A SHOT AT LOVE
TB Markinson
Published by T. B. Markinson
Visit T. B. Markinson’s official website at lesbianromancesbytbm.com for the latest news, book details, and other information.
Copyright © T. B. Markinson, 2019
Beta read by Claire Jarrett
Edited by Kelly Hashway
Proofread by Paula Proofreader
This e-book is copyrighted and licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any forms or by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner. The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Let’s Keep In Touch
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Also By T.B. Markinson
About the Author
Let’s Keep In Touch
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Chapter One
The small red Vauxhall Corsa rental sputtered along the narrow and curvy country lane, winding its way through rolling green pastures. How were they still so green this time of year? The leaves, or what was left of them, were vibrant red, orange, and gold.
Josie Adams’s phone, attached to her personal vent clip she always traveled with, a necessity for the always on the move woman, rang. Her mum’s number appeared. Josie sighed but didn’t answer. Not just because she had to crank the wheel for another hairpin turn while downshifting, but she still wasn’t ready to talk. Not on the phone. Josie needed to speak to her mum face-to-face. After a hug. That had been her first priority after the October surprise that ended her life as she knew it. And, there were still a handful of days left in the month. She yanked on the wheel again, muttering a string of curse words under her breath.
If Josie hadn’t been driving, she might have been able to enjoy the scenery and experience whatever kumbaya feelings people experienced when reconnecting with nature as a way of dealing with the disappointment that was called her life. No. Josie wrapped her fingers tighter around the steering wheel, her knuckles turning a sickening bloodless hue. Disappointment wasn’t strong enough. Utter devastation. Complete ruination. Shaking her head, Josie was infuriated with herself for not having the right words to describe the feeling, which given the situation was a sick sort of irony. The last thing Nora had said to Josie was, “You’re supposed to be a whiz when it comes to writing speeches. You failed me and the country.”
Screw the beautiful scenery. It wasn’t going to save Josie from her dark thoughts, growing exponentially darker with each passing second. Besides, she was grateful to be behind the wheel. Josie was a terrible passenger for two reasons. First, she liked to be in control. Second, and perhaps more importantly at the moment, Josie suffered from motion sickness, and on these types of roads, she’d be hanging her head out the window to combat the need to puke.
After yet another sharp bend in the road, Josie had to quickly swerve back onto the other side of the street to avoid getting creamed by a sleek BMW heading in the other direction, the horn blaring, the driver shaking a fist.
Josie sensed all the sheep in the field turning their puffy heads to condemn her lack of driving skills. She downshifted and punched the gas to give the vehicle more power to crest a hill.
“Britain ruled the world for centuries but never mastered driving on the right-hand side of the road,” Josie mumbled to herself as she eased the car back into the middle of the lane since the two-way street was more suitable for one. Each time she had to move to the left, she feared destroying the paint job by scratching it either on a rock wall or overhanging shrubs.
She’d checked out of the London hotel early after getting a fitful night of sleep. Her last-minute flight from Boston the previous day had been delayed four hours and then circled Gatwick Airport for another forty-five minutes before landing midday, instead of at eight in the morning. After getting through immigration and making her way to the city, Josie had done her best to stay awake until seven at night to help jump-start her system to adjust to Greenwich mean time, but she’d only lasted until five in the evening before crawling into bed and covering herself with the bedspread to have a good old-fashioned cry that didn’t make her feel better.
The surrounding fields were dotted with white, which Josie assumed were sheep. Did they always stay exposed to the elements, or did the creatures have some type of enclosure for nasty days? Her mum had been born and raised in the area, so Josie thought she should know this answer, but if she did, the knowledge was buried deep inside or completely forgotten. At least there wasn’t snow in the fields, unlike Pennsylvania, the last place she’d been on the presidential campaign trail. As Josie’s eyes scanned the scenery, a momentary peacefulness she hadn’t felt in months started to nibble at the tension. “Jesus!” She swerved out of the way of an expensive-looking car she couldn’t name, let alone dream of affording. “What are all these rich Cotswolds bastards doing on the road so early on a Monday morning?” Didn’t they know Josie’s life had crashed and burned, and the possibility of her taking out the next asswipe in a fancy car, just out of spite, was high? Josie had never been the violent type, but…
Since Josie was alone in the car, no one responded to her outburst. Probably for the best. Americans weren’t high on the respectability list worldwide once again, especially not one who was grumbling while driving in the middle of the road, acting like a typical American who wanted things to go her way.
It was probably time to stop for breakfast. Josie needed to eat on a regular basis, or she was a nightmare to be around, according to everyone who had attempted
to live with her. The list included two exes and numerous coworkers who had bunked with her in hotels all over America on numerous campaign trails.
Her destination this bright October morning was Upper Chewford, one of the quaint villages in the Cotswolds. The Cotswolds, in South Central England, covered roughly seven hundred square miles and was the second largest protected area in the country. Given the laid-back vibe of the landscape outside the car windows, Josie didn’t want to return in a rip-shit mood. Not after such a long absence.
She steered the car through a picturesque village tucked into a valley. The name of this particular place escaped her, but no matter. Josie was doing her best to embrace not knowing everything about every village, town, city, and state to pepper a political speech to make the locals feel like they mattered. She couldn’t see how anything would matter ever again.
A charming tea shop on the corner caught her eye, and she parked in a spot that’d just been freed up when a Mercedes pulled out with a vengeance and roared to life, fleeing the peacefulness of the main street in its tracks. It seemed everyone was heading in the opposite direction. The story of Josie’s life, really.
Sitting at a table in the corner, nursing a second cup of tea, Josie stared at her phone, determined not to check the news. The whole point of dashing to Britain after being scapegoated was to escape all campaign news. What was the point of following what would inevitably become one of the worst electoral routs of all time?
If only Nora had read the words how Josie intended. She’d been clear. Say the words like an unrepentant male who’d been caught in a scandal. Not show weakness by groveling and asking for Americans to forgive her. Josie had penned the words without an ounce of remorse.
Nora had panicked in front of the cameras and gone off script. Josie could still picture the exact moment Nora had turned away from the teleprompter to speak from the heart. She’d done it many times before, but this was the one moment that Nora needed to do what she’d been told. The second before Nora opened her mouth to speak the words, “I’m so sorry I let you down,” Josie knew it would go south. It wasn’t solely the words. It was the way they were spoken. The shame etched into Nora’s expression. Her quivering bottom lip. The shakiness of her voice. Everyone in the room knew right then and there it was all over. Nora Ackerman would never become president of the United States.
Afterward, Nora pinned the blame on Josie.
The speech Josie had written was brilliant.
Wasn’t it? Josie sipped her tea.
She’d poured her heart and soul into the words after her candidate had been caught flaunting her goodies by a reporter who had been embedded into the campaign to catch the billionaire Nora in everyday actions to humanize her to average American voters. The reporter had earned the trust of everyone on Nora’s staff, even Josie.
Josie had forgotten the one rule about reporters: they are never your friend. They adhered to the desire to hold all candidates accountable, regardless of party or common sense. The reporter in question torpedoed Nora’s campaign over something so minor compared to other scandals simply because the reporter could, for her own personal gain. If Nora had been a man, it wouldn’t have become such a big deal, which was why Josie had instructed Nora to talk like a man. Unabashed. Push back. To speak with righteousness on Nora’s side. Be a fucking man! Josie shook a fist in the air, remembering that second before Nora tossed everything away. If only Josie could have nipped Nora’s instinct with a firm shake of the head or something.
Josie’s phone sat on the tabletop as if mocking her for being a scaredy-cat for not looking.
But Josie didn’t want to give in. She wanted to stay strong. Her role in the campaign was over. She pressed a finger onto the table as if to reinforce that into her brain. Josie was no longer a part of the campaign. The last thing she needed was to check how bad it was going. Before Josie had boarded the plane, it looked more than bleak for Nora. Was it worse now? Part of Josie wished it was if it made people realize Josie wasn’t the reason for Nora’s debacle. Nora was responsible for it all.
She scooped the phone into her hand, pressed her finger to unlock the screen, and logged onto The New York Times app only to be met with the headline “Dead on Arrival.” The Washington Post’s headline screamed Nora shouldn’t have ever been a candidate: “America Deserves Leaders, Not Fame-Seeking Harpies.”
That seemed somewhat harsh. All presidential candidates, no matter their background, were egomaniacs. That was the very nature of the office. No rational person would look at their reflection in the mirror and think, “I should be president of the United States.”
What rational person, though, tried to help a person reach the highest office in America? This was Josie’s third and last attempt.
“What’s going to become of me now?” She stared at the dregs of tea at the bottom of her cup, trying to see her future but only glimpsing the remnants of what might have been. She’d missed her shot at the ultimate posting for a speechwriter, and it stung more than she’d cared to admit.
Chapter Two
A stooped woman answered the door, her wrinkled face not giving Harriet much insight into the woman’s inner thoughts.
“Mrs. Cavell?” Harriet asked, unsure if she should have spoken louder.
“Yes.” The woman’s voice was mostly clear, just a wisp of old lady to it.
“I’m Harriet Powell. We spoke on the phone last week.” Harriet chewed on a fleshy part of her inner cheek. “Do you remember?”
“Of course. I’m old, not stupid.”
Harriet smiled awkwardly.
“You wanted to interview me. Why I don’t know.” The frail woman waved a hand in the air.
Harriet was mesmerized by the woman’s sharp blue eyes.
Mrs. Cavell motioned for Harriet to step inside the cottage. “You live in Upper Chewford, two villages over?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The woman looked Harriet up and down. “You’re not from there.” It wasn’t a question. She gestured for Harriet to take a seat in the living room.
Harriet sat in an amethyst tartan wingback chair. “I recently moved to the area.”
“Are you one of those looking for a simpler life?”
“Not sure about simpler, at least it’s not turning out that way.” Harriet dragged her hand through her hair.
The woman lowered herself carefully onto the sofa. “Nothing in life ever does turn out the way you want it.”
Harriet nodded. “True.”
“From our conversation, I gathered you’re taking over the paper from Regis.”
“Yes. He’s my uncle.”
“I never liked him.”
Neither did Harriet, but she opted not to smear her uncle, who had given her the opportunity to turn around a fledgling local paper and to move into his cottage, which he hardly ever stayed in, when Harriet’s life in London went tits up.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” The woman seemed remiss she hadn’t offered earlier. “Everyone says I make the best.”
“I’d love a cup. Can I help?” Harriet started to rise.
Mrs. Cavell waved for Harriet to sit. “I can manage. You can snoop or whatever you people do when unsupervised.”
Harriet laughed. “I’m not that type of journalist.”
Alone in the room, Harriet went over the notes she’d jotted down. Last week, she’d interviewed Mrs. Cavell’s cousin, who at the age of sixteen had joined the armed citizen militia called the Home Guard during the final year of World War II.
Mrs. Cavell returned with a teapot and cups on a tray. She poured two cups. “Jerry told me he talked your ear off.”
“That he did.” Harriet accepted the tea. “Thank you.”
“I’ve never understood why Jerry or anyone enjoys talking about the war as if they were the good old days.” Mrs. Cavell retook her seat, a cup and saucer on her lap.
Harriet wasn’t sure how to broach the start of the interview after that comment.
> As if Mrs. Cavell sensed this, she launched into it. “I was in Coventry with my mum. She had a job at one of the factories. It was an industrial city, which made it a target for the Germans to bomb. After the air raids in 1940, Mum wanted to send me away, but I didn’t want to leave her side. As it turned out, I survived. She didn’t. The final raid occurred in 1942. Not many died during it, but…” Her voice trailed off in a forced c’est la vie way.
Harriet sipped the tea, agreeing it was one of the best but didn’t feel it was the right time to compliment Mrs. Cavell.
Mrs. Cavell set her tea on a side table. “My father died in North Africa during the Second Battle of El Alamein. I believe that was”—she closed her eyes—“in October of 1942. The air raid was in August that year.”
“How old were you?” Harriet asked in the softest tone she could.
“Eight.” Mrs. Cavell briefly looked away. “It was so long ago, and yet, it feels like yesterday.”
Harriet bobbed her head in understanding. She’d conducted many interviews over the years, and she instinctively knew when to stay silent, to let the subject set the tone and pace during emotional parts.
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