Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts Read Online Free

inescapable pathos.
    No description I could write would top the little vignettes the owners had scrawled, so I planned to suggest to Heath we display the letters alongside the items. Seeing the senders’ actual handwriting – and reading their tragic tales – made me feel connected to them. I was sure our visitors would experience the same emotion.
    Take this note, for example, written in a shaky, spidery script, and tucked in with a tarnished salt shaker:
    My husband Wilfred and I received this salt shaker on our wedding day. Ever since, it has stood on our kitchen table. Mornings, for Wilfred’s poached eggs. Teatime, for his chips. And late at night, because I was too tired to clear it away. Every day when I saw that salt shaker, I’d think of how happy I was. Fifty-six years later, I was still as happy and in love as that new bride. But now Wilfred is gone. I don’t want to think of that any longer. Remembering my joy makes my sadness grow stronger. Without my Wilfred, nothing is right.
    Be fore I could wipe them away, my tears splashed onto the lined paper. Crap! I pressed the fabric of my coat against the paper quickly, noting the ink already showed the splatter of liquid. God, what kind of assistant curator was I, ruining items by sobbing all over them?
    Pull yourself together, Rose, I told myself firmly. This old woman had fifty-six years of happiness and love. And maybe she’d managed to find happiness and love again – along with a new salt shaker to adorn her table.
    As much as I wanted to put an optimistic spin on everything, though, I had to admit the tales of heartache and woe were bringing down my love-a-happy-ending mentality. That was to be expected, I guessed, until I managed some professional distance. Even the arrowheads had seemed interesting when I’d first started at the British Museum, but that had soon faded. By the end of this week, I fully expected to be back on my game.
    Glancing at my watch, my eyes popped when I noticed it was already past five. Down in the cellar, I’d lost all track of time. After peeling off the plastic gloves, I smoothed my hair and climbed the stairs to the ground floor, blinking at the bright overhead light. Outside, darkness had fallen, and I could hear the pitter-patter of people rushing past on their way home.
    ‘ Heath?’ I called, listening for any sign of movement. But the house was silent and still, so I clutched my coat even tighter around me and headed into the cold, misty night.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
     
    ‘ How was the first day? Fixed any broken hearts yet?’ Mel leaned forward to slurp from an over-full martini glass, eyes peeping up at me under her thick blunt fringe.
    I snorted. Yeah, right. I’d need to be a miracle worker to rectify some of the tales of woe I’d read earlier. Melancholy still rested on me like a weight, so I threw Mel a bright grin – and took a big sip of wine – to cheer myself up. Thank goodness my friend had been free tonight. If I’d had to go back to just Beano, well . . . it might have taken more than my favourite film to see the bright side of life. A whole bottle of Tesco’s Finest red, probably.
    ‘ As first days go, it was quite good. It’s nice to be in charge of something, you know?’ I remembered Heath’s words about going back to the City eventually, and a glimmer of hope shot through me.
    ‘ What about this boss of yours? Sounds like he’s going to be a slave driver.’ I’d told Mel about the fast-approaching opening deadline and how busy I was going to be up until mid-December.
    ‘ Well, he’s . . .’ My cheeks flushed as I pictured Heath’s dark eyes and the way he filled out the blue sweater. ‘He’s nice,’ I finished lamely.
    ‘ Nice?’ Mel quirked an eyebrow. ‘Right-o. Nice. You know, judging by the way you’re blushing, I reckon someone’s got a little crush on Mr Bossman.’
    ‘ Mel ! Of course not. He’s, like, some kind of City lawyer .’ I knew what Mel thought of people