rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter Thirty-Two: Lucy and Luke
Chapter Thirty-Six: Lucy and Luke
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Patricia
Reading Group Questions for PIECES OF YOU
February
‘What are we doing here, Harte?’
If I sounded impatient, it was because I felt it. I’d been standing outside Luke’s hospital for about fifteen minutes and my toes were beginning to seize up. It was one of those crisp, frosty mornings where pavements and branches of trees looked as though demented elves had gone crazy sprinkling sugar all over them; pretty enough, but also bloody freezing.
‘Just hang on a bit longer,’ Luke frowned, checking his watch. ‘What time do you have?’
‘It’s nine-fifteen and your mother is going to be cross if I’m late for work.’ I grabbed his wrist, pulling at the battered metal strap of his watch. ‘I know you love this thing, but seriously, it has terrible time-keeping issues.’
‘I know, I know. But it’s my dad’s … you know I can’t take it off. It’s the law.’ Luke straightened. ‘Ah, here’s the person I’ve been waiting for.’
I sunk my chin deeper into the warmth of my scarf and blew on my hands as a pretty girl approached us. She was smiling and proffering a wrapped package. I felt a flicker of intrigue, but chilliness prevented me from displaying too much interest.
The girl stopped in front of Luke. ‘Luke Harte? Sorry I’m late. Here it is.’
‘Great! Thank you; you’re a life saver.’ Luke handed over an envelope which the girl pocketed. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself, in fact. ‘God, I love it when a plan comes together.’
‘What sort of plan?’
He touched my nose. ‘Don’t look so suspicious. It’s Valentine’s Day! You know that, right?’
‘I’m aware.’
I sounded prim, but there was a reason for that. I had Valentine’s Day wrapped up and sorted. I had ordered in some lovely food rather than trusting my own cooking, (for very good reasons, I hasten to add), I had wine, I had candles and I had vague ideas about a massage-type thing for Luke at the end of the night.
‘So go with it, okay?’ Luke’s eyes met mine and I could tell he was indulging me. The man knew me well.
‘Now I know we usually save things until later, but I’ve been tracking this gift down for you. It’s a good ‘un, even if I say so myself. Are you going to open it? I can’t wait to see your face.’ He thrust the package into my hands.
‘No pressure then,’ I smiled, dropping my eyes. ‘I know you and your surprise gifts. They’re usually amazing and then I worry that I’ve only, you know … thought of dinner with candlelight.’
Luke waved a hand. ‘That’s all I want, so you’re spot on … can’t wait. Open it, go on.’
I turned the package over in my hands. Was it chocolates? No, Luke wouldn’t be so obvious. Nor would chocolates require personal hand-delivery. Was it a book? I peeled back a section of wrapping paper. Books were the perfect gift for me; I adore them. Perhaps it was another copy of Wuthering Heights – I collected them; the older the better. Old novels with illustrations and dedications written in the front pages in fountain pen, scratchy, illegible marks steeped with meaning.
I tore the rest of the wrapping off, discovering a hardback with a torn, tarnished sleeve – or wrapper, as they used to be called. A Book of Delights, I read. ‘How lovely. Er. What is it, exactly?’
Luke opened the book. ‘It’s an anthology of poetry and quotes and stuff. Romantic things.’ He flipped the pages. ‘I mean, it’s probably mostly pretentious rubbish, but apparently there are a few really nice poems in there.’
‘You old romantic, you.’ I was impressed.
‘That’s not even the best bit,’ Luke said.
I flicked my eyes over him. The man was practically preening.
‘There’s an inscription at the front … read it. This is absolutely the best bit.’
I found it. It read: To my darling wife, with all my love, Luke. 14th Feb, 1954. ‘1954? What the—? I don’t understand …’
‘Some other Luke wrote in the book all those years ago.’ Luke was practically beside himself at this point. ‘The other Luke wrote that to the
