A Shot at Love

by T. B. Markinson

  “I understand that. I’m guessing the ginger ads are the salaciousness you’re referring to.”

  Harriet nodded.

  A middle-aged man, in what looked like a newly purchased Aran sweater from Ireland and jeans, came to the bar and ordered a pint.

  After the transaction, Josie picked up the conversation thread. “I have to admit I was surprised by the ads. I’d assumed things would be simpler in a village in the Cotswolds. Sounds naïve, now, but…” Josie’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes, even if they are pretty tame. Like I said at breakfast, when the first one was placed, I didn’t realize the true meaning of it. It’s not unusual to see missing pet signs.” Harriet stroked her forehead.

  Josie’s expression became much more sympathetic. “I fell for the first one I read. And the second. Mum had to tell me the true meaning. When did you figure it out?”

  Harriet looked away to Winston being fed a slice of steak by a tourist. “It took a few more before I made the connection to your uncle. As Camilla likes to say, I’m a naïve newshound. We have that in common. Not the newshound bit, but being naïve, especially pertaining to our new surroundings.”

  “That’s another thing. We’re both restarting our lives in Upper Chewford. Two ticks in the similarity column.” Josie made checkmarks in the air. “Oh, we’re also considered outsiders. We’re on a roll.” Josie’s smile was kind with a touch of naughtiness.

  “I do think the ginger ads have been more playful than anything.”

  “My mum disagrees.” Josie peeked at her mother, who was chatting with William. Actually, Eugenie was talking and William was pointing to the crisps, not looking interested in Eugenie’s commentary.

  Harriet licked her lips. “She’s been clear about her opinions.”

  Josie’s tone was soft. “I’ve been on the receiving end of many of her dressing downs. She can be… shall we say passionate?”

  “An apt description.”

  “Oh!” Josie palm-slapped her forehead. “I forgot to tell her you’ve stopped the ads.”

  “That’s okay. I can tell her later.” Not wanting to sidetrack the conversation to something Harriet felt helpless about, she grabbed the bull by the horns. Wasn’t that how Americans put it? “Back to the podcast idea. What do you propose?”

  “I’m proposing already? Fast work even in the lesbian world.” Josie laughed, her hand reaching for the tap again.

  “I didn’t—”

  “I was only teasing, Harry. We haven’t even been on a date.” Josie arched a playful brow. “If you’d like to chat about podcasting in depth and some of my ideas—I’m not sure this is the best place.” Her eyes peeked in Eugenie’s direction again, as if worried her mum would disapprove. “I’d be more than happy to meet outside of work hours. We can have lunch. Or dinner. Or meet clandestinely in the woods behind the red barn. Whatever floats your boat.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Which scenario?”

  “Er… all of them, aside from the red barn, simply because there aren’t any in the area. Everything here is constructed with Cotswolds butter-yellow stone. It’s one of the things I find so charming about this place. The negative, of course, is the tourism side. Hoards flock to the area to enjoy the charming villages, like stepping back in time.”

  Josie’s eyes looked past Harry to a table of German drinkers. “Our livelihood depends on them, but I do wish they weren’t so touristy.”

  “Exactly!”

  “When everything started exploding in my life, the only thought that gave me solace was running to Chewford. It’s hard to explain. It’s not like I grew up in the village. Occasional visits with my parents and then some quick trips when Mum moved back before she took over this pub. I hadn’t stepped foot in the Cotswolds in the past three years, too busy with work. But it was like the very stones in the village whispered to me. That I’d be safe here. I couldn’t get back fast enough for that.”

  “To feel safe?”

  “And welcome. Though, I’m still waiting for that part since I’m the American invader.”

  “I’m a London barbarian. I’ve been here half a year, and I swear some locals still cross the street when they see me coming.”

  “Good to know. I’ll be sure to avoid being seen with you in public.” Josie laughed in her good-natured way. “I still like it here. Just being in this no-drama place is recharging my batteries.”

  Natalie, the woman who ran her aunt’s gin distillery shop in the village, approached the bar. “You’re new here. I’ve seen you in the pub, but I didn’t know you worked here.”

  Josie nodded. “I’m Josie. Eugenie’s slave, also known as her daughter.”

  Natalie, several inches shorter than Harriet, laughed much too hard for Harriet’s liking. And, Josie had cracked a joke, much like she had with Harriet. Did Josie do that with everyone, and Harriet was reading too much into things?

  Natalie stuck her hand out. “I’m your gin supplier.”

  “Really? Man, you taste good.” Josie’s face went up into flames. “Oh my God!” Josie covered her mouth. “I really should think before I speak.”

  All the muscles in Harriet’s body tensed, but why? She had no claim on Josie. Wait, had Harriet just thought that? She absolutely didn’t have any claim on any human being. It still stung, though, to learn Josie was this easygoing around everyone. The connection Harriet had been feeling had merely been an illusion.

  “No worries. Who doesn’t want to hear they’re tasty?” Natalie smiled.

  “What can I get you?” Josie asked in a voice that seemed flirty.

  “Gin and tonic. Gotta stay on brand.”

  “I love a woman with convictions.” Josie fulfilled Natalie’s order, while the two of them chatted, seeming chummier with each passing second.

  After Natalie retreated to a seat, Harriet wanted to steer Josie back to the matter at hand before all was lost. “As for your question, I’m leaning toward dinner.” Seeing confusion on Josie’s face, Harriet rushed to add, “So we can discuss the podcast idea.”

  “Right—”

  A woman screamed in delight, “Oh, how cute!”

  Harriet wanted to clobber the person for interrupting.

  Josie craned her neck to peer around Harriet. “What the—?”

  Harriet wheeled about. Two ginger kittens poked their heads out of a cardboard box. With her mouth dangling open, she turned back to Josie, knowing something nefarious was occurring but unable to put the pieces together, even though she knew, deep down, it wasn’t that hard.

  Josie met her mum’s eye, the two of them communicating thoughts Harriet couldn’t begin to understand, aside from the fact Eugenie was angry. She glared right at Harriet and then Clive, who was still sitting with Camilla at the table near the door.

  Harriet’s brain continued to sputter, and she struggled to comprehend why Eugenie was mad about kittens. It wasn’t like Harriet had brought them to the pub. If Harriet were honest, she was also upset about the kittens since she was trying to get Josie to commit to dinner so they could discuss the podcast.

  Josie rounded the bar and scooped up the box, carrying them back.

  Clive sidled up to her, reaching in the box for one of them. “Are they free? Or homeless?”

  Josie held a handwritten note. “They’re yours or ours, apparently. They have green eyes like us.”

  “What?” Clive now held both of the kittens in his arms, one of them climbing onto his shoulder like a parrot, making the Ginger Giant laugh. “Can you say, Polly wants a cracker?”

  Josie held up the note and read, “To the bastard who thinks he’s king of the village. These are the only types of gingers any respectable woman should want.”

  “Let me see that.” Eugenie swiped the note from Josie’s hand. “Is this a man or woman’s handwriting?”

  Josie shrugged. “It’s printed in block letters. I don’t know anyone who writes like that unless filling out a government form.”

&nbs
p; “I told you something like this would happen,” Eugenie hissed at Clive. “What are we going to do with kittens?”

  Winston got to his feet and tottered over, curious about the creatures.

  “Look at it this way, you wanted me to settle down with two cats. And... voilà!” Josie took one of the kittens in her arms. “They’re kinda cute.”

  “I thought you didn’t like cats,” her mum growled, not softening one bit.

  “Maybe it’s time for me to turn over a new leaf.”

  “The kitten leaf?”

  “It’s not like we can turn them out.” Josie held one at eye level. “I mean look at this face. Who could be cruel to this face?”

  Winston growled.

  Josie glanced down at the bulldog. “Behave, or no snacks for you.”

  Winston wandered back to his bed and settled down.

  “Clive, since these are technically yours, you better scrounge up supplies.”

  “Like what?” He tried to feed the kitten on his shoulder a grapefruit slice intended for the fancier gin drinks.

  “Litter boxes. Cat food.” Josie counted each off with a finger. “I’m not sure kittens like citrus.”

  “How do you know what cats like?” he asked.

  Josie circled a finger in front of her face. “Lesbian. Cats. Directions were included in my Carpet Munching Club welcome packet along with my first flannel shirt.”

  Eugenie snorted, thawing some.

  “All the shops are closed,” Clive whined.

  “Be creative for the night. Shred some newspapers into a box lid for a makeshift toilet. As for food, surely we have a can of tuna.” Josie handed over the second kitten. “Just to be safe, take them upstairs. I’m not sure you’re responsible enough to care for them at your place.”

  “She’s bossy.” Clive spoke to the kittens in a baby voice parents use when speaking to an infant.

  Eugenie rolled her eyes but didn’t argue with Josie. Harriet couldn’t determine whether or not Eugenie was a cat person.

  Looking more like an overgrown child than a man nearing his forties, Clive placed the kittens back in the box, waved Camilla over, and they disappeared behind the bar to the living quarters.

  Eugenie made one final grunting sound at Harriet before making her way to the far side of the bar to deal with some patrons.

  Josie motioned for Harriet not to mind her mum too much, but that wasn’t what upset Harriet at the moment. How could she steer the conversation back to dinner without seeming like she really wanted to have alone time with Josie? Harriet could hear Camilla saying something like, “Desperation isn’t a good look for anyone, especially a middle-aged, menopausal woman who needs a good shag.”

  Josie poured two pints for a couple, while Harriet went back and forth about mentioning dinner again or letting it go.

  She stayed at the bar to continue talking with Josie but had finally resigned herself to missing the chance to confirm their dinner plans. It was as if the universe was opposed to Harriet spending quality time with Josie. What would happen next? A plague of locusts? Which part of the Bible was that from? Moses?

  Josie snapped her fingers in front of Harriet’s face. “You still with me?”

  “What? Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I was thinking of locusts and Moses.”

  “Naturally.” Josie slanted her head and grinned. “Before the kitten invasion, we were discussing dinner plans. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not eat in a pub. One of the things I missed most when in America was the pub atmosphere. Now that I’m living above one, I’m getting my fill.”

  Harriet controlled the urge to grin over the fact that Josie had rescued their plans. “I understand. What are your thoughts about home cooking? Not to brag or anything, but I can hold my own in the kitchen. The garden, that’s an entirely different matter.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  “What should I make?”

  “I’d never deign to tell a chef what to cook.” Josie placed her hands on her chest, drawing Harriet’s attention to the plunging neckline of Josie’s shirt, revealing a glimpse of cleavage.

  “I hope I won’t disappoint.” Harriet laughed nervously.

  Josie’s cheeks reddened. “What’s one of the funny stories you got from your interviews?”

  Shoving aside the disappointment of Josie abruptly switching the topic, but relieved dinner was mostly settled, Harriet answered, “How two tourists scared the bejesus out of Widow Martha.”

  “What’d they do?”

  “They peeked into all of her windows.”

  Josie crumpled her forehead, rolling back onto her heels, holding onto the bar to stay upright as if she weren't accustomed to standing on her feet for long hours at a time. “Why?”

  “They thought her house was a quaint gift shop and couldn’t figure out how to get inside. She called the cops.”

  Josie cocked her head to the side, a delicious smile drawing Harriet’s attention to Josie’s full, red lips. “Do Brits say cops?”

  “I just did. Actually, cops is short for coppers, which was originally used in Britain to mean someone who captures. They’re also called officers, constables, the police, the fuzz, the filth, and rozzes.”

  “You seem to know a lot about that. Is this from your London journalism days? Have you had many run-ins with the filth while hiding in bushes trying to get dirt on a politician or celebrity?”

  “Ha!” was Harriet’s brilliant response.

  “What happened to the tourists?”

  “They purchased a teapot.”

  Josie’s eyebrows squished together. “I thought you said it was the woman’s house, not a gift shop.”

  “They made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. When I interviewed her, she confessed the teapot had belonged to her dead husband’s mother, and well… they weren’t close.”

  Josie guffawed. “More proof I should never marry but good to know it worked out for all involved.”

  “Are you collecting proof against an arranged marriage or proposal?” Harriet joked.

  “How did we get back to proposals?”

  “I’m not sure, but if it keeps happening, I’ll have to ponder the reason. I’m assuming since you didn’t answer, it’s none of my business.”

  “It’s not like that. Marriage, for some reason, has been on my mind lately.”

  “Interesting.” Harriet wanted to ask why, but didn’t think that appropriate. Or was she worried about seeming too interested? Josie clearly didn’t want a relationship, given the hints she’d been dropping. Did she suspect Harriet liked her, and Josie was only interested in a friendship?

  Theo walked in with a swagger. “There you are, Harry. I didn’t see any ginger ads in the latest edition. It seems the women in this village have finally cottoned on about Clive. If they want satisfaction, they should look no further.” He thumped his chest.

  Josie bristled.

  Harriet wanted to say something clever to come to Clive’s aid—or did she mean Josie’s?—but all words wilted like a rose in the dead of summer. Proof, to Harriet, she didn’t have the chops to host a podcast. She wasn’t the type to come up with something devastatingly witty days after a confrontation.

  “You’re new here. I’m Theo.” He stuck out his calloused hand for Josie, who didn’t shake it.

  Instead, she said, “Josie. The ginger’s niece.”

  “This is embarrassing.” His face didn’t show any shame. “No offence, love. Just good old-fashioned teasing between old chums. Clive and I are Chewford’s most sought-out bachelors.”

  “I’m sure.” Josie’s tone was neutral, but Harriet picked up on a flicker of anger in the flecks of her eyes.

  “How is he your uncle? You two seem to be the same age.”

  Josie’s indifferent shrug made it clear she had no intention of explaining. “What can I get you?”

  “A lager, please. You sound American.”

  Josie gave a slight nod while pouring Theo’s pint.

  “Ca
n you say fanny pack? Or show me yours?” Theo giggled like a teenage boy.

  Harriet’s jaw went slack with Theo’s crude comment, but she was certain by Josie’s stiffened posture she was well aware fanny referred to female genitalia.

  “Can you say gobshite?” Josie arched one brow.

  “That’s Irish slang, not American.”

  “I’m a collector of useful words for these types of situations.”

  Theo laughed in the way that implied he wasn’t sure if he had been insulted or included in the joke. He turned back to Harriet. “Not much news to report on. Nothing important ever happens in Upper Chewford. Why else would you feature all these interviews with people in their dotage? You must be kicking yourself setting up shop here.” He clapped a hand on Harriet’s shoulder, laughing like they were best friends.

  Once again, Harriet’s ability to craft the perfect response, or any, died before forming.

  “Here’s your lager.” Josie set the pint down in front of Theo and accepted payment. When the transaction was over, she leaned on the bar and said, “Back to dinner, Harry. What night suits you?”

  Theo took a sip and tried to engage Josie with a meaningful look, but she refused to give him the time of day, turning her head to block him from her sight. He soon gave up and sought out someone else to bother, making his way to a table of two women.

  “Sorry about Theo,” Harriet whispered.

  “You can’t be responsible for the village prick.”

  Harriet laughed. “It’d be a full-time job managing that wanker.”

  “I believe it.” Josie leaned closer, her jasmine scent filling Harriet’s nostrils. “How come I haven’t met him before?”

  “He was up north with one of his cousins, who doesn’t like him either from what I’ve heard, but I suspect Theo’s money plays a big role.”