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The End
Want to hear about Nicky and Liam’s story? Read on for an excerpt from Twin Turmoil, also by this author, available on here and other online retailers…
Twin Turmoil
by Vanessa Brooks
Prologue
Josie Carter tossed the cardboard box onto her sofa and kicked off her shoes. Padding barefoot around the breakfast bar into the kitchen area, she opened her fridge and grabbed a diet coke. Before she could open it, her mobile chirruped and she set the ice-cold can down on the kitchen counter and read the text.Have you decided yet?It was from her boyfriend, Max. She texted him back:No, you said I had until Friday!
Josie wandered back into the living room and realized that the box she had launched at the sofa had bottomed out and the contents were spilling everywhere. She sighed and went to retrieve a heavy crystal vase that had probably been the cause of the collapse due to its weight. It had been her mother’s favorite vase. Her English great-grandmother, Susan St. Clare, had given it to Josie’s mom as part of her mother’s wedding gift when Josie’s parents had married. She picked up the vase and set it on the counter, out of harm’s way. The vase didn’t quite fit in with Josie’s minimalist décor, but she wanted to keep it as a reminder of her departed mother.
Josie’s mother had died two years ago from bowel cancer. It had been a terrible time for all the family, especially for her father. Josie was pleased that he had sold the family home near San Diego and bought himself a condo. The new place was a much better fit for him as he was nearer to the golf course where he practically lived nowadays. Visiting the family home had been a painful reminder to Josie that Mom had gone; salt in the wound as she used to say.
So Josie had been there today helping her dad make the new condo homey and he had given her a box of Mom’s memorabilia to take home with her.
Still sipping from the can of coke, Josie pushed the box along the sofa and sat beside it, delving into it randomly with her free hand. She lifted out her mom’s old yearbook from school and flicked through it briefly before setting it aside and digging into the box again. This time she brought out an old hard-backed writing pad. Josie flicked it open; it seemed to be some kind of diary but not in her mother’s handwriting. Setting the coke down on the floor next to the sofa, she flicked open the book to the first page. Her grandmother Nicola’s diaries… wow!Why did her mom have this?
Josie’s grandparents were both psychology experts, specializing in working with teenagers. They had run a boot camp for wayward teens on their ranch in California for years. Three years ago, they had retired and moved to Corbin’s Bend. The community was located near Denver, where Josie’s grandfather had grown up.
Because Josie’s mother had been diagnosed with cancer at about that time, Josie had never visited their new home. There had been no time for visiting once her mother had become terminally ill. Her grandmother Nicola had come and stayed with them, nursing her dying daughter with love and deep sorrow, all the while giving comfort and support.
After her mom’s funeral, Josie’s grandparents had encouraged her to get on with her own life, to finish her education and training as a nurse. They offered their home to Josie as a safety net, any time Josie should need their love and support. So far she hadn’t the time to visit them in Colorado.
Settling herself comfortably against the cushions, Josie began to read.
1967
To exorcise my ghosts I have written my story down. Perhaps someday my children and grandchildren will want to read my tale but for now this is just for me, to help me process the trauma of my recent past.
Chapter One: Shock
I struggled to get the key into the lock. It was no easy task with my arms full of shopping bags and wet hair dripping into my eyes. Swearing gently under my breath, I stabbed at the lock and at last the door swung inwards. As I stumbled inside, I caught sight of myself reflected in the hall mirror, and I stuck out my tongue at the bedraggled apparition. “So much for capable and well groomed,” I muttered with disgust; the cold March day had done its worst.
It was proving more difficult than I had thought, pursuing a career in the world of publishing. I had to maintain the highest standards of appearance if I was to compete with my male colleagues. Although I was hopeful that one day I would be a full-fledged editor, I was at present a sub-editor in a small publishing house that dealt with mainly medical publications. Publishing was a hard industry to break into as a woman, even with a first class degree in English Literature.
Dumping the groceries bags onto the table in the hallway, I made my way through to my bedroom while flicking through the handful of mail I had retrieved on my way inside. Bills, bills… and, yes… more bills. I threw the offending letters onto the bed and, shivering violently now, quickly stripped off my wet clothes. In the bathroom, I turned on the bath taps and filled the tub with steaming hot water.
Climbing in, I leaned against the back of the bathtub and sighed. Closing my eyes, I let the heat soothe and warm me as images of my horrible day passed across my closed lids. Unusually clumsy, I had started the morning badly by spilling my precious early tea all over today’s copy. Strangely, I had felt emotional and close to tears all day, yet my period wasn’t due for another fortnight or so. I always got emotional and weepy just before a period, whereas my mother always seemed to sail through hers without a hiccup—typical. “Don’t go there!” I spoke aloud. The last person I wanted to think about after the horrible day I had just endured was my dearest mama.
A foul and disjointed day it had been, but it was behind me now, and I gradually eased and let the stress drain away. I gave myself up to pure physical relaxation, contemplating with pleasure an evening at home in front of the newly acquired television set, perhaps even one of the first color television sets in my apartment building. How cool was that?
The simple chore of preparing my supper soothed my rattled nerves. I carried my meal through to the sitting room and switched on the electric fire. Wearing my bathrobe, I sat down with a bowl of steaming tomato soup and crackers balanced on my knees. After turning on the television set, I took a few spoonfuls of soup while I waited for the television to warm up. When it finally came into focus, I froze, paralyzed by the unbelievable sight of an image ofmy facefilling the small bulbous television screen. My tray slipped unnoticed to the floor, while I jumped up and fumbled uselessly with the knobs on the set frantically trying to turn up the sound. By the time I managed to do so, the piece ended and the reporter had moved on to the next news item.
A repetitive ringing penetrated my brain, drowning out the sound of the television, which now blared out something about the forthcoming London political elections. Then it dawned on me, the noise—it was the telephone! I stumbled on the discarded tray, slipping and burning my bare foot in the hot soup. Muttering crossly, I managed to reach the phone and grab it, “Chelsea, two, four, one,” I bellowed above the now blaring television.
“Darling, you’re home!”
“Mother?”
“Look,” she interrupted. ‘I assume you’ve seen the news?”
“Yeah—”
“Darling listen, I don’t want you to worry. I’m going to send Jenkins over with the Rolls because I want you to come and stay here tonight.”
“Mother do you know anything about this? What is going on? How did you pull this one off? The news—the photograph it was—me!”
