A Shot at Love
Page 6
“Nope. Not unless you count it being short for Josie.”
That made zero sense, and Harriet tried to suss out if Josie was intentionally tricking her before responding, “Yes. I mean no… uh, Josie is a lovely name.” Harriet felt her cheeks turn to fry an egg temperature.
Josie’s forehead crinkled, and her emerald eyes sparkled. “Harry? Is that short for anything?”
“Discombobulated.”
“Wh-what?” Josie cleared her throat. “How does that work?”
“That was supposed to be a joke.”
Josie narrowed her eyes, as if thinking Harriet was trying to make Josie look like an idiot. They’d known each other under thirty minutes, and so far, they were proving conversation was a fine art neither had fully mastered. Ironic given Harriet was a journalist and Josie a speechwriter.
Harriet suppressed a smile. “Harriet Powell, but everyone calls me Harry.”
“Did you mean you or me?” Josie crossed her arms, but there was an endearing smile in place, allowing Harriet to see an adorable dimple in Josie’s left cheek.
“I’m sorry. Are you referring to my name?” Harriet’s mind raced to recall a fact she’d recently heard about dimples. It was on the tip of her tongue.
“No. The joke. Were you saying I’m discombobulated or you are?”
Harriet placed both hands on her chest in a guilty fashion. “Me. Most definitely. I’m not known for being smooth.”
“Are you trying to be smooth?” Josie uncrossed her arms, her smile becoming wider.
Harriet wasn’t sure, but she thought Josie’s long lashes fluttered for a nanosecond. “I… I’m not sure. Sometimes I have no idea if I’m coming or going.” Just like Clive had said earlier.
“But you run the paper?” Josie asked in a way that suggested she wasn’t buying Harriet’s statement.
“Yes.” Harriet delivered another mental swift kick to the arse. “I took it over from my uncle.”
“Ergo, shouldn’t you be informed?” Josie’s smile was becoming bewitching, and Harriet knew she was in trouble. Redheads were nothing but trouble. An American redhead doubly so. She needed to put up a wall to stop the charming ginger from making Harriet think things that would only cause trouble. Harriet’s sole focus right now was surviving.
“You’d think so, but…” Harriet juggled her palms in the air, unsure what she was trying to convey.
“And the paper is struggling enough to accept the ginger ads. From the look on your face outside and your squirming when Mum badgered you, I’m gathering you’re not particularly fond of them.”
“True. The troubles with the paper just reinforce the whole I’m an idiot thing. Clearly.” Harriet flicked a hand in the air.
Josie didn’t seem fazed by this confession. “Do you write articles or run everything?”
“It’s a one-woman show, meaning I do everything, even when it comes to crafting the crosswords. My passion—”
“Puzzles are your passion?” Josie interjected.
Unaccustomed to being cut off, Harriet replied, “No. Well, in a way, yes. I mean, as a writer, I like words and how they can be used in many different ways. But stories about ordinary folk are my true passion. Every single person has a history that plays a role in the grand scheme of things.” Harriet intertwined her fingers. “All of us have something in common, even if we think we don’t. The crosswords…” Harriet waved. “I find them relaxing.”
“That’s because you know all the answers. What else do you cheat at?” Josie bumped her knee into Harriet’s.
Harriet couldn’t decide if Josie was being friendly merely because she was American or if there was something else involved. Was it wrong to suppose Josie was gay from her ginger-ad comment? It wasn’t like Harriet could come out and ask, “Your comment earlier, was that hypothetical, or did you mean as a lesbian, you wouldn’t sleep with a woman who placed an ad like that?” It would make things simpler if she could. Harriet laughed nervously. “I fear the impression you have of me is going from bad to worse. With the ginger ads and now your assumption I cheat.”
“I’m sorry.” Josie seemed at a loss for words before she confessed, “It’s just in my old job, I spent way too much time hating media types. It’s not personal.”
Harriet nodded. “I know the drill. You were in politics until fairly recently, if the village grapevine can be believed.”
“I was. Not anymore.” Josie’s gaze momentarily looked away.
“May I ask in what capacity?” Harriet was testing the accuracy of the Chewford grapevine. Also, she failed to think of something else to say. What was next? Commenting on the weather?
“You can. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” Josie’s playfulness was back.
Harriet mimed waving a white flag. “I promise I’m off the clock. Not looking for dirt.”
“Oh, I doubt you’d find much dirt about me. For many years, I’d been too busy writing speeches for a woman I thought would become the next president of the US. Now, she’s about to have the worst showing since Alf Landon’s defeat.”
“Who?”
“Exactly! He ran against Franklin Roosevelt in 1936. FDR received ninety-eight percent of the electoral vote.” Josie shook her head. “Nora’s showing might be even worse, meaning a scumbag will sit in the oval office, proving that my profession is just as bad as yours.” Josie’s cheeks turned fire-engine red. “I didn’t mean to include you in that. It seems I can only sound brilliant when putting words into someone else’s mouth. And now, I’ve implied I think I’m brilliant.” Josie bonked her head with a palm.
“Do you know what one of Tony Blair’s closest advisors was called?”
Josie flinched some about the sudden change of subject, or so Harriet thought. “Can’t say I know it off the top of my head.”
“Sultan of Spin.”
Josie laughed.
“Have you ever been called something like that?”
Josie’s laughter subsided. “I take it you don’t hold political types in high esteem.”
“What? I didn’t mean it to sound bad.” How had Harriet meant it? “I was just referring to your job. Having to spin things for your candidate. Distorting people’s perceptions.”
“Distorting!” Josie rested her chin on her hand. “I don’t know how to take that, and considering I was fired for being unable to wipe the image of my candidate stripping for her husband… I guess that means I don’t merit such a clever but evil nickname like Sultan of Spin.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up your firing.”
“Is this tit for tat? Since you know I’m not fond of media types and the desire to showcase salaciousness, even with advertising.” Josie’s expression softened a little, and there was a feistiness in her eyes that Harriet admired.
“I didn’t intend for it to come across that way. Maybe we should both get a crowbar to dislodge our feet from our mouths.”
“Sounds painful.” Josie laughed, showcasing that dimple again.
Harriet motioned to Josie’s cheek. “You have a dimple. Did you know only twenty percent of the population does? I learned that fact after interviewing a woman in Gatbury just the other day. People love them, but in reality, they’re a defect caused by shortened muscles.”
Josie slanted her head, started to speak, but then snapped her mouth shut, clearly unable to come up with a response.
Harriet rushed to say, “Not that you’re defective. Just your—no… people love dimples. Many who don’t have them, want them. There was a woman who developed a contraption that was intended to create dimples by pressing… knobs or something into a person’s cheeks.” Harriet squeezed the sides of her cheeks, wishing she hadn’t rambled, but how else could she repair the damage? Calling Josie defective when she was anything but.
“Did you always want a dimple?”
Harriet had this uncontrollable desire to place a finger on Josie’s dimple, but Harriet sensed this wouldn’t be the right thing to do or admit at the moment, so instead she
opted for, “I wouldn’t get surgery or anything.” Why, oh why had Harriet blundered into this dimple morass? It wasn’t like Harriet was always this moronic when around a beautiful woman, but there was something different about Josie. What Harriet couldn’t figure out yet was why she was acting about as suave as a monkey grunting and scratching his armpit at a wedding. Harriet puffed out her cheeks, realizing much too late she shouldn’t have drawn any attention to her dimple-less cheeks.
“My mum always said my dimple would get me into trouble, but she never told me the truth: I’m defective.” The glimmer in Josie’s eyes let Harriet off the hook some.
“Really, I didn’t mean it that way. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I feel like I should clear the air. I was trying to compliment you.” Bloody hell, it was going from dreadful to insanely horrible.
“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. And now that we’ve reached this truce, perhaps it would be best for me to say good night and get some rest. I’m trying to catch up from always being on the go the past decade.”
Disappointed Josie was saying good night so soon, but not surprised the woman wanted to escape, Harriet tried to mend some of the damage. “Americans and their drive for success. It astounds me the energy you all have.”
“Until we collapse, that is.” Josie yawned, covering her open mouth with a palm. “Goodness, I’m fading fast.”
Harriet couldn’t help thinking how beautiful Josie looked with her guard completely let down. “Perhaps next time we can chat about something other than ginger ads, dimples, Alf Landon, Sultan of Spin, or politics in general.” Because Harriet couldn’t handle these topics without looking like an arse.
“Gosh, are there other things in life to talk about?” Josie asked with mock-sincerity, or so Harriet thought. “Until next time, Harry the Local Scandalmonger.”
“Good night, the Sultana of Seduction.” Harriet couldn’t believe the words left her mouth.
“Now there’s a nickname I can get used to.” Josie grinned ear to ear.
Chapter Seven
Josie staggered into the pub kitchen, where her mum sat at a table in the corner, nursing a cup of tea. None of the staff had arrived yet, much to Josie’s relief. She craved quiet this early in the day, and she hadn’t adapted to living above the pub quite yet over the past couple of weeks.
“Morning,” Josie grumbled.
Her mum tutted. “You were never a morning person.”
“Nothing good ever happens in the morning.” Josie stretched her arms overhead.
“Not true. I’ve been sitting here enjoying the birdsong.”
“Birds are obnoxious morning creatures that should be shot.” Josie made a gun with her fingers and pretended to shoot imaginary birds from the sky. “Are there even birds out and about in November? They should hibernate.”
“How can anyone hate birds?”
“They wake people.” Josie’s scrunched face screamed, “Duh!”
Her mum shook her head, grimacing. “The kettle is warm if you want tea. I suggest three cups to improve your mood. Perhaps thirty.”
Josie rubbed the sleep from her eyes with the backs of her hands. “I’m sorry. I’m grumpier than normal. I have too much free time on my hands, and it’s only a reminder of getting canned.”
Her mum nodded sympathetically but stayed mute.
“Need a refresher?” Josie hoisted the silver kettle to indicate she was referring to tea water, not the plight of her life.
“I’ve already had three cups.”
“How long have you been up?”
“An hour or so. When you get to my age, it’s hard to sleep in.”
Josie poured herself a cup, adding an English breakfast tea bag and a splash of whole milk. “Every time someone mentions something about being old, it makes me want to die young.”
“I am not old!” Her mum’s nostrils flared.
“Absolutely not. Gray hair is a sign of youth.”
“That comes from having a child at such a young age. You weren’t easy to raise, I’ll have you know.” Eugenie waggled her finger at Josie. The smile on her mum’s face ensured Josie knew she wasn’t serious.
“I know, I know.” Josie hiked a not-so-repentant hand in the air, in a playful manner. “It was so rude of me to ask to be born when you were only nineteen. I take full responsibility.”
Clive entered the kitchen, looking haggard.
“Speaking of trouble, there’s my no-good brother.” Again, there was a smile on her mum’s face, but the tone was harsher, causing Josie to cringe some.
“You wound me, Hells Bells.” He grinned, nodding to Josie who’d elevated the kettle as a way of asking if he needed a cup.
“Hells Bells?” Josie questioned as she poured a cup for her uncle, placing a Darjeeling bag, Clive’s go-to, into the water.
Clive took a seat at the table. “From what I’ve heard, before your mum married your saintly father”—Clive made some type of religious symbol with his hands that didn’t resemble anything Josie had ever seen before—“she had quite the reputation in the village. Our cousin, who was a huge AC/DC fan at the time, nicknamed her that, and it stuck.”
“It did not!” her mother protested, her face turning redder.
“Jonathan has told me every boy was madly in love with you,” he added to buttress the nickname.
Josie set a cup down for Clive and then leaned against the counter, holding her cup with both hands. “Is that right? She was just telling me how having me turned her hair prematurely gray, because”—Josie halfheartedly covered her mouth and whispered—“she’s not old enough for gray hairs. Maybe it had nothing to do with me at all and more to do with your philandering days in your prime.”
Her mum snorted.
Clive laughed. “She’s always quick to blame others for everything.”
“I am not!” Josie’s mum shook her head. “Nice try, Romeo. Framing me as the footloose and fancy-free member of the family. You’re the nightmare in this family.”
“Nightmare, am I?” Clive winked at Josie, showing he clearly didn’t take offense to Eugenie’s words or antics.
“Weren’t you wearing that shirt yesterday?” Josie jiggled a finger in the air. “Who was the lucky lady last night? Beatrice? Margaret? Celia? Another one I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet over the fortnight? Isn’t that how you Brits say two weeks?”
“We Brits?” Her mum sniffed in that way of hers when she thought Josie was being ridiculous. “You’re half British.”
Clive placed a finger to his lips. “A gentleman never says.” He yawned. “I’m heading to my place to take a catnap.” Unlike Josie’s mum, who lived above the pub, Clive had a place less than five minutes away.
“Exhausted by all the women missing you?” Josie asked. “Wait a minute. You haven’t been home at all? Your hair looks like you just got out of the shower. The women in this village are understanding. From my experience, my one-night stands wanted me out of their place pronto.”
“No. I realized… er, remembered I’m out of tea and stopped by here to grab a cup to take home.” Clive shuffled on his feet.
“Some real-world experience you garnered in the States,” her mum grumbled.
Josie hitched a shoulder.
Clive yawned.
“Make it a short nap. I don’t want to set up all on my own three days in a row.” Her mum hollered after him.
Clive made a grunting sound that could either mean, stop nagging or I see your point, on his way out of the kitchen, tea mug in his hand.
“He makes me so mad!” Her mum fumed, not able to hide her glass half empty personality that had always driven Josie’s father crazy.
“You can’t be that worried. From what I’ve seen, the pub does a rip-roaring business.”
“It’s only a matter of time for Clive’s house of cards to come tumbling down. You mark my words.”
“Maybe not. Everyone involved is old enough to know what they’re getting into.”
“Do you think any of them are actually in love with Clive?” Josie sipped her drink.
“I have no idea. It’s hard for me to fathom what any of them see in the man.”
Josie nodded in agreement. She didn’t want to think about any of her family members’ or friends’ private lives. And, hearing Clive mention her mum’s nickname reminded Josie, yet again, everyone had a past. Should people like Nora be punished for not being the Virgin Mary? It seemed women were held to a much higher standard when it came to that.
Her mum continued, “Besides, he’s a bad role model for you.”
Josie placed a hand on her chest. “For me? What do you mean? I’m not exactly a kid anymore. We had the birds and the bees conversation eons ago. Of course, you neglected to give me the birds and birds portion.” Josie laughed.
“Yet you’ve managed that part all on your own.”
“Just barely. Maybe it would have helped if you had told me about dating women.”
“That’s my point.” Her mum nodded in emphasis.
“You’re concerned I don’t know the ins and outs of lesbian relationships. Wait a minute. Do you think you know more about them? Are you trying to tell me something now that you think I’m old enough?” Josie joked.
“You can be such a smart-ass when you want to be.”
“I got it from both parents.” Josie refilled her mug.
“Moving on to what I actually wanted to talk about, you’ll always be my daughter who needs guidance. And, in my humble opinion, it’s time for you to settle down.”
“Weren’t you just saying popping out a kid at an early age gave you gray hair? I’m rather fond of my red locks.” Josie ran a hand over her unruly mess, her natural state before hopping into the shower.
“Who’s talking about having children? I’m suggesting you find yourself a nice lady. Get married. Find a cottage in the village. Adopt two cats.” She waved, implying it was as simple as that.
Josie chuckled, ignoring the comment about the village, not wanting to burst her mum’s bubble. While Josie didn’t have a clue about what her next steps would be, she knew she had no intention of residing permanently in Upper Chewford. This wasn’t exactly the place to set roots to conquer the world. “That’s how you envision the perfect lesbian marriage? Two cats?”