newborn, the picture which had perfectly matched the photo clipped to the adoption papers Marianne had carried with her all her life - the vital clue that revealed the shocking truth.
Lifting the Martini glass, she drained her drink. It was Monday; Miss MacReady always had cocktails on Mondays. She snuffed out the scented candles between forefinger and thumb, briefly admiring her metallic-blue nails, then wrapping the silk Kimono around her, padded barefoot through the beaded curtain to bed. Like all postmistresses, she had an early start in the morning, and what a morning it was going to be - the first morning of the rest of her life.
Miss MacReady viewed every morning like that. She really was the most unbelievably, annoyingly optimistic person on the planet, a real pain in the arse, particularly when you wanted a good moan!
Marianne stood outside the iron gates of the house. They needed a lick of paint but the place was not in bad condition at all. Renovated to the highest standard, then left empty for years, it had weathered well, standing proud on its hill above the village, looking out across the Atlantic, taking whatever the elements could throw at it on the chin.
Much like herself, the house had a chequered past. She smiled up at the casement windows, cream rendered walls and circular stone pillars either side of the gates. Rumoured to have been a haven for smugglers, a refuge of freedom fighters and a rendezvous for romantic trysts, the house had been home to the island’s medical family, the doctors Maguire. When the last of the Maguire’s, Brian, a bachelor, packed up and left, it was bought and extravagantly refurbished by a wealthy London stockbroker who had barely graced its pleasant portals before going broke, forcing the bank to put it back on the market.
Now it was hers and her dream could begin. She finally had the perfect property to turn into a holiday home for young carers - children who did not have a childhood, let alone a holiday. This would be her new and totally absorbing project, this would be her focus, the centre of her world and she would give it all her love, her heart and soul. The project and baby Bridget, what more would she need?
She looked down at the auburn-haired toddler in the buggy beside her and lifted her out. Holding her close, she buried her nose in the little one’s freshly washed hair. A clump of sorrow punched her in the chest. Sometimes the child reminded her so much of Oonagh, she could hardly bear to look at her. She missed Oonagh so much. ‘As close as sisters’, Oonagh used to say they were, and like a sister, she promised Oonagh she would take care of her daughter when the inevitable happened, when the cancer took her, and a light went out.
Looking out to sea, the memories came flooding back. Oonagh frail yet laughing, their last meal together, an intimate dinner party aboard the yacht Padar had recklessly purchased to please his star-struck wife. The guests were carefully selected. Oonagh and Padar, playing host to Father Gregory, priest and helmsman; Ryan O’Gorman, movie star and crew member; and herself, award-winning journalist and the island’s newest resident. She could hear Oonagh’s husky voice begging Ryan to recount all the latest Hollywood gossip, teasing Father Gregory about his vow of celibacy and finally giving strict instructions to Ryan and Marianne, her baby daughter’s godparents, to make a go of things, be together, life is too short. And then, as dawn broke and the chilled Atlantic mist swirled about the boat, the awful realisation that while they slept, Oonagh had descended the steps into the icy sea, and holding Bridget’s silver christening bangle aloft, had slipped beneath the waves, a halo of bubbles breaking the surface as she sank.
“There Bridget, do you see? This lovely old house will be filled with fun and laughter and do you know what we’re going to call it? We’re going to call it Oonagh’s Project
,
after your mother, that way there’ll always be something good and solid on the island to remind us, somewhere warm and welcoming like she was, she’ll never be forgotten. I’ll make sure you know who your mother was, no matter what.” She smiled brightly at the child, still too young to understand and then, looking from the house down to the quay, noticed Monty had slipped his lead and was trotting in the direction of the ferry, tail wagging as if he had spotted someone he recognised.
A man was jumping up and down on the quayside, waving at her in desperate welcome. The little dog, running in circles, barked at him joyfully. A couple of passengers were taking photos of the glorious coastline, a sweeping bay, its arms open in welcome. They were trying hard to include the profile of the famous movie star who had shared their passage, hoping he would notice and flash them a Hollywood smile, but he was too distracted.
She started down the hill, Bridget on her hip, pushing the buggy in front of her. The wind whipped her hair around her face; she kept pushing it out of her eyes. Was she seeing things, was it really him? The water sloshed about the boat, sending sparkles into the harbour like diamonds in the sunshine. The noise and bustle blurred her ears, shouts faded to a murmur, calls from the shoreline hushed to a happy hum.
She was close enough to see it
was
him. She tried not to blink in case the image disappeared. Slowing her pace, taking time to breathe, she felt as she always did when she saw him again for the first time: that searing, desperate longing and then the hollowness inside filled to bursting, tears of joy burning behind her eyes.
Praying he could not hear her heart pounding against her chest, she stood before him. The toddler on her hip gurgled, throwing out her arms to greet him. He had stopped jumping up and down and just stood there, grinning at her, one hand on the handle of a baby buggy at his side, the other reaching, stretched out towards her, fingers extended. She looked down at the hand, standing a millimetre from his touch.
“Well, here I am, I’m back,” he announced, “me and my son here, we’re home.” He pushed the child’s blue hood back to reveal a beautiful dark-haired boy, sleeping soundly. “Home for good,” he gave her a dazzling smile; slate-blue eyes stabbed at her heart.
“Well good for you, Ryan O’Gorman, happy days.” She stared straight back at him. He took a step towards her, she took a step back.
“Hey, no welcome, no warm embrace from the woman I love?” he tried a disarming, crooked grin.
“Is she on the island?” she asked him, eyebrows raised.
“Who?” he was confused.
“The woman you love,” she replied, icily.
“Come on, Marie, don’t give me a hard time. There’s a lot to discuss I grant you, things to sort out, but here I am.”
“Perhaps you should have done some of that before you and that poor child tipped up here like a couple of waif and strays,” she told him.
“Whoa, this isn’t…” he took another step towards her.
“How it’s meant to be?” she stepped to the side. He caught his foot on the wheel of the buggy and, reaching out, let go of the handle.
“Marie please,” the Irish-American lilt was melting, “we need to talk.”
She hotched the little one on her hip higher.
“We do, but right now you need to rescue your son,” she said anxiously, nodding after the buggy as it rolled gently away. A young man close-by turned his camera on the movie star, his rucksack clipping the handle as it trundled down the jetty, gaining speed, heading towards the sea.
“Ryan!” Marianne yelled.
“Stop!” Ryan roared, tearing after the buggy, dog hot on his heels. The wheels just tipped over the edge as the young man, with only a second to spare, lunged, caught the handle and hauled it back. At the same time, Ryan took a flying leap and, with nothing to break his fall, sailed through the air into the icy Atlantic.
There was a loud splash, cries of alarm, then after a long moment, Ryan surfaced coughing. A flurry of faces looked down from the quayside. One of the men tossed him a lifebelt. He caught it with one hand and, using it as a float, swam back to shore. Remembering his public persona, he stomped boldly up the ferry steps, waving as he reached the top.
“Just keeping in shape,” he told them, smiling; he was an all-action hero after all. Cameras and phones flashed.
“Does
he
drink?” he heard one of the female onlookers ask a companion.
“Well, he takes plenty of water with it these days,” laughed the man, wheeling luggage to a waiting car.
Pushing the panic from her throat, Marianne stared wide-eyed as Ryan approached them. The now awakened little boy, child on her hip and West Highland terrier all watched him suspiciously. He looked like a two-legged sea monster, dripping and coughing. The little girl started to giggle. She pointed at him. Marianne buried her face in the toddler’s hood.
“It’s not bloody funny. That buggy could have gone in and we both could have drowned,” he said, shaking his head, water flying everywhere.
“What, you,
Thomas Bentley
, the all-action super-spy? No way,” she said, referring to his role as the legendary secret agent. “You’re fine, you’re
both
fine.” Her eyes were twinkling with relief, “You’re just a bit wet. Come on, let’s go, you need a hot shower by the look of you.”
He flicked dripping locks out of his eyes, as she turned and pushing the baby boy ahead of her, with the little girl on her hip, walked briskly in the direction of the village. The dog sniffed him briefly and trotted after her. The jetty was emptying. Soon Ryan and his baggage would be all that was left. It was a good walk to the village and Weathervane, Marianne’s cosy cottage, and he was very cold; he could die of hyperthermia if he did not get a move on.
The young man with the rucksack was writing in a notebook. Ryan had barely thanked him for saving his son. He watched him as his teeth started to chatter. The man looked up, Ryan raised a hand in acknowledgement, too embarrassed to do more. Muttering to himself, he gathered his expensive luggage, and with shoulders back, squelched after the disappearing cluster: Marianne Coltrane: their goddaughter, baby Bridget, his infant son Joey and Monty the dog. In fact, all he loved in the world.
“Wait for me,” he called, pointlessly.
If Marianne was shocked by his arrival, she hid it well. By the time Ryan reached Weathervane, the cottage was warm and welcoming as ever, peat fire in the hearth, lamps lit, cushions and throws everywhere. He dropped his bags in the hall and stood at the kitchen door, taking it all in, feeling as if a very long journey had finally ended and he was home.
Marianne was stirring soup, the children on the rug, gurgling at each other. He shivered.
“Go and shower for heaven’s sake, you’ll catch your death,” she said, barely looking up, “I’ll settle these two once they’ve eaten.”
“You seem annoyed with me,” he said.
“Ha,” she whooshed water into the kettle at full throttle.
“I thought you’d be pleased.” He went to stand beside her.
“Did you now?” she moved away from him, heat burning a rash on her chest. She buttoned her shirt to the neck.
“I thought this was what you wanted, me, us, together?” he was bemused. She banged the kettle on the range. “Have I done the wrong thing?” he asked.
She was at the dresser, taking down mugs.
“You most certainly have,” she replied, crashing open a cupboard in search of teabags.
“You mean you don’t want me here,” his voice was harsh in his throat. He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. It branded like an iron. She swallowed. She could smell him. He moved closer, his musky sea-scent filled her nostrils. She could not breathe. She ducked under his arm and found sanctuary by the kitchen door. She opened the top half, letting the breeze cool her. He came to stand beside her, following her gaze out past the little windblown garden, the gate to the lane and the sliver of sea beyond. Grey clouds broiled above the Atlantic.
“Marie,” he whispered, “tell me you want me back.” She did not answer. He stayed there, looking out to sea. She stole a glance at him as he watched the horizon, the breeze lifting his hair, thumb prints of tiredness stamped beneath his eyes. He caught her looking at him, and moved to block her view, lifting her chin with a finger, eyes burning into her.
“Well?” he lowered his mouth to hover over hers, she tasted his breath. She stepped back, slamming the top of the door closed.
“You’re wet. Go and shower, we’ll talk later,” she dismissed him.
“Did I do the wrong thing?” he asked again.
“Yes, Ryan you did,” she replied.
“Don’t you love me then?” he spoke quietly.
“Yes, Ryan I do,” she told him, avoiding his eyes.
“Gotcha!” he shouted, making them all jump. “Knew I was still in with a chance, can’t resist me, mad about me, that’s obvious.”
She picked a cushion up and threw it at him.
“Don’t get carried away, boyo, we’ve a lot to discuss, things we should have agreed before now, before this.” She made a gesture encompassing them all.
He gave an involuntary shudder.
“Shower!” She pointed at the door.
He left, attempting a sort of squishy samba, she rolled her eyes as he sashayed up the stairs.
“God loves a trier,” she told Monty, who was waiting patiently for his soup.
Padar Quinn was delighted to see him. He ran from behind the bar and clamped him in a huge hug. Ryan loved Maguire’s - it was a proper pub, a real home from home, blazing fire, flagstone floor, glasses polished, brass gleaming.
“It’s great to see you. Look at you, you’re looking grand altogether, I have to say,” came the burbling diatribe of welcome from the nowadays recalcitrant landlord. Padar had not seen Ryan since Oonagh’s memorial service, so long ago, yet raw as yesterday. “Have you seen Marianne? Did you see Bridget? Do they know you’re here?” A barrage of questions, from a man who had said less than a sentence in weeks.
“Hold your horses,” pleaded Ryan, now in clean, dry clothes and warmed with soup and tea, “how can I discuss anything without a pint of your finest inside me?”
Padar grinned and pushed back behind the bar to draw his friend a pint. It was early, but Padar had never bothered with official opening and closing times.
