A Shot at Love

by T. B. Markinson

  “Mum always said I’d be a heartbreaker because of my blue eyes and dimple.” Mrs. Cavell placed a hand on her right cheek.

  “Were you?”

  The woman laughed quietly. “I may have broken one or two hearts in my day.” She rose and pulled a framed photo off the black Steinway piano in the corner, making the room seem so much smaller and cramped but homier in an odd way. “This was taken when I was seventeen.”

  Harriet stared at the younger version of the strong-willed woman, her shoulders back, a seductive smile, and an expression that claimed she could take anything that came her way.

  Mrs. Cavell sat on the piano bench. “Mum was so proud of my dimple. Back in ’36, a woman in New York invented a dimple machine. Mum never tried it herself, but she probably would have if given the opportunity. The contraption had knobs that pressed into the cheeks.” Mrs. Cavell jabbed two fingers into her cheeks. “It’s odd to think people covet dimples when they’re actually a deformity.” She laughed, seeming lost in a memory. “But you came here to hear how I survived losing my parents in the war.”

  “Yes, if you feel up to talking about it.”

  “It was all so long ago,” she repeated.

  Harriet wasn’t sure if this meant Mrs. Cavell wanted to speak about it or not.

  Mrs. Cavell sighed. “I have no idea why it matters to people today. The world is so different now.”

  “Yes and no. People love to read origin stories, especially if someone overcame great obstacles to succeed, like you. You became a concert pianist who’s played all over the world.”

  “I was lucky. After Mum died, Jerry’s family took me in. They had a piano, and after Thomas, Jerry’s dad, heard me play once, he hunted high and low for a teacher. This was during the war.” She laughed, suddenly looking much younger, but it faded quickly. “I do believe playing piano saved me. It gave me something to focus on for hours at a time. I think Thomas knew that deep down, which was why he paid for all the lessons. He lost an arm in the war. Everyone lost something or someone.”

  A silence overtook the room.

  “Do you still play?” Harriet asked.

  “I do. Would you like to hear something?” There was a sparkle in her eyes.

  “It’d be an honor.”

  After the interview concluded, Mrs. Cavell asked, “Why don’t you have a podcast?”

  Harriet closed her notebook. “Do you listen to them?”

  “Oh, yes. My grandson got me hooked on them. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and it’s so much easier to listen.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  “Fortunately… with Fi and Jane.”

  “I haven’t listened to that one.”

  “You should. They seem down to earth. Like women I could be friends with. That’s what I like about podcasts. It’s easier to trust people when you hear their voices. You have a lovely voice. I’d listen to you.”

  “Is that right?” Harriet took in a deep breath and slowly released it. “I’m not sure I have the personality for it.”

  Mrs. Cavell stared deeply into Harriet’s eyes. “You never know what you can handle until you have to.”

  “That’s very wise advice.”

  “I’m at the age where everyone thinks whatever I say is wise. It comes with the white hair and wrinkles.” Her grin conveyed a secret reservoir of knowledge.

  “I may look into podcasting, then.”

  “If you do, I’d love to be one of your first interviews.”

  “You have my word.”

  “I’ll hold you to it. I may be old, but I don’t forget promises.”

  Harriet believed her.

  They said their goodbyes, and Mrs. Cavell shut the door.

  Harriet climbed into her car, but before she inserted the key, she took out her iPhone and downloaded an episode of Fortunately… with Fi and Jane. She hit play.

  Chapter Three

  A few hours after Josie satiated her appetite and took a walk in the countryside to kill time and center her chi, a new obsession as of this morning now that she could think of things like that, Josie had decided she couldn’t delay anymore. It was time to reach her destination. Her family had no idea she was even in the UK since Josie had hopped the first flight she could catch to flee America.

  Josie abandoned the rental in the parking spot behind the church she’d attended occasionally during her childhood, the yellow stone spire piercing the deep-blue sky. Inhaling the crisp air, Josie stretched her arms overhead, bending to the right and then left.

  Now, according to her iPhone, it was several ticks past ten in the morning, and Josie stood next to the Ale River, a little waterway that carved its way through the center of Upper Chewford, bringing a smile to her lips. On her right were butter-colored houses constructed with the distinctive Cotswold stone. Each one with a unique garden, making it clear the neighbors were competing with everyone else by adding what they considered that special touch to garner more attention and, in all probability, an increase in photos posted on social media. Josie preferred the lot with a wooden doghouse that had a white, curly-haired dog snoozing inside with his head resting on his front paws. She peered in to see if the dog was real. One of the ears twitched.

  Josie scanned the green fields to the left of the river. Why would anyone want to leave this place? All the maniac drivers she’d passed didn’t know how good they had it here. Only sociopaths would dash toward the craziness of city life. However, Josie had never actually lived here, and her visits had been few and far between since becoming an adult two decades ago.

  Now, as Josie stood in her mum’s village, she was unable to banish the thought that she had failed. Maybe coming here was a mistake. What did Josie think she’d find in the Cotswolds?

  Her eyes landed on The Golden Fleece, Josie’s ultimate destination. The pub was mere steps from the river. All she had to do was cross the river and then announce to her mum… something. Come on, Josie. Words are your thing. Spin this disaster into something other than a catastrophe.

  Her eyes fell to the water once again. Did it really classify as a river? It was only thigh-deep and about thirty feet wide. It had several stone footbridges crossing it, but Josie determined, if need be, she could ford the river without too much trouble. She chastised herself once again. Why did it matter if Ale could actually be classified as a full-fledged flowing watercourse or not? Stop being so American! And stop stalling the inevitable.

  Josie’s gaze took in everything again. This place was the definition of charming. It was as if Josie had stepped into a painting depicting the perfect old-fashioned English countryside village that’d stopped in time when everyone and everything moved at a reasonable speed. Before the destructive twenty-four-hour news cycles, the internet, social media. All the components that’d recently brought everything crashing down in Josie’s life, forcing her to retreat from the career she’d painstakingly built since high school when she first volunteered for a political campaign for the not-so-famous Upper Chewford to lick her wounds and decide what was in store for her next phase. Yes, that was the right track. A new beginning. Because there was no going back to speechwriting. Not after everyone in the business basically witnessed her firing, when Nora had reamed her in front of a reporter’s camera. The same off-air reporter who had filmed Nora, instigating everyone’s downfall. Josie shut her eyes, not wanting to give everything too much thought, fearful she’d break out into full-on panic mode.

  “Now or never, Josie,” she said as a way to bully her nerve.

  Making her way across one of the footbridges, Josie headed for the entrance of the pub. Although she wasn’t particularly tall, a hair under five feet, six inches, Josie still ducked her head when walking through the door. It was much darker inside, even with sunlight streaming through the nine-paned windows. Josie released the handle of her rolling luggage, her gaze taking in the stone floor, yellow stone outer wall, wooden tables, and two cozy wingback chairs by the fireplace. As she edged farther into t
he pub, the warmth of the fire enveloped Josie, and she made a mental tick in the cheer up Josie column. How could anyone feel depressed in a charming English pub?

  A chubby bulldog wobbled up to her, acting like a creature who knew no one could resist giving his head a scratch.

  Josie had always wanted a dog, but she traveled so much for work she couldn’t even keep a cactus alive. She hunched down. “Well, hello there. Who might you be?”

  The dog, his face adorably wrinkled and his lower teeth jutting out, leaned into her legs, making snuffling noises.

  A man behind the bar said, “That’s Winston, love.”

  Josie gave Winston’s head one last pet before straightening to appraise the man, who was one year younger, almost to the day, than Josie. His ginger hair was cut short. He had an affable face with quizzical green eyes.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” she asked.

  The man blinked, enhancing his thick, long lashes. “Can’t say that I do. Have you been here before?”

  “To the pub? Not that I remember, but I do remember the village. It’s been years, though. I’m pretty sure you weren’t in Upper Chewford the last time I visited, so I have no idea when we interacted last.” Feeling mischievous, Josie asked, “How’s Mum?”

  He tilted his head. “Do I know your mum?”

  “I should hope so since you’re her brother, not to mention the co-owner of this pub.”

  Her uncle Clive stared, gobsmacked. His six-two frame hunched down some to peer into her face. “Josie?”

  Josie nodded, smiling at her mum’s much younger half brother.

  He came out from behind the bar, took five massive steps, and pulled Josie into a bear hug, his way of greeting most people if Josie remembered correctly, but Josie needed this particular hug more than she cared to admit. As if he sensed this, Clive pulled Josie even closer, healing another tiny morsel of her soul.

  “How have you been, Uncle Clive?” It was nearly impossible not to sound sarcastic when saying uncle, considering Josie was older.

  They separated, but he kept a hand on each of her shoulders. “Couldn’t be better. Let me take a look at you. Your hair is long now.”

  Josie ran a hand over her head. “Too long. I barely have any curl left.”

  “What’s it been? Eight years?”

  “Going on twelve if my math is correct, but I’ve always been better with words, not numbers.” Until recently. Maybe Josie should switch to numbers. Surely, they were easier to manage than emotions.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Clive. I’ll set up for the day while you doddle about.” Josie’s plump mum waltzed through the walkway that connected the two rooms of the pub and stopped in her tracks. “Josie!” With brimming eyes and a wide smile, she rushed toward her daughter. Wrapping Josie into her arms, her mother said, “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  Josie melted into her mum’s embrace, feeling like a ten-year-old child being consoled after falling off a bike, scraping both knees and elbows. “I’ve needed this hug since… it happened.”

  Eugenie held her daughter tighter. “It’s going to be okay, darling. Clive! Get some tea, you lazy prat. I think a family talk is in order.”

  “Right. Tea. I can do that.” Clive nodded as if encouraging himself he was indeed capable of the task.

  Josie’s mum rolled her eyes. “It’s amazing he’s co-owner. The man is about as useful as a three-legged horse at the race track.”

  “Why’d you go into business with him, then?” Josie swallowed her laughter. Maybe she got her mum’s business sense and that was why she stood in the pub without a job.

  “He’s my brother.” Her mum shrugged. “Can’t imagine working with anyone I can’t wallop without risk of being sued. Besides, visitors find him charming for some reason.”

  “Don’t ever go into my profession. Even family members are out for blood.”

  Her mum gazed into Josie’s green eyes. “I’m surprised to see you, considering the election is in a few days.” Although Eugenie said she was surprised, her expression conveyed she really wasn’t.

  “Yes, but it’s essentially over. Besides, my role is… done. No need to hang about to see the final nail in the coffin.” Josie made a hammering motion with her hand to punctuate the finality of everything.

  “There’ll be another campaign soon.” Her mum slanted her head in her motherly way and made a soothing hum sound, all the while squeezing Josie’s shoulder.

  “Not for me. Not only is the campaign done, but so is my career. And life. It’s all over.” Josie waved, indicating her mum should take her pick of all the items that had shriveled up, leaving Josie a shell of herself.

  “I see,” her mum said in the way that implied she needed a second or two to craft the right response, but she settled on, “Where is Clive with that tea?” She wrung her hands together.

  That seemed like the perfect thing coming from her mother, who’d been born and raised in this tiny village. She’d married Josie’s father, an American who had visited the village one summer in the eighties, wooing Eugenie and leaving a piece of himself behind that wasn’t realized until many weeks later. Josie’s father had rushed back to Upper Chewford and asked Eugenie to marry him. They did two weeks later and, considering they barely knew each other aside from a short-lived summer fling, had a happy marriage for nearly thirty years until her father suddenly passed away after a massive heart attack. Days after his funeral, her mum had ditched Boston and returned to her roots, seeking the comfort of village life. Much like Josie now.

  The three of them sat around one of the tables in the pub, which Josie suspected was so Clive and her mum could keep an eye on the action. Only one lone gentleman entered, asking for a coffee, which her mum prepped. The guy took a seat in the dark corner, occupying himself on his phone.

  Retaking her seat, her mum poured three cups of tea. “Tell me about Nora, love. I thought she was leading in the polls and would be a shoo-in as the Democratic candidate. Until…” Her mum cleared her throat.

  “Her double-digit lead went up in smoke overnight.” Josie added three lumps of sugar into her cup, rethought it, and added one more. “Not even the silver-tongued Nora could conquer Stripper-Gate.”

  Clive’s eyes boggled. “You worked for a stripper? Here I thought American politics were boring.”

  Josie wasn’t too surprised Clive hadn’t heard the news, although she couldn’t escape the coverage during her brief time in London. The Golden Fleece didn’t have a television blaring like the corporate owned pubs in bigger cities. “I wanted this time around to be boring.”

  “Did she really strip?” her mum asked, slightly flabbergasted, but she did her best to tamp down the judgment flaring in her chocolate-brown eyes.

  “No. Well, yes... er, at least when she was younger.” Josie made an exasperated sound, and continued, “That’s how she paid her way through college and law school. This was pre-social media days, so it never surfaced.” Josie stifled a yawn. Just thinking about the past thirty-six hours made her body want to shut down.

  “I’m not following. If it never surfaced back then, how did it end Nora’s campaign?” Her mum took one of the shortbread cookies Clive had set out.

  “She enjoyed reliving the good old days—and the rest is herstory.” Josie stirred her tea well past the time needed, but she couldn’t seem to stop.

  “This must be hitting you hard. Four days ago, when we Skyped, you were absolutely convinced you’d be writing speeches for the next president of the United States.”

  “I know. I really thought I’d caught the winning wave this time.” Josie pantomimed this with her hand. “Once she was caught on camera stripping, everything crumbled faster than a sandcastle being hit by a tsunami.” Josie shook her head, running a hand through her red hair as she forced the limp curls into a ponytail. “She’s the only pol I’ve ever respected. I mean, truly respected.” Josie flicked a tear away, remembering Nora saying Josie had failed her and the country. Not
wanting to remember Nora that way, Josie continued. “The way she could connect to people from all walks of life all the while getting into the weeds of policy. She had plans and wasn’t afraid to talk about them. It only proves a woman will never reach the highest office. No matter what, the opposition will dig through her past to find something to tarnish her.”

  “Why did she start stripping again? At her age?” Her mum’s voice was dubious at best, and her shocked expression was priceless. Josie, though, had seen that look on so many lately she wanted to scream.

  “She wasn’t doing it professionally.” Josie shifted on the wooden chair, causing it to creak. “It was something she did for her husband on special occasions. Apparently, that was how they met, and it became their thing. Once the video went viral—” Josie’s rapid hand motion implied sayonara. “It’s not a good look for any woman running for office, but at sixty-five—”

  “Sixty-five?” Clive’s pinched face reminded Josie of all the jokes on the TV shows about grannies in the nude.

  Josie’s anguished sigh expressed more than a response would.

  “What’s wrong with a mature woman taking off her clothes?” Josie’s mum demanded.

  “Nothing as long as the lights are off,” Clive quipped.

  She whacked her brother’s arm. “Nora’s a good-looking woman.”

  Josie conceded with a nod. “I had no idea she was a day over forty when I first met her.”

  Clive pulled out his phone. “What’s her name again?”

  “Please tell me you aren’t looking for the stripping footage,” Josie groaned.

  “I hadn’t considered that. Is it available still?” He looked hopeful.

  “Yes, but I forbid you from viewing it.”

  “Forbid me.” Clive laughed. “I know you’re older, but I’m still your uncle. You don’t have the power to stop me.”

  “I do.” Josie’s mum came to the rescue. “Can’t you see how torn up my daughter, your niece, is?” She thwacked his head with the tea towel she had on her shoulder.