Susan Donovan - The night she got lucky

Ginger perched on the edge of Mrs. Needleman's guest-room bed, wondering what the old woman wanted to discuss. Whatever it was, Ginger prayed it would be quick, because she was dying to get out of her bridesmaid's dress. Josie and Rick had long ago departed in a shower of flower petals and good wishes, but Ginger's boobs remained squished in their pastel prison.

She tugged at the tight satin and tried to smile through her discomfort.

You look simply lovely in that moss-green color, Mrs. Needleman said with a matter-of-fact nod, taking a seat in the antique boudoir chair across from the bed. She went on, Contrary to popular opinion, not all redheads are flattered by green, especially women in their forties. But you have a rosy complexion, and I have to say your skin has held up quite nicely.

Ginger automatically raised a hand to her jawline and gave it a soft pat. Thank you, she said, just before she realized she was offended. What does this woman think I am, a 4-H farm animal? And why did she pull me into her room after the reception?

The old lady looked Ginger up and down, smiling. I wanted to prepare you for something, Genevieve. Do you mind if I call you Genevieve? It's a mystery why you use a nickname in place of something so feminine and sensual.

Ginger squinted at the small, neatly dressed lady who'd officiated at her friend's wedding. According to Josie, Mrs. Gloria Needlemana widow who fancied herself a matchmakerhad gotten Josie and Rick over their rough patch and to the altar.

Prepare me for what? Ginger crossed her legs and leaned her hands behind her on the mattress.

A man, dear. Mrs. Needleman's eyes were warm and kind. I thought you should know that there is a man waiting for you, as we speak.

Ginger looked around. Like all the guest suites at Rick's wine country estate, Mrs. Needleman's room was tasteful, comfortable, and fitted with valuable Victorian pieces, and Ginger hoped she would have time to feature the Sonoma Valley retreat in the Herald' s house and garden section before the newspaper went under for good. But a man? Waiting for her? Not unless he was hiding behind the shower curtain.

Ginger swung her foot back and forth, watching her silver-toned sandal dangle from her toes, trying not to sigh with impatience. That's a sweet thing to say, Mrs. Needleman. Thank you.

You think I'm a silly old lady.

Ginger laughed. No, it's just that I'm not a teenager anymore. I stopped waiting for my knight in shining armor a long time ago.

But look at Josie!

Ginger smiled sweetly, happy that her thirty-five-year-old friend had found such a loving and devoted man to spend her life with. I'm thrilled for Josie, of course, but that kind of thing is She paused. It's so rare it's freakish!

Indeed, the old lady said, smiling. And I insist you call me Gloria.

Ginger nodded, but was growing uncomfortable trying to keep eye contact with Mrs. Needleman, whose stare had intensified. What in the world did this lady want from her?

Mrs. Needleman sighed deeply. You've given up on love, I take it.

You could say that.

Why?

Ginger laughed, wondering how she could possibly sum up this tragedy for Mrs. Needleman, especially since it was a topic she and her friends had spent entire eveningsno, years dissecting.

Mrs. Needleman stared, waiting.

Okay, well, I recently turned forty, Gloria. I have two teenage boys and an ex-husband who behaves like one. The newspaper where I've spent my entire career is on the edge of insolvency. By this pointand I admit it's taken me long enoughI've learned a few lessons.

I see.

And I can assure you that if some man came up to me and told me he's been waiting for me, I'd dial 911.

Mrs. Needleman's eyes narrowed. Tell me about those lessons you've learned.

Ginger looked up at the ceiling, silently pleading for patience. Oh, you knowlessons about life. About men , she said, returning her gaze to her swinging sandalanything to avoid the lady's laserlike eyeballs. The difference between reality and fantasy, basically.

Go on, dear.

Ginger shook her head, adjusting her bridesmaid dress to give her a little more room to breathe. She didn't want to be rude to Mrs. Needleman, because she'd been raised to respect her elders, but she certainly wasn't in the mood to be analyzed. All she wanted was to get back to her room in the guesthouse, ditch the increasingly tight dress, and chill out before they went to dinner. She was thinking shrimp linguine and a big, crisp salad.

Here's what I'm sure of, Ginger said, finally returning the woman's gaze. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the men in the world aren't worth my time, and I am done wasting my time; therefore, I am alone and prepared to remain so.

That sounds awfully lonely.

Thank God I have HeatherLynn.

Mrs. Needleman frowned. Your daughter?

My bichon frise.

Of course.

Ginger uncrossed her legs, slipped back into her sandal, and stood to go, aware that not everyone appreciated the deep love a woman can have for her dog. For many folks, the idea that a little white ball of fluff had saved Ginger from the depths of despair was laughable. Luckily, her friends Josie, Bea, and Roxanne understood perfectly. The three women in her dog-walking group had become Ginger's closest confidantes, and the group had walked and talked Ginger through the two roughest years of her life, dogs in tow.

I should let you rest before dinner, Mrs. Needleman, she said. I enjoyed our chat. Ginger had reached the door when the voice rang out behind her, clear and firm.

He is out there.

Ginger spun, shocked that Mrs. Needleman had sneaked up on her. Looking into the woman's fierce expression, Ginger thought that Josie had been too kind in her description of her. Odd didn't do her justice. Disconcerting was better.

Will seafood be all right? Ginger was unsure how to wrap up this little get-together, but knew it was time.

It's nothing to sneeze at, you know.

Seafood?

No. Mrs. Needleman clutched Ginger's forearm. I'm talking about that one-tenth of one percent of the male species you haven't yet written off. You could still get lucky, but if you spend all your time worrying that you're over the hill, then you'll miss your chance to be over the moon.

Ginger's eyes went wide.

You must listen to your heart, Genevieve, not your fear. Do this, and you will find happiness.

Super! Bye-bye now! Ginger slipped out, closed the guest-room door, and stepped on to the patio. She raised her chin, shut her eyes, and breathed, damn glad to be out of that stifling room and into the fresh evening air!

A breeze brushed over Ginger's bare skin, followed by a strange electrical shiver that raced through her limbs. Ginger opened her eyes. She peered up the stone walkway leading from the main house to the guesthouse, squinting into the shadows. Her shivering intensified. She knew she wasn't alone.