One Golden Summer Read online

  ONE GOLDEN SUMMER

  CLARE LYDON

  TB MARKINSON

  First Edition June 2020

  Published by Custard Books

  Copyright © 2020 Clare Lydon & TB Markinson

  ISBN: 978-1-912019-80-9

  Cover Design: Victoria Cooper

  Copy Editor: Claire Jarrett

  Find out more at: www.clarelydon.co.uk

  Find out more: www.lesbianromancesbytbm.com

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This

  ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to

  share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each

  recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not

  purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer

  and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of both

  authors.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters & happenings in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to real persons (living or dead), locales or events

  is purely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Meet Clare Lydon

  Meet TB Markinson

  Acknowledgments

  C H A P T E R 1

  K irsty McBride looked up at her shop sign: ‘Wine

  Time’ stared back at her. It had seemed so

  jaunty when she’d named it ten years ago. Now, it just

  needed repainting. The windows could do with a shine, too.

  But if you tilted your head and squinted in the right light

  (after dark), it’d do. Sort of. Up above, the seagulls squawked

  as they did every day by the Kent coast, and this fresh mid-

  June morning was no exception. Sandy Cove’s High Street

  was so close to the sea Kirsty could almost taste the salt on

  her tongue.

  Kirsty’s commute to work was from the flat above. Short,

  sweet, and environmentally friendly.

  She glanced down at her feet. The pavements were

  pristine after an early morning clean from the council. Plus,

  she’d remembered to put shoes on. Twice last week, she’d

  come down in her slippers and had to go back upstairs.

  Helena had taken the piss mercilessly.

  “What’s the verdict?”

  Kirsty turned to where Donald from Donald’s Menswear

  was shouting from across the road. She stepped back as the

  number 340 bus drove past along the High Street, sending a

  barrage of diesel fumes up her nose. Not the best breakfast.

  Three more cars buzzed by in succession before she could

  speak. Or rather, shout. Donald was hard of hearing.

  “About what?” Her voice broke when she spoke. She

  hadn’t had her first co ee yet.

  “The sign!” Donald was wearing his brown cardigan

  again. He wasn’t exactly an advert for fashion.

  “It’ll do.” Kirsty gave him a grin. Compared to Donald’s

  sign, hers was positively vibrant. Donald was closing up in

  three weeks to enjoy his retirement and seemed keen to

  spend most of his final days on the street shouting at people

  over the tra c. He gave her a double thumbs up, then turned

  and went back into his shop.

  Kirsty did the same. Her business partner, Helena, sat

  behind the counter, leafing through a copy of Homes &

  Gardens magazine that she got on subscription. When she

  heard the door, Helena looked up, her dark hair framing her

  angular face. The radio was playing a summery song that

  Kirsty recalled from her teenage years. Something about

  being head over heels. She’d been exactly that at age 17 with

  Tracey Staples, right about when this song came out. It

  hadn’t been reciprocated.

  “We need to paint the front of the shop and touch up the

  sign.”

  Helena held up the magazine, her index finger pressed

  into the image of a door. “We could paint it this colour.” She

  twisted the magazine towards her face. “Elephant’s Breath,

  apparently. Sort of stone-coloured?”

  “I was thinking something winey. Perhaps a claret?

  Maybe an accent of sauvignon blanc inside?” Kirsty dropped

  her phone on the counter and stood beside her friend. The

  spice of Helena’s Opium perfume tickled her nose.

  “I do like a nice sauvignon blanc.”

  Kirsty gave her a grin. “I know. How was the one you took

  home last night?”

  “Divine. Hugh loved it. He cooked a gorgeous seabass to

  go with it. We should employ him as our chef; he’s that

  good.”

  “You’re a little biased, seeing as he’s your husband.”

  Helena put the magazine down and picked up her mug of

  co ee. “All true, I am.” She paused, tilting her head. “Can

  we a ord a paint job?”

  Kirsty twisted on the ball of her foot and sat down at the

  large wooden tasting table that was the star of the space. It

  was surrounded by walls of dark wooden shelves lined with

  bottles of wine from all over the world. A wine library. If you

  were going to sit a wine exam, it would be the perfect place

  to study. “If any of my side ventures take o , perhaps. Plan a

  few more weddings, birthdays, anniversaries. We’ve got the

  team-building wine tasting tonight. That could lead to a

  whole new cash stream.” Wine sales were steady, but rents

  were rising. They needed to diversify. Getting online sales up

  and running would help so much. It’d been on Kirsty’s to-do

  list forever.

  “How many are coming later?”

  “Around 30, so we might have to move the table back.”

  Robbie Williams came on the radio. Helena hated him.

  True to form, she turned him o with a scowl. She walked

  over to the table and sat down opposite Kirsty, drumming

  the tips of her fingers on the varnished, solid oak. “As well

  as weddings, birthdays and all that jazz, you remember what

  I went to a few months ago?”

  Kirsty furrowed her brow. “Rehab?”

  “Shut your face.” Helena gave her a look. “A divorce

  party. Hugh’s friend. Ironically
, it was like a bloody wedding.

  Could be something to look into.”

  Kirsty folded her arms and sat back. “Aren’t they for the

  rich and famous? I never had one when I got divorced.”

  She’d just drunk wine, eaten too much cheese and played

  Whitney Houston non-stop like you were meant to.

  “They weren’t so big seven years ago. Now, they’re all the

  rage.” Helena shrugged. “Plus, we’re in the right age

  bracket. Our forties. It’s when life disillusionment truly sets

  in. I read a study the other day that the most miserable age is

  47.”

  “It passed me by in the blink of an eye.” Kirsty could

  barely remember how she felt last week, never mind two

  years ago. She and Helena were both 49 now. The big five-oh

  looming next year.

  “Me, too. No bloody time to be miserable with a business,

  husband and a teenage son.” Helena paused. “But if we need

  to raise more income, it could be another string to our bow.

  I’m full-time now, so we can expand our side gigs. If they

  take o , Anton can be roped into helping out. We’re in this

  together, partner.” Helena said the last bit like she was John

  Wayne.

  Kirsty couldn’t help but smile. “Divorce parties.” She

  picked up her phone and typed it into her notes app.

  You never knew.

  It could become a thing.

  KIRSTY KNOCKED on the door to her parents’ cottage and stood

  back to admire the outside. Ian and Ruth would never wait

  until their house needed painting: they were proactive about

  such things. The freshly painted New England-style white

  boards shone even in the early evening light. Dad had o ered

  to come and paint the shop. Kirsty had resisted so far,

  because even though he looked young for his age and was

  handy with a paintbrush, he was still in his early 70s. Plus,

  she wanted to be able to sort out her own life and not have to

  rely on her parents.

  The door opened and her mum greeted her with a

  customary hug. “There’s my gorgeous girl who needs a

  haircut!” Her mum squeezed, then held Kirsty at arm’s

  length. “Do you need me to call Simon for an appointment?”

  She ushered her into the hallway.

  Kirsty shook her head. “I can make my own hair

  appointments, thank you.”

  “Okay!” Mum gave her a pointed look. “You look less

  tired than you did the other day, though, so that’s good.”

  Visiting her parents was rarely an uplifting experience for

  Kirsty’s ego.

  The smell of roasting meat coated the air, along with an

  underlying sweetness. Shortbread? Apple pie? Kirsty would

  find out soon enough. Her mum didn’t care it was over 70

  degrees outside. She loved a roast dinner any time of the

  year, not giving in to summer salads easily.

  Kirsty walked through to the lounge. Her dad was in his

  favourite armchair, doing his daily crossword puzzle. He’d

  recently declared The Guardian’s “too easy,” and had moved

  on to The Times.

  “How’s it going, Dad?”

  He looked up, giving her a smile. “I’m stuck, so that’s

  good, right? But you’re just the person. One down.

  Californian grape derived from the same origin as primitivo.

  Nine letters.”

  “Zinfandel.” She sat on the sofa opposite.

  Dad snapped his fingers. “I knew you could help!” His

  eyes landed on the bottle of red she was still holding.

  Kirsty put it on the floor beside her.

  “Anything good?” Dad asked, as Mum sat on the sofa

  beside her.

  “Chilean merlot. Solid.”

  “Wonderful. It’ll go well with the lamb we’re having.”

  Mum patted Kirsty’s knee.

  “Your hair looks nice, too.” Dad pointed a finger.

  “Shiny.”

  Kirsty gave her mum a triumphant smile.

  She ignored it. “Talking of wine, how are things at the

  shop? Has Helena been up to any mischief of late?”

  Kirsty’s smile didn’t last long. “Helena is just fine. More

  than fine. She was in before me today. You should see her

  plans for the festival table.”

  Her mum’s eyes narrowed. “I’m just uneasy, after what

  happened.”

  “That was two years ago, so give her a break. She wants

  the business to succeed, just like I do.”

  They’d been over this. Her mum’s dislike of Helena

  stemmed from their friendship at school, where Helena had

  been something of a hell-raiser. She’d done her time in

  London’s financial district, before coming back and

  investing in Wine Time when Kirsty’s ex, Anna, had taken

  her money out. Yes, there had been an incident two years ago

  where Helena had done a wine deal that sounded too good to

  be true. It had been, and had blown a hole in their profits,

  but she’d made amends since.

  Kirsty put an arm around her mum. “I’m a big girl who

  can book her own hair appointments and look after her own

  business, okay? Without Helena, the shop wouldn’t have

  survived my divorce or the downturn. Plus, she had some

  good ideas today for getting new business, so give her a

  break, okay?”

  Her mum gave her a look, but also a tacit nod of

  understanding.

  Kirsty already needed a drink.

  Her dad put down the paper. “Come through to the

  kitchen, and we’ll get the wine open.” Kirsty and her mum

  followed.

  Her parents had recently had their kitchen redone, and it

  looked fabulous. Kirsty would be lying if she said she didn’t

  have kitchen envy. Her parents had an island, fancy bar

  stools, sleek white counter-tops and cobalt-blue units.

  Stepping into it was a far cry from her kitchen’s shabby-chic

  look.

  Her dad pulled the cork on the wine with a satisfying pop,

  and Mum lined up some glasses. Not the posh ones. It was

  only Thursday, after all.

  Her parents shared a kiss before he poured. They were

  cute. Everyone told Kirsty that. They were the relationship

  she’d tried so hard to emulate, but had failed with quite

  some panache. It was a constant source of dismay for her

  mother.

  “Stop being so adorable, you two.” Kirsty took the o ered

  glass from her dad and swirled her wine around, breathing in

  the bouquet. She took a sip and let it sit in her senses,

  smiling as she did. Wine always made her happy. In an

  instant, her muscles went from tense to relaxed.

  “You’ll find your adorable, too. You just have to get out

  there again and look.” Her mum tapped her watch. “Time’s

  ticking on, and it’s been too long since Anna. Don’t waste

  your best years; that’s my advice.”

  Kirsty couldn’t help her eye roll. “We’ve touched on

  Helena, the shop, and now my lack of a relationship. I’ve told

  you already I’m open to meeting someone, but I can’t just

  magic a woman out of thin air.”

  “You wouldn’t even meet up with Shirley’s niece.”

  Her mum ha
d been trying to set her up with her best

  friend’s niece for weeks. Kirsty knew four women who’d

  slept with said niece, so she wasn’t about to go there.

  “Can we move on to a topic that won’t wind me up,

  please?” Kirsty swallowed down a sigh with another sip of

  wine.

  Her dad bumped her mum’s hip. “Leave her alone, Ruth.

  And your mother’s just looking out for you, that’s all. We

  both want the best for you.”

  “Just saying,” Mum added.

  “Keep your just saying to yourself.” But Kirsty couldn’t

  stay mad at her parents for long. They were always on her

  side.

  She took a deep breath and decided to start again. “Were

  you at the festival meeting this morning? I couldn’t make

  it.”Sandy Cove’s annual Oyster Festival was taking place in

  five weeks. It drew crowds from near and far, and was a big

  deal for the local economy. Kirsty had wine and oyster

  tastings planned, along with a couple of other events at the

  harbour.

  Her dad nodded. “It’s all systems go. As well as the

  parade, there’s going to be a music stage, an art trail and of

  course, the oyster eating competition.” He paused. “Are you

  planning on eating one this year?”

  Kirsty shuddered. “I know I’m a Sandy Cove native, but

  that’s a step too far. You know my feelings on oysters. Nice

  to look at, terrible to eat. However, I am looking forward to

  the festival putting a boost in trade.”

  “It might bring a flock of new women to town, too,” Mum

  added, a glint in her eye.

  She was incorrigible, wasn’t she?

  C H A P T E R 2

  Sa ron Oliver pirouetted through a group of

  chattering tourists exiting Holland Park onto

  Kensington High Street, complicating her path to the café for

  her appointment.

  A child collided into her legs, nearly causing Sa ron to

  topple over. How could the boy, who was half of her five-

  eleven frame, pack such a wallop? The crash didn’t faze the

  child, who gleefully bounded away. Sa ron shoved her

  obnoxiously large sunglasses back into place and whisked a

  lock of blond hair behind her ear. No one attached to the wild

  child apologised or even noticed the incident, too busy

  arguing in Italian accompanied by frantic arm movements.

  Sa ron ducked out of the way and released a sigh of relief.

  She slipped into the café, groaning when she spied the

  bustling crowd. Why oh why did Pearl always arrange to