To Keep Her Baby
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Melissa Senate
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Chapter One
âMiss OâLeary, please describe your goals if accepted as a pupil of Madame Davenportâs School of Etiquette,â Larilla Davenport said from behind her desk.
âJust look at me,â Ginger blurted out as she stood up. Her low-cut hot-pink tank top, size extra, extra small, showed the lacy tops of her leopard-print push-up bra. Babe was written in rhinestones across her ample chest. Her ruffled miniskirt, which came to an end just past her rear, was also extra small. Big was her platinum blond hair in âbeachy wavesâ to her waist. Four-inch stilettos, a bunch of cheap bracelets and heavy makeup completed her usual daytime look.
The fiftysomething woman sitting across from herâso spiffy in an ice-blue sheath dress and matching jacket, her dark hair pulled back in one of those elegant buns at her napeâlooked Ginger up and down. Yeah, she was used to that.
âMy dear,â Madame Davenport said, âif you were just interested in changing your look, you could wash your face and buy a few new outfits. So why are you really interested in enrolling in my course?â
Because of last night. And this morning. Which felt like eons ago but had just been hours before. It started with the pregnancy test. The red plus sign appearing in the little window. Racing back to Walgreens for another test, which Ginger had taken in the bathroom at Bustyâs, the âexotic dance saloonâ where she worked as a waitress. Another plus sign. She was pregnant. Her, Ginger OâLeary. Someoneâs mother?
The thought of it had knocked around in her head during her shift last night, serving the tap of the day and shots to leering customers. Iâm pregnant? sheâd kept thinking, setting down baskets of breaded mozzarella sticks and plates of loaded nachos on tables. Me?
Ginger OâLeary had lost her virginity at fifteen. She was now twenty-four. That was nine years of sex with guys who sheâd been naive about, but sheâd always been careful, keeping several boxes of condoms in her bedroom and car, and always a few packets in her purse. This time though, the condom had broken, and the man whoâd had it on had muttered expletives, grabbed his clothes and run out of her apartment.
For the past year, heâd been coming into Bustyâs twice a week and always left with a different waitress each time. He was one of the richies. There were the richies and the poors, per the female staff. The richies were the ones who lookedâkey word lookedâlike gentlemen who left ten-dollar tips. The poors were jerks who said stuff like âHereâs your tipâflash me and Iâll leave you a buck.â Bustyâs was a real quality operation.
Anyway, Alden Arlington, the father of her baby, hadnât come in last night but sheâd seen him this morning, heading into Java Jamboree with a woman. Sheâd trailed him into the cafĂŠ and asked if she could talk to him, and heâd said, âIâm surprised you get up before noon.â
Normally she didnât. But this wasnât a normal day. Like she could sleep.
She told him it was super important, and finally, the woman at his table gave her a dirty look and said sheâd go order their lattes and scones.
Ginger sat down in the womanâs seat. âI thought you should know Iâm pregnant,â she whispered to him. âI just found out yesterday.â
âUh, congratulations?â Alden said. God, he was good-looking. All that movie-star blond hair, the green eyes. The expensive suit. He looked like a young Brad Pitt. Of course, being gorgeous and nicely dressed didnât make him a nice guy. Heâd avoided Bustyâs for a good two weeks after the broken-condom incident, then started coming back in a couple nights a week again and ignoring her, leaving with other women. Whatevs. She hadnât been hanging her hopes on him as a boyfriend, but he didnât have to treat her like she wasnât worth a hello.
âItâs yours,â she said.
He laughed. âSure it is, honey. You probably sleep with more men in a week than there are in here right now.â
Ginger actually gasped, which surprised her. She wasnât the gasping type. People said a lot of crap to her. But she didnât actually sleep around. Sheâd liked Alden, had hoped heâd notice her, and he had. Before heâd shown his true colors, sheâd had all these fantasies that heâd fall for her and carry her out of Bustyâs like Richard Gere had swooped Debra Winger out of the factory in that movie An Officer and a Gentleman.
âFind some idiot to pin it on,â he said. âIâm a little too smart for that.â
The woman came back to the table just then with coffee drinks and plates, and sat down on the other side of Alden, sipping her latte. âListen to me, sweetie,â she said, staring at Ginger with ice-cold eyes. âYouâre saying itâs my brotherâs baby? Fine. A DNA test will prove youâre lying. On the off chance youâre not? Expect a custody battle since youâre not exactly fit to be a mother.â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â Ginger snapped, hands on her hips.
âLook at you,â she said, waving her hand up and down.
âItâs not mine, so donât even waste your breath on this lowlife,â Alden said to his sister, picking up his drink.
Ginger grabbed the scone and threw it at him. It hit him on his tie and bounced on the table, then landed on the floor. âScrew you.â
âThatâs battery,â the sister said, pointing a manicured finger. âWe could have her charged.â
Cursing herself for her temper and impulsiveness, a lick of fear traveled up her spine. Sheâd rushed out, practically running all the way back to Bustyâs and trying to calm down in the very bathroom stall where sheâd taken the pregnancy test.
âMy goodness,â Larilla Davenport said, jerking Ginger out of the memory.
Had Ginger meant to say word for word what happened? Out loud? Maybe not. But hey, one thing you could say about Ginger OâLeary was that she told the truth.
Ginger sat up straight and looked Madame Davenport in the eyes. âYou asked me what my goals are if I get accepted as a student here. All I want is to be a good mother to this baby.â She looked down at her still-flat belly, then shook her head at the Babe across her big chest, which was natural, by the way, and not enhancedâexcept by the push-up bra. âBabe is now about the baby, Madame Davenport. Not me. Iâm going to be someoneâs mother. I have to changeâand not just how I look. Everything about me. How I talk, act, think. I need to become proper. I need to become the kind of person who doesnât get called a lowlife, you know? Someone who doesnât throw baked goods at people out of anger. Because Alden could take the baby away. I need to become the kind of person who wonât get her baby taken away.â
Tears poked at her eyes, and she slashed a hand underneath each. âMadame Davenport, if Iâm going to raise my baby right, I need to be right. And if I ever hope to find a good man to be a father to my baby, I have to become the type of woman a good man brings home to meet the folks.â
Madame stared at her for a moment, then jotted something down in the electronic tablet on the ornate polished desk. âI see. How did you hear of my etiquette school, Ms. OâLeary?â
âWell, my boss at Bustyâs is this really kick-ass lady. She pulled herself up from nothing. I asked her how she accomplished that, and she said sheâd spent all her savings a few years back to go to etiquette school in Wedlock Creek. Coco told me the course teaches everything from how to act, dress, order in a restaurant, what not to say, what to sayâall that. So I told her I had to quit, got in my car and drove three hours from Jackson.â
Madame Davenport smiled. âAh, Coco. I remember her. I admired her spunk.â
Ginger too. âProblem is, I canât exactly afford five minutes of one class, forget about the three-week session.â Ginger had $212 to her name. She glanced around at the office, full of antiques and oil paintings on the walls. The beautiful Queen Anneâstyle house was like a castleâsurely Madame Davenport needed another cleaning person or prep cook. âIâll do any job in exchange for the etiquette course. Anything. Iâll scrub all the toilets till they sparkle.â
Madame Davenport eyed Ginger and snapped the cover of the tablet closed. âMy dear, you will not scrub anything but yourself into the person you want to be. You are hereby enrolled in the three-week session that starts tomorrow. On scholarship.â
For the second time ever, Ginger OâLeary gasped.
Have a few moments to help with a new pupil assessment?
James Gallagher read the text from his godmother and groaned. He used to help out at Larillaâs etiquette school quite a bit, playing the role of âupstanding young man in the communityâ so that Larilla could assess how students acted around the opposite sex and practice their newfound skills in conversation. Larilla had a list of men of all ages who loved helping out at the school, but all her favorites must be unavailable today.
The last time he helped with an assessment was last year, in the final days of Ava Guthrieâs course. Heâd watched Ava transform from a âcountry girl,â as sheâd called herself, into a âlady,â and heâd given her top scores in the final assessment. Sheâd hooked him, hadnât she? A âwell-educated businessman,â twenty-eight-year-old James Gallagher was one of Wedlock Creekâs âhottest catches,â per a ridiculous article in the Wedlock Creek Gazette that his sisters loved to tease him about. Last year, heâd even been thinking about getting himself removed from the eligible-bachelor list because heâd found his Ms. Right.
But Ava Guthrie had played him for the fool he was. After sheâd gotten what she wantedâto be the kind of woman whoâd attract a man like himâthe grifter had gone for the kill, leaving town and taking Jamesâs ability to trust. Sheâd sped off in the shiny new Fiat heâd bought her. Like an idiot.
After that fiasco, his godmother had kindly stopped asking him to help. Larilla knew heâd do anything for her, just as she would do anything for him. His parents and grandparents on both sides were long gone, and Larilla was all he had left of his motherâs side of the family. On his dadâs side he had the five half siblings heâd raised since his fatherâs and stepmotherâs deaths seven years ago. Larilla had always been his rock. If she asked a favor, he was damn well going to grant it. Besides, a month and a week from now, heâd be in Paris, France, the start of his long-awaited summer sabbatical trip around the world. He wouldnât be able to help Larilla with anything, and he owed her.
Be right over, he typed back.
Wonderful! Weâre in the dining room.
It was just after six, but Larilla structured her course so that she met with a few students individually throughout the day and held group sessions twice daily. She always assessed new students over a private meal so that she could see how they conducted themselves at the table.
Larillaâs home, which housed the etiquette school, was just a few minutesâ drive from his place. He left his room, the converted attic bedroom, and headed down the steep steps of the big house his father had bought when heâd married Jamesâs stepmother twenty-two years ago. None of his siblings were home, no surprise there. The quints were twenty-one now, and twoâhis brothersâhad left town for their dream jobs, one involving a prosperous ranch and the other as a sous chef in a five-star hotel in Cheyenne. Two of his sisters worked as assistants to Larilla, wanting to learn the business, which pleased his godmother to no end, and then there was Josie, who was generally responsible for his carrying three rolls of Tums wherever he went. âYou are responsible for your reaction to me, James, so donât blame the heartburn on me!â Josie had bellowed a time or two.
He passed his dad and stepmotherâs old master bedroom in the huge house. None of the Gallagher siblings had felt right about moving in there, including him. They used it as a family room so that theyâd always feel their dad and Kerry with them when they were watching movies or TV, or having family meetings about who the slob who couldnât cap the toothpaste or wipe up the spills on the kitchen counter was.
James couldnât believe it had been seven years since heâd lost his parents. Or that heâd actually done itâseen the siblings through the throes of raging adolescence at thirteen to twenty-one-year-olds living their lives. Heâd put his own life on hold to raise them, but come a month from now, James was hitting the roadâthe skies, actuallyâfor a global summer trip of no responsibility to anyone but himself. Heâd eat the best pasta in the universe in Italy. Amazing bread and cheese in France. Paella, a favorite of his, in Spain. Sushi and real ramen in Japan. Heâd go on safari in Africa. Swim the coral reefs in Australia. Heâd even try to learn to meditate in India, not that he could imagine relaxing to that degree.
He was going to see the worldâwithout a care. He. Could. Not. Wait.
He drove over to Larillaâs blush-colored Queen Anne, the sight of which never failed to make him smile. With its three-story octagonal tower and ornate wraparound veranda, the house looked like an etiquette school. A sign noting Madame Davenportâs School of Etiquette hung from the side of the porch, where Larillaâs Persian cat, Esme, lay curled in a padded rocker in a patch of sunshine.
Once inside the gorgeously decorated home, which always struck him as âcozy museum,â he headed to the dining room, where he found Larilla seated at the head of the table, a young woman to her left. The platinum blonde looked like an extra from that movie Working Girl with Melanie Griffith and Harrison Fordâlots of skin, makeup and hair. Theyâd clearly just finished dinner, since there were serving dishes and plates on the table.
As he entered the room, the blonde let out an impressive wolf whistle and checked him out from head to toe and back up again.
Larilla jotted something down in the electronic tablet she carried everywhere.
âThatâs probably the kind of thing I shouldnât do anymore,â the blonde said to Larilla. âItâs not ladylike or whatever, right?â
âMy dear,â Larilla began in that slight drawl of hers, âmen have been catcalling women since the dawn of time. When I was in my late forties, a man walked past me on Main Street and said, âHey, hot stuff.â Boy, did he end up regretting that.â
The young womanâs eyes widenedâin a gleeful way. âWhatja do?â
Larilla took a sip of her tea. âI bored him for a good fifteen minutes in the middle of the sidewalk on why it was inappropriate to comment on my appearanceâanyoneâs appearance, except perhaps to note that someone looked lovely today. Boring someone to death is an effective deterrent, Iâve noticed.â
âKinda weird for me to tell this dude he looks lovely today,â the blonde said, raking her hazel eyes over him again.
âIn that case, you simply ogle on the down low and keep mum,â Larilla explained with a wink.
The blonde beamed, and Larilla patted her hand.
At least he understood why his godmother had asked for his help when she knew he was still bitter as hell about what happened the last time he had anything to do with an etiquette student. The platinum blonde would probably need three courses before sheâd graduate, and by then, James would be in Europe, on a gondola in Venice. This was one student who wouldnât get to him.
Larilla turned to him. âJames, Iâm pleased to introduce my newest pupil, Ginger OâLeary. Ginger, my godson, James Gallagher.â
âMan, your eyes are blue,â Ginger said to him. âGuys get the best eyelashes too, am I right? I have to buy a new tube of mascara, like, every two weeks to keep up. Lahl!â
âLahl?â James repeated. Was that a brand of mascara?
Ginger gaped at him as though he was nuts. âLahl. El-oh-el. Get it?â
El-oh-el? What? Oh, he thought. LOL. âYou mean the text acronym. Wait, so you were LOLing at your own joke? Larilla, write down that. Infraction of the worst degree.â
Ginger looked worried for a second, then stared at him to see if he was kidding. Which he was. He kept his poker face, and she waved her hand in the air. âOh God, if thatâs my biggest crime, Iâm doing all right.â
Larilla smiled. âWell, James, thank you very much. I have what I need. And, Ginger, Iâll see you at 9:00 a.m. sharp for our first session.â
Ginger suddenly put her hands on her stomach, and her eyes widened.
Why was she doing that? He stepped a bit closer. âAre you all right? Dinner didnât agree with you?â
âAre you kidding?â she said on a breath. âFilet mignon with roast potatoes always agrees with me. Like I ever have that.â
âThen whatâs wrong?â he asked.
Ginger bit her lip and looked from him to Larilla and back to him. âI just felt that weird tightening sensation in my belly again. According to Dr. Google, itâs normal when youâre pregnant.â
âPregnant?â He stared from Ginger to Larilla.
âGinger is in the family way,â Larilla said. âSheâs due in December.â
âIf I counted right,â Ginger added. âIâve never been great at math.â
âWhat did the doctor tell you?â he asked.
âWhat doctor? I just found out I was pregnant two days ago.â
âIâll ask around for recommendations for an ob-gyn,â Larilla said. âYouâll need a checkup and prenatal vitamins.â
Now it was becoming even clearer why Larilla would call him to help assess. Not only was Ginger the furthest thing from his type, not that he had one, but she was pregnant.
He was leaving town to get away from âfatherhood.â The last thing heâd ever walk toward was more of that responsibility.
In fact, he felt a little better that now he could help out Larilla with this pupil. Buffalo would fly before James Gallagher fell for Ginger OâLeary.
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