Cognac & Couture (The Passport Series Book 2)

COGNAC
& COUTURE

Book
Two, The Passport Series

Celia
Kennedy

GIRL PARTS PRESS

Copyright
2011, 2015 celia kennedy

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

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/

“
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.

“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 seems 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!”

***

“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.

***