There is a lot of sadness in Jeff.
Jeff and Hazel are in love. Life should be so simple, but an incident in Jeff's past haunts him to the point that he becomes a recluse. As his band prepares to release its first album after the tragedy, Hazel watches as Jeff's passions turn into obsessions. When Jeff's sorrow gets the best of him and alienates Hazel from her friends, the couple has to finally face the truth of what happened three years earlier...
Will Jeff's grief tear their love apart?
TWO HEARTS IN A GRAVE is an evocative read for those who like their love stories with a twist.
There is a lot of sadness in Jeff.
Jeff and Hazel are in love. Life should be so simple, but an incident in Jeff's past haunts him to the point that he becomes a recluse. As his band prepares to release its first album after the tragedy, Hazel watches as Jeff's passions turn into obsessions. When Jeff's sorrow gets the best of him and alienates Hazel from her friends, the couple has to finally face the truth of what happened three years earlier...
Will Jeff's grief tear their love apart?
TWO HEARTS IN A GRAVE is an evocative read for those who like their love stories with a twist.
They say home is where the heart is, and Iām here. Iām home.
I walk up the narrow path towards the front step. The sun shining behind the house makes it look murkier and taller than it is. It is a big house, bigger than necessary, but I love it.
I pull the front door key out of my handbag and open the door. Silence greets me. The house is so empty. There is no one waiting for me. Iām unused to such quiet houses. Having a dog helps, but my dog Sammy hasnāt moved in yet. Thereās been too much going on with the move. I want to unpack first before letting him in to wreck everything in his way. Sammyās not that big or heavy, but heās boisterous. He loves life.
I leave my keys on the hall table. It was one of the first items I unpacked. One needs somewhere to leave their keys, phone, handbag ā all the valuables, basically. I know they say itās not good to keep them by the door, but how else am I supposed to gather all my bits and pieces quickly if I need to leave in a hurry?
I throw my coat on the pile of boxes beneath the stairs. There will be a coatrack there one day, but that day hasnāt come yet.
I flick the heating on before entering the galley kitchen to make a cup of tea. Itās cold inside. It happens with old houses, and the house is old. I like old things. Not old men, mind. Just things.
I fell in love with the house at first sight. Itās a period property like I wanted, made of grey stone, and comprises three storeys although the top floor is only an attic where I canāt stand straight. Itās a bit creepy up there too, but it will do for storage. The property was above budget, but what do you do when you fall in love? You go for it with all youāve got, even if it means punching above your weight.
Although it was Jeff who insisted on this house, he is rarely here. Thatās why the house feels so big, empty and quiet, and itās not like Jeff is loud when he is around. For a musician, he makes little noise. I guess if the neighbours knew a rock star lived next door, they would have opinions, but they donāt know. They probably never will. Jeff is not the partying type. The thick stone walls keep the noise within even when he is playing, and the sound of Jeffās voice is as lovely as the light patter of rain on a stifling hot summerās day after a dry fortnight. Nobody could complain about his singing.
The kettle flicks off, and I go for the teabags on the counter. Thereās dust on the box of teabags like there is on everything else in the house. After the dust settles, as the saying goes, except when you are in the middle of moving to a new house, it never seems to finish settling. I change my mind and reach for the green tea on the windowsill. The kitchen window gives out onto the side of the house. Some of the stone wall between the houses has been replaced with wrought iron railings, so I can see next door. I havenāt met the neighbours yet although I have seen lights on in the room across sometimes. The window is so small and so high above ground that it must be a bathroom. The curtains in the other windows on that side are usually drawn, at least when Iām home. Such private people.
I bet they think the same of me.
It rains the following morning. There is no sign of Jeff, but I suspect he was home for a while during the night because I seem to recall a kiss on my cheek at some point although thereās no evidence that the other side of the bed has been slept on. Thatās not unusual. He doesnāt always get into bed with me. He sleeps at weird hours or doesnāt sleep at all. Heās not much of a sleeper, really. It sometimes gives me wakeful nights too, but these days Iām exhausted. At least we have a bed. For the first week in the house, we only had a crappy old mattress, and thereās no underfloor heating although the house has been through a lot of modernisation.
When I go downstairs, thereās a note on the console table at the bottom of the steps. Itās a little handwritten note on a piece of cardboard ā God knows where that came from ā and says āAll my loveā in Jeffās squiggly handwriting. Thereās a small bar of dark chocolate on top of it. Chocolate for breakfast. It puts a smile on my face. I leave the note where it is but bring the chocolate to the kitchen with me.
I eat it in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, and wash the chocolate down with a cup of coffee. Thereās no dining table yet. Well, there is, but it hasnāt been assembled yet. I havenāt assembled it yet; Jeff never will, so I will have to. I turn to look at the dining room, which is much too big for us. It overlooks the garden at the back. The boxes containing the dining table rest against one wall. Maybe that could be my project for the day. It would be nice to have dinner sitting down for a change.
One look at the contents of the fridge and freezer tells me that there will no dinner unless I either go shopping or order something in. It will probably be the latter. I have enjoyed far too many takeaways recently, but cooking for myself feels so pointless. If only Jeff were around to enjoy dinner with me for once.
The doorbell rings later in the morning when Iām on my hands and knees on the dining room floor, shifting through the assembly instructions spread all round me and underneath me. I get such a fright that I almost fall flat on my face. I only avoid it by putting a hand on the floor to steady myself. Itās not much better because my hand lands on top of a screw which digs painfully into my palm.
I didnāt know the house had a working doorbell. The sound is loud, rambunctious and disturbing ā not at all welcome. Iām too used to the quiet in the house. Why have I not got around to unpacking the stereo or even the Bluetooth speakers? No wonder Jeff isnāt around. Heās as fond of listening to noises as he is creating them.
I sit back on my knees and stare down the hall. Of course, I canāt see anything. The angle is wrong and the porch door closed, so I canāt see the front door from here.
I worry about my appearance as I walk into the hall. Iām wearing old clothes, dusty and badly fitting, but if Iām going to get the door for this caller, I donāt have time to do anything about it. Through the frosted glass of the front door I see a shape on the step outside. I open the door to see properly.
āGood morning. I hope Iām not disturbing you. I thought it was about time I introduced myself. Youāve been here a while now, so I thought it was getting a bit rude of me.ā
The woman is in her mid-fifties, carrying what looks like a cake box and wearing a wig. It has to be a wig.
āWell, noā¦ I mean, yes. Itās nice to meet you. Itās not a great time.ā
It isnāt, but it also isnāt a bad time for visitors. If I wait for the perfect time, it will be two years later. There is a lot to do with the house.
āOh, I donāt want to put you out. Iām Iris from next door, Iris Richardson. I just brought you this.ā
I realise that my conversation has gone entirely off track. I already told her I was pleased to meet her before she introduced herself. Iris Richardson is holding the cake box out for me.
āThank you,ā I mutter and take the box. It feels heavy in my hand.
She is still looking at me, and I wrack my brain for something to stay.
āOh. Hazel. Itās Hazel. Hazel Pearce.ā I stick my free hand out to her, afraid that I will drop the cake while itās balanced on my left palm. We shake awkwardly. Then we stare at each for a while. My neighbour is clearly trying to see behind me into the house, and I canāt think of anything to say. I donāt want her to come in.
āWell, I should go,ā she eventually says and starts to turn.
āThank you for dropping by. And for the cake. You should come over for tea, or coffee, when weāre a bit more settled.ā
āI havenāt seen your husband yet.ā
The woman is clearly a gossip. I can see it in her eyes that light up at the mention of my husband.
āWeāre not married. Heās away a lot. Comes and goes, weird hours. Heās a musician.ā
āI see.ā
Judging by the tone of her voice, Mrs Richardson ā she is wearing a ring ā sees a lot thatās not there, only by the mention of Jeffās occupation.
āMaybe I will get to meet him next time.ā
The thought of Mrs Richardson, who is starting to remind me of Mrs Bucket ā Bouquet ā from Keeping Up Appearances more and more each passing second, meeting Jeff with all his tattoos, pierced ears and eyebrow and unconventional dress sense, makes me want to snigger, but I smile politely.
āIām sure he would love to meet you too.ā
He would ā for the comedy value ā but I know he wonāt.
Iris Richardson nods and moves off down the wet footpath.
Iām in the kitchen having a cup of coffee and a slice of Irisās delicious carrot cake when the doorbell rings again.
Itās a delivery company.
āWe have a delivery for Hazel Pearce,ā the man at the door says. He looks me up and down. I know that look. Itās the you-could-be-good-looking-if-you-made-an-effort look that doesnāt take into consideration that I have just finished setting up the dining table and still have six chairs to assemble.
āThatās me.ā I take the docket that lists exactly what I expected.
The man looks at the door, steps back, looks at the door from further off as if it were a piece of art and then moves to look at the sitting room windows.
āItās not going to come in through here.ā
āI know,ā I say and move a little out of the porch, careful not to get my slippered feet wet. āI think youāll have to take it down the side of the house and in the patio door. Iāll show you.ā
I guide the man through the house, open the patio doors for him and watch as he carefully measures the gap with a measuring tape he pulls out of his pocket.
āIāll check.ā
He disappears outside.
It takes three men a long time and a lot of effort, but eventually, Jeffās precious grand piano is back where it belongs, in his grandmotherās old house. It sits in a corner of the dining room, exactly where he wanted it. Itās the only room it will fit. Ideally, it would be in one of the bedrooms upstairs, but then again, what if he wants someone to listen to him play? The idea of trying to manoeuvre the piano upstairs doesnāt bear thinking about either. The sitting room is too awkward with the fireplace, two doorways and its large windows, and it wouldnāt fit into my downstairs office, so the dining room it is.
At some point during the operation, when Iām in the kitchen fetching the delivery guys glasses of water, I swear I can see Mrs Richardson peeking out through one of the closed curtains in her house. She looks smug and pleased at the sight of the piano. Little does she know that the piano is not Jeffās main passion in life.
When I started reading the first chapter it was a slow burn. The story opens with Hazel waiting for Jeff to get home. He's in a rockband and they have a new album about to be released. It seems that Jeff is neglecting her until you discover the source of his grief. Hazel exists because for Jeff. Her friends want to meet him. She sacrifices her life for him. Her friends see pictures of the musician, but he is usually occupied when they come over. And he leaves when he wants.
Initially, it was a confusing read for me. I couldn't get a clear picture of who Hazel was before Jeff. Her job was vague. Perhaps that was the Harju's intention. Those things become less important by the end of the story. After reading more I settled in for the plot. The pace picks up at the Midpoint. I began to get a clear picture. I was wrong about what I thought I knew about sorrow.
I thought the sex scenes were appropriate for a couple in love. I like that the author never lost sight of the theme. I kept reading it with an increasing sense of sadness. She is a competent writer. Nothing intrudes upon the flow of the story. What I read in the opening chapter is told from Hazel's perspective.
I couldn't bash her for being a long-suffering girlfriend. I've been in a similar situation but not in the same context. I have my regrets. I felt sympathy and it paid off.
The plot twist made it a heavy story. I thought about it for the rest of the day. I think people who enjoy love stories with tension will like Two Hearts in A Grave. It is a unique tale about dealing with a tragedy.