The Night She Got Lucky

  Ginger’s lips parted in amazement. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  Mrs. Needleman shrugged again. “Was I wrong?”

  Ginger blinked. A low-frequency buzz started between her shoulder blades and spread through her arms and hands, her chest, her belly, and her legs. It was as if her body were reminding her of the charge she felt in Lucio’s presence, the power of their connection.

  “No. You weren’t wrong.”

  “Finally—we’re getting somewhere.”

  “But you don’t understand,” Ginger wailed. “It’s so intense and deep that I don’t know what end is up. I feel lost in him, part of him already, like I’ve just been sitting around for forty years, killing time until he dropped into my world and pulled me to his side and said, ‘This way, Genevieve.’”

  “That’s very poetic,” Mrs. Needleman said with a smile.

  “It’s more neurotic than poetic, I hate to tell you.”

  The old lady giggled again, patting Ginger’s tensed-up shoulder. “My dear, we are right back to where we started, are we not?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You sit here, your arms and legs all twisted up like a pretzel, your foot swinging back and forth, scared to discover what life has to offer you.”

  Ginger’s mouth fell open. “Pardon me?”

  “Does the intensity of your love frighten you?”

  Ginger pursed her lips. “Somewhat.”

  Mrs. Needleman laughed quite loudly. “So we could say that the intensity of your passion for Lucio has you scared somewhat shitless?”

  Ginger gasped, not even sure an eighty-something-year-old lady should be using that kind of language.

  “The important thing to realize is that you weren’t just sitting around killing time, as you put it. You were growing, Genevieve. You were maturing. You were collecting the life experiences that would open you to Lucio when he finally arrived. And, all the while, he was doing the same—preparing his heart for you!”

  Ginger tilted her head, listening.

  “That process was not wasted time, on your part or his.” Mrs. Needleman smiled warmly. “What we’re dealing with here is fate, my dear. The grand plan. Do not be afraid.”

  Ginger felt her eyes sting. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with a surge of emotion. She didn’t know where it came from or how long it would stay, but it packed a wallop. “I apologize, but I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with me lately. Was menopause this rough on you?” Ginger was embarrassed to look at Mrs. Needleman with tears dropping on her cheeks.

  Mrs. Needleman chuckled. “Soon you’ll understand everything, my dear girl. Now, look at me and listen very closely, Genevieve.” The old woman scooted closer on the plastic couch, taking both of Ginger’s hands in hers. “Just because a relationship feels more intense or powerful than you’re accustomed to, it doesn’t mean it’s something to fear.”

  Ginger wanted to wipe her eyes but Mrs. Needleman had her hands locked in a viselike grip. “Okay,” she whispered.

  “I’ve always thought that romances were like food—every dish and every relationship has its own distinct flavor—a flavor that’s produced by the chemical reaction of the ingredients.”

  “Uh … what?” Ginger wasn’t following her.

  “Some romances are oatmeal. Some are five-alarm chili.”

  Ginger laughed.

  Mrs. Needleman smiled. “And what do you think you have with the handsome photographer?”

  She managed to free a hand so she could wipe the tears from her face. “Is there a six-alarm?”

  “Why not?” Mrs. Needleman reached into the front pocket of her jumper and handed Ginger a clean, pressed handkerchief. “Here. I can see all those hot peppers are getting to you.”

  “Yeah,” Ginger said, dabbing her eyes with the crisp linen. “But that’s what I’m worried about—a six-alarm fire can’t burn forever.”

  “Ah.”

  “Roxanne tells me I’m headed for a fall.”

  Mrs. Needleman nodded. “But it can be a controlled fall, my dear. Even the hottest spices mellow over the years. It’s the way of things. The taste will deepen, become more complex and satisfying over time.” Mrs. Needleman winked.

  “Oh, God,” Ginger said, sighing loudly. “That’s the problem! Lucio’s never stayed in one place long enough to simmer over a low flame, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Mrs. Needleman placed her hand on Genevieve’s arm, her eyes fierce. “A man’s past does not always determine his future.”

  “I try to tell myself that.”

  “Keep doing so,” Mrs. Needleman said. “Everything will work out for the best, just you wait and see. It’s a good thing you came to see me today.”

  Ginger nodded.

  “But may I be frank about something?” Mrs. Needleman suddenly looked quite concerned.

  Ginger had to laugh. “You mean you haven’t been frank yet? My God, I don’t think I want to hear this next part.”

  The old woman giggled, too. “I just wanted to tell you to hold on tight, my dear girl—your journey will be bumpy before it becomes smooth.”

  Ginger scowled. “Bumpy?”

  Mrs. Needleman smiled. “The important thing to know is that your little family will come out just fine. Never doubt it.”

  A few minutes later, Ginger backed out of the drive of the powder-blue stucco house on Cayuga Street, double-checking that her seat belt was fastened. Mrs. Needleman’s last few words had left her scared somewhat shitless.

  * * *

  “Ach, nein!”

  Despite everything, Lucio had to laugh. He hadn’t heard Ilsa Knauss’s German-flavored groans of displeasure for more than two years, and it brought back fond memories. He’d always liked her. She was a perfectionist and a control freak, but she’d been a whole lot of fun when she wasn’t working.

  Lucio had debated with himself whether to call her, but he knew it had to be done. He could not sic the police on her unless he was sure she was responsible. He needed to hear her admit it. Thanks to the Internet, it had taken him less than five minutes to find her London phone number.

  “Ah, Ilsa, surprised to hear from me?” he asked her.

  The long-distance phone line was silent. For a moment, Lucio feared he’d lost the connection.

  “What do you want, you schmutzige Hund? Please tell me you’re not in the U.K.”

  “Uh, no. I’m in the U.S.”

  “So? What do you want? I’m busy.”

  “It’s the middle of the night in London.”

  She was silent again, then said, “I’m hanging up.”

  “Don’t!” Lucio called out. “Look, I need to talk to you about what happened in China. It’s important we discuss this—get everything out in the open so that we can put it behind us.”

  He heard her giggle. “Did you like your little rat friend? I thought he bore a striking resemblance.”

  Lucio sighed.

  She chuckled again. “Are you calling from jail, Lucky? Because the last I heard, your ass was headed to prison. And what a shame about the Erskine—sucks for you, eh?”

  Whatever sentiment Lucio felt at the beginning of this call had disappeared. “How could you do this to me, Ilsa?”

  “Because you deserved it, Schwein! I woke up and you were gone and all I got was a note on the kitchen table.” Lucio heard Ilsa breathe heavily, as if she were overcome with emotion. “I had to chase you down like a dog at the airport! You humiliated me! And I really cared for you, you heartless, bastard Scheissekopf! ”

  Lucio dropped his head, truly ashamed of his behavior. Maybe if he’d apologized earlier, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Better yet, he could have had the decency to sit down and talk with Ilsa before he left. Why had such basic kindness been impossible for him?

  “I hurt you, Ilsa. I was wrong. I apologize. But your revenge has been over the top. You’ve succeeded in ruining my career.”

  “Mein Gott, you are such a crybaby!”
/>
  “I saw the e-mails you sent Piers.”

  “Piers Skaarsgard? That oaf? So what? I was sorry to hear about Sylvie, though. That was extremely sad.”

  “You deny you e-mailed Piers about how you got your revenge on me in China?”

  Ilsa laughed. “So what if I e-mailed Piers? Look, Lucky.” She sighed loudly. “You deserve whatever you got. It’s karma. Now, fuck off.”

  She hung up.

  Lucio stared at the phone and shook his head. All right. Fine. He could now give her name and a copy of the e-mails to Sydney, the lawyers at Geographica, the State Department, and the police without missing any sleep. Maybe somehow he could find a way to get the information to the Erskine Prize committee without it looking as if he were begging.

  Regardless of the outcome, at least he had the relief of knowing the truth. That was a very good thing, yes? But it did not feel good. It was awful to think that a woman he once slept with could hate him so much, call him such horrible names.

  No wonder it didn’t feel like much of a victory.

  CHAPTER 15

  Lucio thoroughly enjoyed the drive up to Sonoma. Back at Genevieve’s place, she’d tossed him the keys to her Volkswagen and slid into the passenger seat with a smile, comfortable with Lucio being behind the wheel. Josh and Jason took up residence in the back, Señorita Chiquita on her satin pillow between them.

  The boys chatted the whole way, regaling him with stories of their own life adventures, including the time Josh almost fell off a scenic overlook into the Grand Canyon, the night Jason got thrown in juvenile detention for underage drinking, and Josh’s elaborate plans to become president of the United States.

  “You can take my official portrait when the time comes,” Josh told him.

  “It would be an honor,” Lucio said.

  Next the boys told a revealing tale of their grandmother’s weeklong stay while their parents’ divorce was finalized.

  “We don’t see Grams a lot, so it was kind of weird having her stay with us,” Jason said. “She was a Hollywood actress, did Mom tell you? And she’s still kind of glamorous-looking, even though she can’t move her face so good anymore.”

  Lucio frowned. “She had a stroke?”

  “She had Botox,” Josh said. “Lots of it.”

  Jason jumped in. “And a chin lift and something that yanked up her eyelids so much that she always looks like she’s just seen somebody get ax-murdered, and a bunch of other shiii—” He stopped himself before he cursed in front of his mother. Good for him, Lucio thought.

  “She’s had a few too many procedures,” Ginger explained, clearly uneasy with the subject matter.

  “How many?” Lucio asked.

  Ginger let go with a tired sigh. “She’s been under the knife more times than a sheet cake at a kid’s birthday party.”

  The boys laughed. Genevieve shook her head and looked out the window. Lucio nodded slowly, grateful for another piece to Genevieve’s puzzle.

  “Yeah, and she’s always telling Mom she needs ‘work done,’ too.” Joshua leaned closer to Lucio’s headrest to whisper theatrically into his ear. “Maybe you could tell her she doesn’t. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  “That’s enough, guys,” Ginger said.

  “Well, you won’t listen to anyone else,” Josh said.

  Lucio glanced at an annoyed Genevieve in the seat next to him. “Please, do not do it, mi amor, ” he said, watching her frown. He noticed that she did not succumb to her usual tap-tap-tapping of her forehead, however, and that impressed him.

  He tried to keep his eyes on Route 37 North, but it was difficult. The sun was hitting Ginger at an angle that transformed her hair into ribbons of coppers, browns, and golds, with just the tiniest hint of silver threaded throughout. Her hazel eyes shimmered, despite the frown.

  “Nature has already done all the work you need,” Lucio told her. “You are the rarest wildflower, at the peak of her splendor.”

  Ginger tried to hide her embarrassed smile. There was no comment from the back, at least not right away.

  “Okay, that was awkward,” Jason said.

  Lucio laughed, checking in the rearview mirror on the teenagers, who didn’t look like they felt the least bit awkward. They were grinning, in fact. They looked relieved that someone might have talked some sense into their mother—or simply lavished her with the kind of praise she deserved.

  “I Googled you the other day,” Josh said. “You’re one of the most famous photographers in the world.”

  Lucio chuckled. “I would not go that far.”

  “But you are, man,” Jason said. “Your pictures have been on the cover of a bunch of magazines like Geographica and Smithsonian and Nature. You were even in a PBS special. We watched it on YouTube!”

  “Ah, yes.” Lucio nodded, thinking back to the documentary that Sylvie Westcott had produced in the late eighties—when she first met up with Piers and Lucio. “That was a very long time ago.”

  “God, it had to be,” Josh said. “You looked young!”

  Jason smacked his brother on the shoulder. “You’re a complete jacktard,” he told him. “No, wait—pardon me—you’re president of the Jacktards of America!”

  Lucio looked to Genevieve in bewilderment.

  “You don’t want to know,” she said, shaking her head. She raised her voice to add, “And that’s the last time he’ll ever hear that expression used by either of my sons, isn’t that right?”

  Silence had returned to the back seat.

  “Isn’t that right?” Genevieve repeated, threatening to turn all the way around in her seat.

  “That’s right, Mom,” Jason said, his voice soft.

  “Ass-wipe,” Josh said, smacking his brother in retaliation.

  “Joshua Franklin Garrison!”

  “Okay. Okay, Mom.”

  The last ten miles of the trip were much quieter, but as they pulled up to the gates of Samhain Ranch, Genevieve smiled shyly at Lucio. He knew exactly what she was thinking, because he was thinking of it, too.

  “I haven’t been here since the wedding,” she said.

  “Me, either.” Lucio could not hold back. He reached for his wild woman of the vineyards and brought her hand to his lips. He didn’t care if the boys saw. He had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. He was going to do everything right when it came to this woman. He would not give her anything less than the best he had in him.

  Genevieve did not pull her hand away. Her smile grew and she let out a little laugh of pure pleasure. And the second his mouth brushed the top of her fingers, he knew it would be pointless to avoid the truth any longer—he loved her. He wanted to be with her, always.

  Finally, after more than twenty years of roaming, Lucio had found his home.

  “Wait! Wait! I have it!” Roxie jumped from her wicker chair on the front porch of Rick and Josie’s ranch house, suddenly inspired.

  “What’d you decide?” Josie asked. She’d just come back from the kitchen with another platter of chicken and steak taquitos with all the trimmings—guacamole, sour cream, fresh salsa, tomatilla sauce. Lucio beat even Josh and Jason in the race for seconds.

  “I am picturing a rain forest setting,” Roxie said, looking out onto the vineyards, reaching out like a movie director framing a scene. “It’s kind of surreal, maybe mists rising from the ground, mountains, waterfalls, a jaguar or two pushing through tall grass in the background.”

  Rick wagged his eyebrows at Lucio and raised his glass of lemonade in a toast. “I hope you’ve got Photoshop,” he said, and they both laughed.

  “I hope you’ve got dry ice,” Bea said.

  Roxie’s eyes shone. She raised her chin and put her shoulders back. “And I’m standing there, an Amazon woman, full of my own glory and power—a true queen.”

  Lucio finished his taquito. “That would make a grand statement,” he said.

  Roxie wasn’t done. “And I’m holding a spear that’s way taller than I am and wearing some kind of headdr
ess with plumes from exotic birds. My midriff is bare but my breastplate is ornate.”

  “Well, duh,” Bea said dryly. “Those plain ole breastplates are so yesterday.”

  “Shhh, Bea,” Josie said, giggling as she snuggled into her spot next to Rick on the white wicker love seat. Lucio smiled as he watched his friend casually put his arm around his wife and grin at her. All evening, Lucio had been entranced by how perfectly the newly married couple complemented each other. They hosted this party like they’d done it a thousand times, though it was their first official get-together at the ranch since the wedding. Rick’s face was perpetually lit up, like he’d discovered the key to everything.

  It looked to Lucio like Josie and Rick had been designed for each other. They fit—their personalities, their spirits, their physical bodies. And the ranch fit both of them. Even their three dogs seemed ecstatically happy with the arrangement. From where Lucio sat, it appeared the universe had settled down around the couple with a great sigh of relief, everything in place, just as it was supposed to be.

  Lucio watched Rick kiss the tip of Josie’s nose. It was so innocent and so tender that it sent a pang of need through him. Lucio’s eyes went to Genevieve in her chair, legs crossed casually, a sweet smile pasted on her face as she watched the newlyweds. She must have been thinking the same thing.

  Her eyes found his. Her cheeks flushed, embarrassed to have been caught gawking at the couple, but Lucio reassured her with a smile of his own.

  Perhaps they wanted that same kind of comfort, connectedness, and love for themselves. There was no shame in that.

  Lucio could not help but sigh. As much as he was enjoying the company and the good food and wine, he suddenly wished that it were just Genevieve and himself here—alone. He wanted to lift her in his arms once more and lay her down in the grass, or on the porch floor, or the great big leather sofa inside in the main room of the house, or upon one of the dozens of antique beds on the property.

  It didn’t matter where, really. He just wanted to lay her down, to cover her with his body and his passion.