Seasons of Love: A Lesbian Romance Novel

by Harper Bliss

  Work is no longer the first thing on my mind when I wake in the morning and stare into Joy’s face. The next day’s to-do list no longer occupies any space in my brain before I close my eyes, because Joy is there to erase the slightest inkling of it. Over lunch, I often venture out, even if I don’t have an appointment I need to get to, just to be outside and get swallowed into the humdrum of the city and, quite simply, forget about work for half an hour. Not only has my personal life changed, my perspective on work has shifted as well.

  “Maybe Miranda and I should both retire.” I can hardly believe the words coming from my mouth, but Joy is right. At only fifty-one, I have worked enough hours to fill the course of two full-time careers, and for what? As much as I enjoy my work, I find pleasure in many other activities now, and maybe it’s time to start enjoying those more.

  “Hold your horses, Alice.” Joy regards me with an amused look on her face. “Whatever would you do with yourself all day while I’m grafting hard targeting Facebook and Twitter ads?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps try to wrap my head around what exactly it is you do at work.” Joy has tried to explain it to me many times, but I don’t seem to have a brain willing to grasp her core business. “And cook you dinner. Do your laundry. Bring you lunch. Just be a relaxed housewife.”

  “Trust me. You’d turn into one of those women who start on the Cabernet at eleven in the morning for lack of something else to do. You’re a doer. A worker. You need the stimulation.”

  “Maybe we’ll take on a new partner and I’ll work part-time then.”

  A knock on the door stops our conversation, which, perhaps, isn’t finished, or perhaps it is. Maybe my work is too much a part of me to let go just like that.

  “Who’s going to work part-time?” Miranda asks. Her posture is rigid, her features tense.

  “No one just yet,” I reply. “How are you feeling?”

  “Rather stressed,” Miranda says.

  “Come on, Mum.” Joy curls an arm around Miranda’s shoulder. “We’ll make an afternoon of it after we’ve had the good news. A mani-pedi and all that.”

  “Call me as soon as you know,” I instruct them both and then, completely uncharacteristically, leap from my chair to give Miranda a hug.

  “We will,” Joy says solemnly, before they both saunter off and I’m left waiting again, not knowing what to do with myself. Within the next hours, all our lives could dramatically change. If Miranda has cancer, voluntary retirement won’t even be an option anymore. Our lives will change into what they were when Paul got sick. A perpetual circle of dashed hope, followed by picking ourselves up again, because what other choice will we have?

  “No,” I tell myself. “Stop it.” Even if Miranda’s lump turns out to be cancerous, it doesn’t mean that it will kill her. But despite the excellent breast cancer survival rates these days, it’s just harder to imagine it won’t, when you’ve seen it happen before.

  I try to focus on work, but my gaze is glued to my phone screen, while I simultaneously want it to ring and dread the moment it will.

  ✶ ✶ ✶

  Almost two hours after Miranda and Joy left the office, I’ve driven myself near-mad with reasons why it would take so long to deliver a simple result. Finally, my phone rings and it’s Miranda.

  “Hello,” I say with a trembling voice.

  “Alice,” Miranda’s voice is as high-pitched as I’ve ever heard. “Oh, Alice,” she says, almost gasping, “it’s not cancer. It’s a fibroadenoma and it’s benign.”

  “Oh, thank Christ,” I whisper into the phone. “I’m so happy for you, Miranda.”

  “We’re going out to celebrate. You don’t have meetings this afternoon, do you? Come and join us, please. Jeff is coming as well.”

  “It will be my utmost pleasure.” A tension that’s been building in my muscles for days finally releases, and, again totally against my character, I feel tears well up.

  Miranda tells me where to meet them, after which I quickly hang up and head to the ladies’ room.

  I dab my tears away and hope no one will come in, while I stare at myself in the mirror. “This is your time,” I tell my reflection. “Don’t waste your life on things that don’t matter any longer.” I nod at myself—agreeing with myself—straighten my spine, and walk out.

  ✶ ✶ ✶

  When I find Joy and Miranda—Jeff hasn’t arrived yet—at the Oxo Tower bar sipping champagne, I kiss Joy fully on the lips in front of her mother, and I know that I no longer have to care about what Miranda might think.

  I hug Miranda for a long time, sit down, sip from the glass she’s poured me and look at the pair of them. My best friend and my partner. The two people I love most in the world. And I can’t think of a place I’d rather be right now than here.

  “I love you both,” I say, and raise my glass. “And, Miranda, I hope you remember that promise you made last week.”

  Miranda looks at me over the rim of her glass. “That you get to call me mother-in-law?” she asks. “Over my dead body, Alice. And I plan to live for a very long time.”

  I find Joy’s gaze and the look she gives me warms me to the core.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This is a book I’ve been meaning to write for a long time and I need to thank my family-in-law for introducing me to the Algarve, which turned out to be the perfect setting for Alice’s awakening. Thanks also to Maria and Fletcher for taking us around in the area and providing inspiration for Alice’s day trips. Special mention to my trusted editor Cheyenne Blue for explaining the difference between a barrister and a solicitor, and the stellar work she always does whipping my books into shape. A big shout out to the members of my Launch Team who helped weed out the remaining typos. And, as always, endless gratitude to my readers. You make all my dreams come true.

  Thank you.

  GET TWO FREE BOOKS!

  Building a relationship with my readers is the very best thing about writing. I occasionally send newsletters with details on new releases, special offers and giveaways.

  And if you sign up to my mailing list I’ll send you all this free stuff:

  1. A free copy of Hired Help, my very first (and therefore very special to me) lesbian erotic romance story.

  2. A free copy of my first ‘longer’ work, my highly romantic novella (35.000 words) Summer’s End set on an exotic beach in Thailand.

  3. You’ll have to wait and see, but I may have a nice surprise up my sleeve… ;-)

  You can get Hired Help (a spicy F/F novelette), Summer’s End (a deeply romantic lesfic novella) and the ‘surprise’ (it will be hot and romantic, I promise!) for free by signing up at harperbliss.com/freebook/

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Harper Bliss is the author of the novels Release the Stars, Once in a Lifetime and At the Water’s Edge, the High Rise series, the French Kissing serial and several other lesbian erotica and romance titles. She is the co-founder of Ladylit Publishing, an independent press focusing on lesbian fiction. Harper lives on an outlying island in Hong Kong with her wife and, regrettably, zero pets.

  Harper loves hearing from readers and if you’d like to drop her a note you can do so via harperbliss@gmail.com

  Reviews are also greatly appreciated (and help the author as well as other readers.) If you can spare the time, you can find links to Seasons of Love on all retailers and Goodreads here: harperbliss.com/book/seasons-of-love/

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  Read an excerpt of Harper Bliss’s bestselling novel now…

  At the Water’s Edge

  (Sample)

  CHAPTER ONE
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br />   Driving past the yellow sign for West Waters instantly takes me back to a time when I was happy. It’s not so much a single concrete memory as a tangled-up rush of them flooding my brain. My sister and I running barefoot in the grass around our cabin, dipping that first toe into the water on a carefree Saturday morning, bright-colored candy from the improvised shop by reception, the intoxicating smell of suntan lotion, Dad wearing the same pair of faded beige shorts for the entire weekend.

  I pull into the parking lot and find a space close to the entrance. Even though the middle of August should be the peak of the vacation season, I count only two other cars in the lot. Everything looks satisfyingly familiar: the grassy curb, more neatly trimmed than I remember, the cabin roofs dotted against the mass of green surrounding the lake, a strip of water flickering under the midday sun in the distance. Yet as if belonging to another lifetime.

  When I deposit my city-girl case on the uneven concrete, I realize I’ll look like a fool if I try to roll it down the rickety path to reception. I grab the handle and lift the case, which is not very heavy. I only brought a few sets of clothes. Some books and a laptop—not for work, only for self-improvement. And only one blazer.

  There’s something about the air in this place. It takes me back to a simpler time, a time when it was a given that air was clean and pure, a time when I didn’t worry so much. It’s only a short walk to the wooden shack where I need to pick up the key. Through my parents, I know that both Mr. and Mrs. Brody are no longer with us, and that Kay is running things now.

  I see her before she realizes I’m there. Crouched down, studying something on the ground, poking her finger into the soil. I clear my throat to announce my arrival.

  I watch Kay shoot up, rubbing her hands on her shorts. “Hey.” Her eyes light up when she recognizes me. “Well, I’ll be damned. Little Ella Goodman.”

  Growing up, I was always shorter than the other kids my age. Now, I stand just as tall as Kay, whose build is stocky and muscular.

  “Mom should have notified you that our cabin will be occupied—” I stop mid-sentence. Unable to shake the sensation that, somehow, she knows. That the reason I came here is plastered across my face.

  Kay tilts her head, regarding me with some sort of glint of expectation in her eyes. Of course, she doesn’t know. Hardly anyone does.

  “Yep. Dee warned me.” Her voice is matter-of-fact, with the delivery of someone who never questions her self-confidence. “Let’s go in.”

  I follow her inside the shack—or ‘the shop’ as my family called it when I came here as a child. From the outside, I hadn’t noticed the extension to the side.

  “I spruced it up a bit.” Kay must have noticed the look of surprise on my face. “We even have a laundromat in the back these days.”

  “Fancy.” I scan the neat aisles, all pleasantly lit and shiny, and what looks like a brand new fridge and freezer against the back wall.

  “It isn’t the eighties anymore, Ella. We have Wi-Fi now.” Kay leans against a proper reception desk—laptop and all—and grins at me. “Let me get your key… card.” She taps a few times on the laptop’s keyboard, opens a drawer and produces a key card like in a hotel. “Have you liked our Facebook page?” she asks, a grin slipping across her face as she hands me the card.

  “I will,” I stammer.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not mandatory, but a check-in on Facebook is always appreciated.” She leans her elbows on the counter. “Unless you’re here on the down-low, of course.”

  I don’t immediately know what to say, so unprepared am I by seeing Kay—whom I haven’t seen since I last visited West Waters many years ago—so quickly after arriving and the unexpected topic of conversation that’s making me feel uncomfortable.

  “I’m just screwing with you.” She rests her almond-shaped eyes on me—again, that sensation that she is looking right through me and seeing all my scars. “Welcome to West Waters. I hope you enjoy your stay with us. It can get quite busy over the weekends, but you should be fine out there in the Goodman cabin. You should see what they’ve done to the place.”

  I vaguely remember my mother mentioning remodeling the cabin a few years ago, but I was probably too busy to take in the details. Listening to her with one ear, while scheduling a lecture in New York and going over a research report.

  “Can’t wait.” I flip the key card between my fingers a few times, desperate to make more small talk—not because I’m so eager but because it’s what expected in a situation like this. “Is it just you running the place?”

  Kay shrugs. “Most cabins are privately owned, so not too much fuss for me.”

  “What about the off season?” The next question comes easily because I’m genuinely interested in the answer.

  “People come even when it rains. It’s only in the depths of winter that it goes really quiet. Then I take the time to think of ways of improving West Waters, usually over a few beers at The Attic.” Her chuckle comes from a deep place, like an old man’s laugh.

  A bell that I hadn’t even noticed when I followed Kay in, goes off, as a man with wild white hair walks in. He tilts his chin when he spots me and, out of nowhere, winks at me.

  “Uncle Pete,” Kay says in a loud, booming voice. “Here’s your reading material for today.”

  As the man shuffles to the counter I make my way to the door. Kay presents him with The New York Times and The Northville Gazette.

  “See you later, Ella,” she shouts.

  I give her a quick wave and exit the shop. Once outside, I need to scan my surroundings to orientate myself. My family’s cabin is situated on the edge of the grounds, near the most western tip of the lake. I breathe in a large gulp of air, then another, enjoying the quiet, sun-drenched hum of a summer afternoon in Northville, Oregon.

  * * *

  Kay was right. From the outside, our cabin looks the same, but the inside could easily appear in Country Living, the ‘maximizing a tiny space in a semi-fashionable way edition’. The wooden boards lining the walls and ceilings are new and light-brown, giving the interior a shiny, but cozy feel.

  The kitchenette—taking up half of the lounge area—boasts new appliances, but the true stunner is the bathroom. A dark-gray tiled walk-in shower, flanked by one of those modern water basins, the kind of which you can never be sure where the water comes from.

  I remember an unanswered email from my mother containing pictures of this overhaul. If it weren’t for that, I’d be suspicious that, somehow, they did this all for me.

  The second bedroom, too narrow for more furniture, still houses bunk-beds, but the old closet has been replaced by a built-in one, made with the same planks as the rest of the cabin.

  I stopped joining my parents for weekends here as soon as they allowed me to stay home with Nina. She was seventeen—and up to no good—and I was fourteen, and already so at odds with the world. Today, I deposit my suitcase in the room where my parents always slept, and even though it doesn’t feel quite right, I don’t particularly feel like crashing on the bottom bunk in the room next door. For all the times I came here as a child, I never once slept in the master bedroom.

  More than anything, I’m drawn to the lake. I kick off the sneakers I wore for driving and head to the porch running around both sides and rear of the cabin. From there, it’s easy to reach the landing that leads directly to the lake. I sit and let my feet dangle in the water, instantly transported back to the hours I spent here as a child. Observing the water creatures, watching the sun climb until it was almost perfectly on top of the lake, making the surface glimmer like a mirror broken in all the right places, waiting until it dipped behind the trees on the other side, in the early dusk of summer, and painted the lake orange.

  Judging from where the sun now hangs in the clear blue sky, already having started its descent, I figure it must be around four. A beer would be nice. I’m sure I can pick some up in the shop, and some snacks that will have to do for dinner tonight.

  * * *

/>   Later, when the sun has completely disappeared behind the dense tree tops, and I sit overlooking the water with a cold beer in my hand, a rustling to the left of the porch startles me. I’m so used to city noises—a constant buzz of traffic, road works, and endless construction—that now, when all around me an unfamiliar sort of quiet reigns, I start at the slightest ripple of sound.

  “Hey.” Kay materializes in front of me. “Didn’t mean to give you a fright.” She sports that smile again, the one that indicates a friendly but don’t-mess-with-me attitude. In high school, she was three years above me, leaving us in decidedly different social circles. But I saw her around at West Waters sometimes, running on the sandy track on the other side of the lake, or—a more distant memory—just once, canoodling with Jim Straw behind a tree only a few feet away from our cabin. “You left this in the shop.” She holds up my wallet. “Figured you might want it back.”

  “Oh, shoot.” I hadn’t even noticed it was missing. “Thank you so much.” She climbs the two porch stairs and holds it out to me. Gratefully, I pocket it. “The least I can do is offer you a beer.” It’s my first night here and I’m not really in the mood for small talk, but politeness always wins.

  “I won’t say no to that.” She winks and parks her behind unceremoniously in the wicker chair next to mine. “How’s that sister of yours doing?”

  She doesn’t waste any time asking the hard questions. I grab her a beer from the cool box next to my chair and offer it to her, avoiding her piercing glance.