COGNAC & COUTURE
Book Two, The Passport Series
Celia Kennedy
GIRL PARTS PRESS
Copyright 2011, 2015 celia kennedy
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Cover Design by Michelle Fairbanks, Fresh Design
Edited by Kathryn F. Galán
Previously self-published as Kathleen's Undressed, 2011
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
Published by Girl Parts Press
PRINT ISBN: 978-0-6927-1521-5
“I’d compare my natural chameleon-like behavior to a French film: without an obvious plot, both light and dark, and full of surface tension.”
—Kathleen Ehlers’s description of herself.
"It's never too late to be what you might have been."
—George Eliot
A Tasty Cocktail to Drink Along
The Summit
Ingredients
4 slices of ginger
1 lime slice
1 ½ oz. cognac
2 ½ oz. lemonade
A fine peel of cucumber to garnish
Method
Place the lime and ginger into a glass and add half of the cognac.
Add ice and stir. Then add then remaining cognac and lemonade.
Garnish with cucumber peel and serve.
I taste-tested this cocktail and was so delighted, I immediately sampled another. Particularly pleasant when paired with the sounds of a summer evening.
—Celia
Recipe from: http://blog.cognac-expert.com/cognac-bar-best-cocktails-with-cognac/
6:59 PM PST, Friday, August 17
Fourteen Years Ago
Kathleen Ehlers
“GOODNIGHT, MR. HARPER.” My voice warbled as I nervously called out to him from where I hovered halfway out the door I was about to lock for the last time.
Shit! I wasn’t quick enough. He poked his mostly worried face around the paint-splattered door that separated the workroom from the rest of the art supply store before I could flee and avoid an emotional goodbye.
“Not so fast! I know you hate goodbyes, so I will keep it short.” He dodged drafting tables, piles of canvases, and shelves cluttered with tubes of paints and brushes as he made his way toward me.
I braced myself and stretched my smile wider, hoping to encourage a lighter mood. A fake grin that almost reached his eyes appeared upon his bearded face. “All packed, ready to leave, said goodbye to friends?”
My nerves were going to be shot at this rate. “I’m almost ready. I leave Thursday. Loads of time for whatever.”
“Are you sure about this?”
There. He’d finally voiced the question he’d been wanting to ask all summer.
“Well, my high school counselor worked pretty hard to help me get my college application and financial aid put together, so I’d better go.” Inwardly, I cringed at the strained trill of laughter that accompanied my declaration.
“I have to ask, what about art school? That was always your dream.”
He knew my dreams. He’d been my art teacher for forever, quietly reassuring me as we’d painted alongside one another. I felt my throat tighten; I didn’t want to talk about art school, so I sidestepped his question. “My SAT scores were off the charts in math and science. You know the deal. I had to go where I could get a scholarship. Besides, painting will always be my hobby.”
Compassion slipped into his eyes. Did he hear my thinly disguised regret?
Sounding fatherly, he praised me. “It’s commendable that you want to be sensible, but life is way too short to be lived without passion.”
His words cut deeply. They were my dreams being crushed, my hopes being contained, not his. But what could I do? I had to be practical. I didn’t respond. I let his words clatter to the ground.
Fortunately, he took the hint and let the subject drop. “When you come home next summer, you’ll have a job waiting. We’ll miss you, Kathleen. You’re a fixture.”
He gave me a gentle hug before handing me an envelope. “A gift from Mrs. Harper and me.”
Tears sprang to my eyes as I quickly slipped the envelope into my bag, barely containing my emotions. I would open it at home, where I could cry freely. “Thank you, both of you. Say ‘bye to Mrs. H. again, please.”
I felt his eyes on my back as I walked briskly along the familiar sidewalk. Our lives had become so entwined. I had been going to the art store after school since I was five years old, and when I wasn’t painting with him, my mother paid Mrs. H. to look after me, at their house nearby. Over the years, from skinned knees to broken hearts to temper tantrums over a painting gone wrong, they had become part of my family. Him more so than anyone, I admitted to myself. I felt like I was leaving the only father figure I’d ever known, and it hurt.
Five Countries, Five Lives at the Same Moment
10:10 PM, Friday, August 22
Seven Years Ago
Marian Connolly
“I CAN’T FECKING BELIEVE IT! Verve is the headliner at Slane? I love Richard Ashcroft. Rumor has it they’re splitting up. This might be the last chance to see them! What other gobshites are on the fecking list? Tom Jones?”
Granny Connolly took the folded newspaper and swatted Marian’s hand when she tried to filch her last packet of Taytos that lay on the kitchen table.
“Ouch! What was that for?” Marian rubbed her offended hand.
“For trying to steal one of an old woman’s few remaining pleasures! You’ve already cleaned me out of Galaxy bars. Now be quiet while I read the rest.”
Marian wrestled the kettle and rooted around for tea and cups while her granny smoothed the paper. “Here. It says Robbie Williams, Manic Street Preachers, Junkster, plus James and the Seahorses will be performing. Isn’t Robbie Williams the yoke that banjaxed ‘Take That?’ Ooh! I wouldn’t mind seeing Gary Barlow again! Who are these Seahorse people? Any good? I quite like Manic.”
Marian glanced at her feisty grandmother and shrugged. “Can’t say that I really like the Seahorses. Or James, for that matter. Gives me a headache if I listen to them for too long. Which reminds me, why do you want to go? Er, with me?”
Aoife Connolly flipped down the corner of the Irish Times and peered at her granddaughter with exasperation. “Pet, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed, I’m an old woman. I can’t go by myself. I’ll get trampled.”
Carrying the tea to the table with a roll of ginger biscuits under her arm, Marian strategized a plausible excuse. Granny Connolly could be quite determined when she wanted something. Just as she settled into her chair, Marian was dealt a fatal blow.
“Do you remember my friend Mrs. Parker, just down the road, across from the lezzers?”
With an eye roll, Marian admonished, “You know that is politically incorrect.”
“Oh, I asked them. They didn’t mind when I suggested ‘lezzers.’ Lesbian se
ems clinical, and ‘lady lovers’ is dreadful.”
“You asked them?” A biscuit had stalled midway to her mouth. She made a mental note to apologize to Siobhan and Trudi next time she saw them. Before her grandmother got too long-winded with another story, Marian pressed, “What about Mrs. Parker?”
“Well, you remember her grandson, Declan? The one you had a crush on?”
Marian searched her memory. “When I was twelve?”
“Yes, that’s the one. He wants to go, as well. So we thought we’d make a party of it. We’ll ask him and buy tickets for the both of you. That way, you’ll have someone your own age to bop around with.”
Inwardly, she allowed herself to feel pleased at the thought of spending time with Declan Parker, but there was a clanging inside her head that made her wonder at the wisdom of being set up on a date by her grandmother. “Do you have a current picture of him?”
“No. But if I get one, will you go?”
“I want to see the picture first.”
“You bloody ungrateful child. What am I to say to Helen? ‘My granddaughter doesn’t fancy spending time with your grandson if he’s a wanker. Give us a photo!’” She gave Marian an exasperated look. “What if he wants one of you?”
“If he’s worth going out with, he’ll want one. I’ll drop one off tomorrow!”
***
Charlotte Young
“Count it down, sistahs!” Charlotte raised her beer bottle, toasting herself. Her two sisters, perched on barstools on either side of her at the noisy neighborhood bar, raised their glasses but rolled their eyes as she continued, “One more week as a public relations practitioner for the great state of Maine!” She clinked her beer bottle against theirs, toasting Friday night, the impending end of her mind-numbingly, boring summer job, and her future. “This time next year, I will be fast-tracking my way to a CFO position at an exotic international company.”
After chugging her beer, a very unladylike burp erupted unexpectedly from her, drawing whistles and hoots from the crowded neighboring table. A bunch of guys she’d known all her life, including her brother-in-law Paul, hovered around their table, which was cluttered with beer bottles.
“She’s disgusting! Come over here and let me show you a good time,” Paul called to Charlotte’s sister, Grace.
Patting her well-rounded belly, Grace turned him down. “She might be disgusting, but look what you did! I’m staying where it’s safe.”
When he boasted to his friends about what good swimmers his boys were, Charlotte interrupted him. “You’re disgusting.”
He defended himself. “I know, but she loves me. What can I say? Disgusting works for some people! You’ll probably end up with some English dude with bad teeth who won’t know a nail from a screw.”
“Doesn’t matter, as long as I get nailed but not screwed.”
“Oh my god! I cannot believe you said that,” scolded Laura, Charlotte’s other sister.
“Dad owns a hardware store. I was defending our heritage. Besides, you only have to put up with me for one more week. When I go back to England, you’ll miss me.”
“We haven’t missed you yet,” Laura snarkily replied. “Ya know, while you’re over there studying, you might want to take some etiquette lessons. Nobody’s going to hire a girl with a mouth like yours.”
“Don’t you worry. Hillary’s been hard at work. I actually know how to behave… when I want.”
Her two sisters looked at each other in disbelief. Grace spoke for the two. “You’re a wolf in couture clothing.”
Charlotte brushed imaginary lint off the hem of her taupe Prada shirtdress, an extravagant Christmas gift from her friend Hillary, whom she’d met at Said School of Business at Oxford, where they studied business law.
Silently, Charlotte acknowledged her gratitude for her life beyond Maine’s three thousand miles of coastline.
***
Hillary Cavendish
After attending a performance by the London Symphony Orchestra at Windsor Castle, the Cavendish family enjoyed a late dinner. The four were seated at a long table covered in crystal, silver, china, and flowers. They consumed the third course. Fish.
Hillary used her fish knife to spread cucumber and dill sauce onto a bite of chilled salmon. Gently pushing the morsel onto her fork with her knife, she gracefully transferred the bite to her mouth. Quietly placing the utensils where they belonged, she considered her strategy while chewing.
“Ruminating on devious plots?” her mother asked, interrupting Hillary’s cogitations.
Dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, she gave a cool smile before answering, “Devious, no. Ruminating, yes. I would like to move into the house in Chelsea.”
Her parents exchanged a glance before her father, Edward Cavendish, took the reins of the conversation. “What do you have in mind, Hillary?”
In precisely chosen phrases, she answered. “After graduate school, I’d like to set up my own house. It would be the ideal time to strike out on my own. Get a feel for independence.”
Before either parent could speak, Phillip, her protective older brother, asked, “Does this have anything to do with the Duke of Montrose?”
Caught by surprise, Hillary sputtered, “Of course not. I don’t even know the current Duke of Montrose. What have you heard?” The drawn-out intonations of her upper-class enunciation were clipped and sharp.
Phillip reclined against the high-backed chair. “Apparently, nothing correct. George seemed to think that a Duke or some such from Scotland was interested in you.” George was their absent brother.
“Well, George is mistaken.” Passing her gaze between her parents, she said, “I am looking at a position with the Institute for Philanthropy.”
“Wonderful. Now, are you planning on living alone?” her mother inquired.
“You’re not going to have that dreadful Marian there, are you? Or, for that matter, the Americans? The Italian would be fine.” Phillip offered his opinion.
“Marian is not dreadful. She’s a bit rough around the edges, but she’s the salt of the earth. So are Charlotte and Kathleen. They’re true friends.”
Edward Cavendish looked at his daughter sternly. “Alone or with friends?”
Swallowing her irritation, she responded in a bored voice, “I’m planning on living there alone. Until I die.”
“No need to get melodramatic,” her mother dryly interjected. “Unless your father objects, I can see no reason why you shouldn’t live there. Alone. Until you die.”
Her father, regaining his humor, agreed then added, “Perhaps you will acquire a cat or two.”
Hillary intoned, “Perhaps even a dog.”
***
Tiziana Caputo
On the back of her boyfriend, Gianni’s, scooter, Tiziana sat with her legs tucked against his muscular ones, her arms wrapped firmly around Gianni’s waist. She enjoyed the feel of him beneath his fitted shirt. The scent of his cologne drifted to where her cheek was pressed against his back. Her white scarf, tied loosely around her shoulders, fluttered in the breeze.
After dodging traffic, they drove around the San Giovanni neighborhood of Rome, finally finding a parking spot on Via Turno. Gianni parked and waited for Tiziana to safely plant her strappy, black heels on the ground before swinging his leg over and setting himself free. Since he was much taller than average, even Tiziana looked up at him; she admired his swarthy features before giving in to the urge to brush a loose lock of hair off his forehead. Reaching for her hand, he kissed her palm before leaning down to taste her lips.
Instead of giving him a kiss, she quickly brushed her thumb over his dimpled chin, coyly teasing, “Later. I don’t want Alessandro telling Mama that I arrived looking like I just climbed out of bed.”
He pulled her up against him and sighed deeply, as the heat of their two bodies sizzled. Just before combusting, Tiziana placed a hand in the middle of his wide chest, pushed him back, and turned to give him a view of her curvaceous backside. Resigned, he walke
d beside her, his hand on her lower back, guiding her down the romantically lit sidewalk to the popular nightclub, Mahalia.
Tiziana’s brother, Alessandro, worked there; he had promised to save a table for them close to the low-rise stage. The two siblings had inherited their mother’s dazzling good looks and their father’s charm. For both reasons, Alessandro’s boss always kept him at the front door and was overjoyed when Tiziana paid a visit.
Tonight, dressed in a barely-there black dress, Tiziana and her accentuated décolletage floated their way to the front of the line, while Gianni glared at the leering men she passed.
Tucking her scarf into her tiny, sparkly purse, she spotted her brother. “Alessy! Ciao bello!”
“Titti!” He greeted her with a kiss. “It’s good you are here. There are only a few decent tables left.”
“Perfetto!” She looked beguilingly at her boyfriend. “Siete pronti?”
“Sì, bellissima. I am always ready.”
Alessandro gave Gianni a scowl. Though his sister and Gianni had been dating for quite some time, it was his job as brother to scowl. At the table, Gianni pulled Tiziana’s chair out, giving Alessandro a look that told him to piss off.
Squeezing her shoulder gently, Alessandro said to his riot-inducing sister, “Be good, for god’s sake.”
The last time she had come by the club with a group of girlfriends, three men had had to be thrown out. While one was at the bar buying her a drink, another decided to say hello. After the first guy returned with the drinks, the two started yelling at each other. Taking advantage of this, a third pulled up a chair and started chatting with her. When the two other men realized what was going on, harsh words were spoken and punches thrown.
Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2) Page 1