A Shot at Love

by T. B. Markinson

  Funny. Harriet thought the same about Camilla. “He’s going to be a father. It seems like something he should know.”

  “I just… How do I break the news to him?”

  “That’s a good question. He’s nearing forty and has never been married.”

  “Does he have any children?” Camilla sipped her tea.

  “How would I know?”

  “You live in the village.”

  “I haven’t done DNA tests on everyone.” Harriet chewed on her bottom lip, nearly drawing blood.

  “You make it sound like he sleeps with everyone.”

  “He does!” Harriet regretted saying it so bluntly. “You’ve seen the ginger ads yourself. You thought they were funny.”

  Camilla closed her eyes. “Why is this happening?”

  “Do I need to explain to you how it happened? Are you in such shock you can’t remember the steps to getting pregnant?”

  Camilla’s head drooped as if all the muscles in her neck suddenly disintegrated. “I don’t know what to do, Harry. What should I do? What would you do?”

  “Can I think about it some? I mean, this is big. The biggest. And, I only just learned of it. This isn’t something to make a snap decision about.” Harriet gripped the back of her neck, kneading the tightening muscles.

  “Whatever you do, don’t tell Clive I’m in town.”

  “Uh…”

  “Uh, what?”

  “Josie knows you’re in town,” Harriet confessed, her eyes dropping to her folded hands in her lap.

  “How? I just arrived.”

  “I texted her while making tea,” Harriet explained, realizing it sounded pretty lame.

  “You texted Josie to say I was here?” Camilla’s expression inquired how Harriet could betray her like that.

  “I had no idea what was going on. At the time, it seemed so innocent. You being pregnant never entered my mind.”

  “Text her not to mention me to Clive.”

  “Won’t that raise unnecessary questions?”

  “I don’t care. She means nothing to me.” Camilla’s hand motion made it clear she’d lumped Josie into the annoying local-yokel category. No wonder Eugenie didn’t like Harriet, if this was how most of the city people treated the publican.

  Harriet didn’t know how to convey how much Josie meant to her. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Just text, Don’t tell Clive about Camilla.”

  “She’ll ask why, though. Josie’s always asking why.” It was one of the things Harriet found so charming.

  “Tell her to mind her own beeswax. Honestly, do you like her more than me?”

  How to answer? “Maybe I should call her. Make it clear it’s imperative.”

  “Do what you need to do. The last thing I need this weekend is for Clive to find out I’m in Upper Chewford. I need time to figure out what to do. There has to be a simple solution.”

  Harriet didn’t know how to break it to Camilla there weren’t any simple solutions to this situation. Instead, she asked, “Do you know how far along you are?”

  “Seven weeks.”

  “Seven!” Again, Harriet regretted the accusatory tone. “How’d you not notice earlier? Or were you ignoring it in the hope it would resolve itself?”

  “Work has been stressful. And, the idea never entered my mind. Well, not until yesterday. One of my coworkers said she thought she was pregnant until the doctor told her she was perimenopausal. She’s your age. And, I was like, wouldn’t that be great if I could stop buying tampons and wished I would enter that stage soon. Then I started to think about the last time I had a period and couldn’t remember. I couldn’t get a doctor’s appointment right away, so I took a test to rule it out and then…” She waved for Harriet to fill in the blank.

  “Eleven more makes it hard to ignore.”

  “I really thought I’d lucked out like you. You’re already menopausal and never have to worry about this.” Camilla motioned helplessly to her stomach. “I mean, you never had to worry about getting pregnant, but you don’t have to pack tampons for holidays or keep them on hand at the office. I really wanted that to be the case. Now…” Camilla stood. “I’m going to take a nap. This has worn me out.” Without another word, Camilla retreated to the guest bedroom with her tea.

  Harriet slipped out into the garden to make the call to avoid Camilla overhearing it.

  “Hey there,” Josie’s voice was sultry, nearly making Harriet forget the reason for her call.

  “Are you working?”

  “I’m helping Mum get the pub ready. You need a gin and tonic already?” Josie joked.

  “I just may.” Harriet glanced down at her outfit, wondering if it would be okay to head to the pub in a robe and slippers.

  “What’s wrong?” Josie sounded alarmed.

  “Did you mention to anyone Camilla is here?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Please don’t. I’ll explain more… at some point.”

  “That was vague. Are you okay?”

  Harriet ran a hand through her hair. “Of course.”

  “Are you coming to the pub tonight? Maybe we can chat.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  “I gotta run, Harry. I’m sending positive thoughts.”

  “Thanks. I might need an army of positivity.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Josie tucked her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, concerned about Harry’s call, but truth be told, she didn’t want to draw her mum’s attention to her chatting on the phone. That would invite questions Josie wasn’t ready to face.

  “I’m not paying you to talk on the phone,” her mum teased.

  Shit. Best to go on attack, to deflect. “You know, as a boss, you aren’t really easygoing.”

  “As an employee, you’re kinda surly.”

  Josie laughed. “I’m not as your daughter?”

  “Oh, you are. I was hoping you could tame that side more while working.” Her mum’s expression softened. “Everything okay? You seem stressed.”

  “Yeah. Just a friend checking in to see how I’m adjusting to sleepy village life.”

  “Are you?” Again, her mum spoke with compassion.

  “I seem to be managing.” Josie gave her best stiff upper lip expression. After spending the night with Harry, conflicting thoughts and emotions roiled deep inside. Worried what it all meant and if Josie had been a complete fool trusting a journalist.

  “You don’t miss city life? London is one of the most exciting cities in Europe, you know.”

  Josie crossed her arms, unsure what her mum was hinting at. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “No!” her mum protested. “After last night, I got to thinking about you and know you’re used to different things in life. I grew up here. I’m used to nothing ever happening—”

  “I wouldn’t say nothing happens here.” Josie’s mind drifted to Harry the previous night and then the phone call minutes earlier. It seemed a lot was happening all of a sudden. But what?

  Her mum didn’t seem to notice Josie’s mind drifting. “Am I being selfish? After your father died, I moved here, and I dreamed of you moving here as well. And then you showed up out of the blue, and it felt like my hope was coming true. But does my wanting you to stay here stop you from chasing your dream?”

  “What dream would that be?”

  An odd expression crossed her mum’s face. A mixture of pain and understanding. “Are you sure you’re done with politics? I remember when you were ten and begged us to take you to the National Democratic Convention. It’s not like you can willingly shut that side off.” She mimicked flipping a switch.

  “I… I better finish setting up for the mad dash.” Josie wheeled about before her mum could do her motherly thing—an inquisition to pry details out of Josie. Instead, she started to slice oranges for the inevitable mulled wines given the festive atmosphere.

  Clive burst into the pub with a stack of papers in his hand. “Where’s that scoundr
el Harry!”

  Winston jumped off his bed, growling, and one of the kittens scattered out from under Josie’s feet.

  “How would I know?” Josie deflected.

  “Didn’t you stay at her place last night?” Clive demanded.

  “Is that true?” her mum asked in a confrontational tone, that she seemed to try to control, but couldn’t.

  Josie couldn’t understand how her mum’s attitude had veered so quickly considering moments earlier Eugenie had been more understanding than she’d been since Josie’s return. And now there was fire in her mum’s eyes simply because Josie stayed at Harry’s. Or was Josie missing something? Reading into things too much?

  “I thought you liked Harry. Why are you mad at her?” Josie asked Clive.

  “Because of these.” He held up the papers. “I thought she was done with the humiliating ginger ads.”

  It was the first time Clive expressed exasperation over the ads. Things were starting to click into place in Josie’s brain. Clive had a place of his own, but more often than not, he stayed in one of the available rooms upstairs, making it difficult to have women over considering his sister and niece shared common bedroom walls. When one of his suitors was in the pub, he was polite but kept a distance. Josie had thought he was acting like a calculating, modern-day Lothario, but had she read Clive all wrong? How did the ads factor in? And, what was in the paper that had riled Clive?

  Her eyes scanned the black ink, but her brain couldn’t comprehend the meaning.

  Many moments passed before her mum started to screech, although nothing comprehensible came out of her mouth except two words: Kill Harry.

  Josie’s brain finally registered the headline: The Ginger George Blotter, which from a cursory glance was formatted like a police blotter, listing sightings of Ginger George leaving certain homes at all times of the night.

  “Ginger George?” Josie sputtered. “That nickname rings a bell?”

  “Camilla calls me that because she thinks I look like George Clooney,” he confessed.

  Yes. Josie remembered that now. It was a stretch, but hey, he was her uncle, so Josie might not be able to see how anyone was attracted to him, let alone think he looked like the actor.

  “How could Harry print such rubbish?” Her mum’s face shot right past angry red to apoplectic purple.

  “Uh…” was Josie’s brilliant reply.

  Clive’s stare dug into Josie.

  “But, it’s not in Harry’s paper. I don’t know what this is.” Josie held it between two fingers as if it were a stinky piece of wet garbage. “It looks like someone printed it at home.”

  “Harry runs her operation from her cottage.” Her mum rolled her copy and beat it against her leg.

  “But she doesn’t actually print it at home on some cheap paper like this.” Josie couldn’t believe the woman she’d slept with last night could do such a thing. Or had Josie been fooled yet again? Why had Josie trusted Harry? It wasn’t like either had professed their love or anything. Sexual attraction warped minds. This was why Josie had sworn off women.

  “Maybe she did it like this to throw us off the scent. It’s no secret her paper is struggling.”

  Josie scanned the single printed page again, trying to make sense of everything, and having her mum glaring at her wasn’t helping Josie’s spinning mind. “But how would she make money from this? There aren’t any ads. No one is paying for it. None of this makes sense. None of it.” Josie stressed the last sentence.

  While her mum paced from the pub entrance to the bar, Josie texted Harry with the words: My mum wants your head on a platter.

  Harry’s reply only contained a question mark.

  Josie snapped a photo of the Ginger George Blotter and sent it.

  Within a few seconds, Harry returned with What is that?

  “Get Harry over here now,” her mum demanded of Josie.

  “Why me?”

  “You’re friends with her.”

  “We’re not… super close,” Josie stumbled over the words.

  “Kidnap her for all I care.” Her mum tossed her hands up in the air and fled to the kitchen, presumably to toss some pots and pans about. That had been a thing when Josie was a teen.

  Clive jacked his eyebrows up at Josie. “I didn’t think she’d take it out on you.”

  Rather me than Harry.

  “Clive?” How to ask if he’d actually slept with the women who placed the ads? “Um, did you ever play a role in the ginger ads?”

  “How do you mean? I never paid for one if that’s what you’re asking.” He seemed genuinely perplexed.

  “No. Not that. Is any of this accurate?” Josie pointed to the blotter.

  He still wasn’t following her questioning.

  “Are you, or have you actually had… relations with any of the women who’ve placed an ad?”

  Clive shrugged helplessly, his gaze dropping to the stone floor, his shoulders collapsing into his body. He started to speak, resorted to answering with a shake of his head, and exited the pub with his hands tucked into his pockets.

  “Oh, Clive. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Jesus!” Josie turned around to her mum. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Is Harry coming here?” Her mum barked as if Josie was in control of Harry, forgetting her prior question.

  “Harry didn’t do this.” Josie held the paper in the air, desperately wanting that to be the truth. Or was Josie grasping at straws because she didn’t want to admit she’d trusted a person she shouldn’t have?

  “What proof do you have?”

  “I know her. She stopped running the ginger ads even though she needed the money.” That was a check in the Harry was a good person column.

  “That only proves she did this.”

  A growl ripped through Josie, but she wasn’t sure if it was directed at her mum or herself. “No, it doesn’t. There’s no way for anyone to make money from this. The only reason behind this is to get even with Clive or the women involved. Use that brain of yours.”

  “Are you calling me stupid?”

  Was Josie? Or was she thinking herself stupid and lashing out? Josie took several shallow breaths to calm down. “Not at all. I’m telling you not to let your dislike of Harry interfere with your ability to see what’s going on.”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I just told you. Revenge. It’s been simmering in the village for several weeks. Harry stopped the ads. Then the kittens showed up. The women involved have been tripping over themselves to garner Clive’s attention, but he only spends time with Camilla. All of this has to add up to—”

  “Just because you slept with Harry doesn’t make her innocent. We both know your track record with women has been atrocious. You need to wake up! Not me!” Her mum stormed back into the kitchen.

  Josie stood in the empty pub wanting to be anywhere else in the world.

  Her phone rang.

  “Hello?” She tried to sound as normal as possible.

  “Josie?”

  “Yes.” Josie didn’t recognize the voice at all.

  “This is Blythe Tanner. I’m calling on behalf of Melissa Mitchell to see what we have to do to get you to work for us. I understand you’re in the UK at the moment. Would a first-class ticket home tempt you, along with doubling whatever Nora was paying you?”

  Harry appeared not too much later, glancing about the pub like a skittish rabbit who sniffed a fox nearby.

  “She’s in the kitchen,” Josie said, hiking her thumb over her shoulder.

  “She still mad?”

  “She thinks you’re responsible for the blotter and I can’t see the truth because we’re fucking.” Might as well give it to Harry straight, without filling Harry in about Josie’s conflicted thoughts trampling through her mind like a herd of lemmings running toward the nearest cliff.

  Harry shook her head as if Josie had hit her with an uppercut, and Harry was se
eing stars. When she recovered some, Harry asked in a meek voice, “Do you think I printed it?”

  “I don’t see how you’d benefit from it.” Aside from being a scandal-chasing journalist. Although, from everything Josie had seen and read, Harry was more like Studs Terkel, not a National Enquirer type. “But I have no idea how to convince Mum of that.”

  “That’s a relief.” Harry sighed. “But, it’s not as simple as that.”

  “I know!” Josie raked a hand through her hair.

  “No, I mean there’s more to the story.”

  Josie’s insides went cold. “Shit. Is she right? Were you involved somehow?” She sniffed. “I’m not sure I can handle this right now.” Josie started to walk away.

  “Josie, please. Hear me out. It’s not what you think.”

  Before Josie could listen to Harry’s explanation, her mum charged past Josie, looking like a hunter out for blood. She shook a finger at Harry. “Explain yourself!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Harriet took a seat on one of the barstools, resting her left cheek on the counter, unable to think of any words even though the fact was simple. Harriet had nothing to do with the blotter, but the thought of standing up to Eugenie made Harriet’s resolve wither. How could she tell Josie’s mum to go to hell?

  “Oh, don’t you sit there, acting like the injured party.” Eugenie whacked the bar with a palm.

  Harriet’s head snapped up from the cold surface. “Eugenie—”

  “Don’t start. I want you to listen. This madness needs to stop. Right here. Right now.” She pressed her finger onto the wood, whitening the tip.

  So much for Eugenie wanting an explanation. All the woman cared about was being right in spite of her being so very wrong.

  Eugenie had no idea just how insane all of this was about to get. It was only a matter of time before Camilla found out about the blotter, and Harriet had no idea how that would play out with her pregnant cousin. Camilla hadn’t been too upset about Clive’s philandering ways. That had been before she got pregnant. Or at least before she’d found out about the baby. Harriet couldn’t believe Camilla had been unlucky enough to get pregnant the first time she’d gone to bed with Clive. Wasn’t he the type to know how to prevent that from happening? Or were half the women in the village carrying his child? Was this his comeuppance?