Muriel Jensen - Jackpot Baby

But to Shelly, Jester and its people were everything. She’d spent two years at the Culinary Institute of America in Chicago, and one year working as a sous-chef in the dining room of a Los Angeles hotel. But the other twenty-five years of her life had been spent in or around The Brimming Cup, a coffee shop her parents had owned and operated on Main Street since before she was born. It had become hers four years ago when her mother died of cancer, and her father followed six months later with a broken heart.

The people of Jester, who’d always been her friends, became her family. They continued to eat breakfast and lunch in the coffee shop, brought her the latest news, discussed world events with an enthusiasm unfettered by consideration for politics or political correctness, and simply made her want to stay.

She’d once had dreams of opening a fine-dining establishment in a big city, of imagining that the man of her dreams would walk in one day, fall madly in love with her and provide her with the sense of security and belonging that had died with her parents. She had work and her friends, but they went home to their families at night. She went home to Sean Connery, an old tabby tomcat who’d walked out of a snowbank last winter. When she’d opened the back door to offer him a saucer of milk, he had taken it as an invitation to move in.

Her parents had been loving but practical people, and they’d taught her that pipe dreams amounted to nothing and only hard work yielded positive results. So she stayed in Jester, knowing she’d miss home too much if she left. And there was no man out there for her, anyway. They were all married or looking for supermodels.

Unwilling to completely compromise her artistic approach to cooking, she’d added fine dining to The Brimming Cup’s menu. But that had meant eliminating a few of the menu’s standards and she’d gotten too many good-natured but serious complaints.

So she continued with the same fare her parents had served for decades—burgers and fries, chili, stew, meat loaf, mac and cheese, sirloin steak, fried chicken, pie. Her life would go on as it always had.

But even pie hadn’t been moving much lately. Skipping dessert had become an economy measure for many of her patrons. And while her lunch trade held steady, most of her regulars were eating breakfast at home to save money.

Still, business, though hardly brisk, had sustained the coffee shop until this winter. The snow had started in October and had hardly let up since. Now at the end of January, it had been a long four months without visitors, the Christmas trade had been disappointing thanks to the cautious national economy, and the town that had just gotten by was now in danger of slipping away altogether.

The Town Hall and the school were in disrepair, the church that all denominations shared needed a new roof, and the bronze statue of Catherine Peterson and her horse, Jester, for whom the town was named, was turning green. Everyone was mortified, but no one, particularly the town government, had the financial wherewithal to have it cleaned.

Now, in one hand, Shelly held the letter from the Billings attorney who managed her building, threatening her with eviction if she didn’t pay the full two months she was behind in rent along with the current amount owing. She didn’t have it, of course, and she was out of ideas on where to get it.

In her other hand was her list of lottery numbers. Once a week she and eleven friends and members of the Jester Merchants’ Association contributed a dollar and a list of numbers to a collective pot, and Dean Kenning, Jester’s one and only barber and himself a contributor, drove to Pine Run to buy their ticket.

They’d done this every year for three years, and once they’d won forty-two dollars. They’d bought pizza, had a party and laughed about their big win.

She came to the Heartbreaker every Tuesday to watch the drawing on television. Her set at home was diseased and the picture unreliable.

She told herself philosophically as the time neared for the drawing, that no one could have everything in life. One was greedy to expect financial wealth when they were already rich in friends. But the fantasy of winning kept her going on particularly dark days. And this had been one of them.

Speaking of which, she’d hoped to pour out her troubles to Dev. They’d been friends since she’d taken over the coffee shop, and they served on the Downtown Christmas for Kids Committee of the Merchants’ Association for the past three years. He had a reputation as a wild man, but he’d been a good friend and always had insightful and practical suggestions for dealing with her problems. He, however, was out.

Roy Gibson, who tended bar for Dev and was the spitting image of Willie Nelson, down to his gray braids, reached up to the television in a corner over the bar and turned up the volume.

“…lottery numbers of the Big Sky Country state of Montana,” the announcer was saying, “and her fourteen sister states in our Big Draw Lottery. This week’s winning ticket is worth forty million dollars! Everybody ready?”

Shelly took another sip of her wine and studied the numbers she always played. Three, because there’d been three people in her family; eleven because that was the age she’d been when she discovered she really loved to cook; thirteen, because that was the sum of five and eight, her mother’s birth month and day; seventeen, because ten and seven, was her father’s October birth date; twenty-eight, because that was her age; and thirty-three, because that was her address on Main Street. Only the number that represented her age ever changed.

Dev always teased her that she’d be the kind of person whose computer codes or safe combination would be easy to crack because she used family dates.

“Ten,” the announcer read as the camera closed in on a woman’s well-groomed hand. It held a numbered ball that had been air-driven into a cup from a basket below. “Twelve! Twenty! Twenty-…”

Shelly lost interest at the absence of any of her numbers. There were eleven more sets of numbers besides her own on their communal ticket, but she knew these people. Their luck ran about as well as hers.

She may as well finish her wine and go home to Sean and a hot bath. She’d done all the prep work for tomorrow—tables were set, sugar containers and napkin holders filled, soup, stew and chili prepared. Five in the morning would be here before she knew it.

She paid Roy and was turning on the stool to step down to the hardwood floor when she heard the commotion outside. At first she thought it was just noisy teenagers driving by.

Then she heard the words “We won!” coming from beyond the saloon’s swinging doors.

She stopped still on the stool to listen.

“We won! Dev, we won!” It was Dean Kenning’s voice.

She smiled to herself. Dev was part of the lottery pool. It sounded as though someone’s numbers had earned them another pizza night.

Then she heard a woman’s squeal, a man’s uninhibited shout of excitement, then Dean’s screaming laugh. “We won! We won! We won!”

A little frisson of sensation ran under Shelly’s breastbone as she leaped off the stool.

Patrons in the bar began to stream outside. Excitement was palpable and the little frisson under her breastbone was now beating like the wings of a hummingbird. Or maybe a condor.

The night was cold, snow drifting gently in the light of old turn-of-the-century streetlamps. Dean, in front of his barbershop at the end of the block, read a set of numbers to Dev, who stood under a light, unaware of the falling snow, checking them against the ticket.

He looked up, pale and clearly shaken. “We did win,” he whispered.

Ever a realist, Shelly pushed through the crowd to take the ticket from him. “Let me see that. Read them again, Dean. Slowly.”