To Keep Her Baby

by Melissa Senate

  The door to Ginger’s dressing room opened and she stepped out. Were it not for her big blond hair and makeup, he’d never have recognized her. She wore a tailored white button-down shirt and khaki pants, neither tight nor loose, and red leather flats.

  “The shoes add a delightful pop of color,” the saleswoman said with a nod, looking at Ginger’s reflection in the full-length three-way mirror.

  Ginger was canting her head to the left and right, biting her lip, frowning as she turned this way and that as she checked herself out.

  “I’d say this look would go from PTA meeting to playground to coffee with a gal pal,” the other saleswoman said. “And the shoes are on sale this week only!”

  Ginger stared at herself. “I don’t know...”

  “Oh! I know what’s wrong!” the brunette said. “Come with me!”

  “Uh, where?” Ginger asked, following the woman to a back corridor.

  Five minutes later, the brunette returned with Ginger trailing behind her. At least, James thought it was Ginger. She had on the white shirt, khaki pants and red flats, but her face was scrubbed free of makeup, and her hair had been pulled back into a low ponytail, the long fluff of it cascading down the center of her back.

  The gum was gone too.

  “Who is this?” Ginger asked, eyeing her reflection.

  “This is the new you!” the brunette said. “You look great. You look like every woman walking down Main Street.”

  Ginger stared at herself, her expression no less than glum. “I guess.”

  “Can’t be easy changing up your whole style in ten minutes,” James said.

  Ginger’s eyes darted to his. “How do you think I look?”

  “Like every woman walking down Main Street,” he said with a nod at the saleswoman. But that didn’t seem right in Ginger’s case. Not at all.

  And weird as it was, he kind of missed her regular style. The glittery eyelids. The red lipstick. The flash and sparkle. This new Ginger was...not her. But then again, that was the point, right? She needed to look momish for a very good reason. This wasn’t a makeover. It was an intervention.

  “I have an idea,” the saleswoman said. “This outfit is pretty standard. You can’t go wrong owning these pieces. But you’re not going to get used to looking completely different immediately. So why not buy it and walk around town and see for yourself how you’re regarded? And how it feels to have everyone’s unspoken approval. You’ll be back buying out the place.”

  Ginger glanced at herself in the mirror again, then at the saleswoman. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can go out in public looking like this.”

  James smiled. Score one for Ginger. She had moxie, that was for sure.

  The saleswoman frowned. Hard. “Hello. You said you wanted to look like a mom. Now you do.”

  “Can’t moms have a little pizzazz?” Ginger asked.

  “Duh, the pop of red,” the other saleswoman added, pointing at Ginger’s feet.

  “What do you think, James?” Ginger asked, turning to face him directly.

  Three sets of eyes stared at him. “I think there’s probably a happy medium. That’s what I think.”

  “What does that mean?” Ginger asked.

  “It means this may not be the right clothing boutique for you,” James said. “Go change and we’ll check out the other shop in town.”

  “Jazzy’s?” the brunette saleswoman said. “Hardly mom focused. I always see your sisters going into that shop and what are they, twenty-one?”

  “Well, Ginger should explore all options before deciding on a look,” he pointed out.

  “Yeah, she should,” Ginger added, seeming very relieved as she dashed back into the dressing room. She popped her head back out. “And I’m only twenty-four,” she said before darting back in.

  Twenty-four. She was so young. With so much on her plate.

  He thought back to when he was twenty-one and got the news that his father and stepmother had died in the car accident. Having to tell his siblings. Moving into the big house on Sycamore Street, his life’s plans changed in an instant from going for his MBA to being a father figure to five grieving thirteen-year-olds. He knew about having a lot on the plate. And his heart went out to her. James hadn’t been alone in the world like she was. He had Larilla and his siblings, even if most of the time the Gallagher Five had driven him batty.

  He wouldn’t have survived any of it without Larilla’s guidance and babysitting help. She’d been his mother’s best friend and couldn’t stand his father, who’d been something of a playboy until he’d fallen hard for Kerry, and the quints had come along. But when his siblings had been orphaned, Larilla had always treated them with the utmost kindness and generosity.

  At least Ginger had Larilla in her corner for the next three weeks. Everyone needs a Larilla.

  Ginger came out of the dressing room in her regular clothes but she looked half-dressed, and it took him a moment to realize why. The lack of makeup. With her hair pulled back, it was very clear how naturally pretty she was.

  “I feel so naked,” she said, popping a fresh stick of gum in her mouth.

  “Don’t you always?” he asked, eyeing her skimpy outfit as he escorted her to the door.

  She gave him a playful shove. “I meant because I’m not wearing any makeup. I love makeup. Have I ever left my house without my red lipstick on? I honestly don’t think so. Even to run out for an iced coffee.”

  “A red lip for daytime is a bit much,” the brunette opined as James pulled open the door.

  Ginger turned to her. “Honestly, miss, you’re a bit much.”

  The saleswoman threw her a “how dare you” look and turned on her heel, and they left the store.

  “Gonna rat me out to Madame Davenport for being rude?” Ginger asked as they headed back toward the school.

  James smiled. “Is it rude to put a rude person in her place?”

  “I knew I liked you,” she said, beaming at him. She linked her arm around his, and he stiffened.

  She dropped her own arm. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get too friendly. Not proper,” she added in an upper-crust accent.

  “You just startled me,” he explained. “Let’s just say a woman hasn’t taken my arm in over a year. I’m taking a much-needed break from relationships.”

  “Got your heart busted?” she asked.

  “Heart, pride, my trust—all of it. I’m sure you’ve been there.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I’ve never been in love. I’ve liked, I’ve seriously lusted, but loved? To the point my heart broke? Nope.”

  He stared at her. “You’re lucky.”

  “Lucky? I used to think something was wrong with me for not getting what all those sad songs on the radio were about. Then again, it’s not like I’d really meet the man of my dreams in Busty’s.”

  “Busty’s?” he repeated.

  “The exotic dance saloon I used to waitress in. That’s where I met Alden, my baby’s father. I liked him and was attracted to him, but I certainly wasn’t in love.”

  “You clearly have a hell of a lot better radar for jerks than I do,” he said. “I walked right into a trap.” For a moment he wondered how they’d gotten on this subject, why in the world he was talking about his past with this woman. Ginger was practically a stranger. But for an almost stranger, she was so easy to talk to.

  “Well, Alden wasn’t looking to trap me. Just get into my pants. I should have seen that coming a mile away. Big dope,” she added, conking herself on the forehead with her palm.

  “I still call dibs on worse romantic past.”

  She laughed, and then her smile faded. “Well, I’d still like to know what it’s like to feel so much for someone your heart could burst with it—in a good way or a bad way. You know?”

  He glanced at her. “I guess. Once burned, twic
e shy is my new motto.”

  “I don’t know, cowboy. You can’t resist the siren call of attraction.”

  He pictured himself on a horse, wearing a Stetson. Riding off into the sunset alone. “Oh trust me, I most definitely will.”

  He was about to change the subject to something a lot less personal when he noticed that the guy walking down the sidewalk toward them was about to smash into a fire hydrant because his eyes were on Ginger’s chest and not where he was going. “Hot, hot, hot,” the idiot said before he crashed. “Ow!” he yelped.

  “I get that a lot,” she said. “Especially at the beach. Lots of guys trip on their leering faces.”

  He could only imagine how itty-bitty Ginger’s bikini would be. And made out of string, most likely.

  “There’s Jazzy’s,” he said, pointing across the street, grateful for the image change in his mind of Ginger in that string bikini. “I think this shop will be more your speed but still accomplish what you want.”

  “Perf,” she said as they headed over.

  This store had a completely different vibe. The clothes were less classic, more contemporary. And the employees were a lot friendlier. Fifteen minutes later, Ginger’s arms were loaded with items to try on. James waited on the love seat in the dressing area, flipping through a People magazine.

  “Ooh, me likey!” he heard from the vicinity of her room.

  He smiled. Had he ever met anyone who said me likey? He didn’t think so.

  Ginger burst out of the room, all smiles, and he put the magazine back on the side table. “How much do I love this jacket? This much!” she said, spreading her arms wide.

  He had to admit, she looked amazing. The blazer was a pale pink, and there was something slightly iridescent about it. It nipped in at her waist and fitted her perfectly. Under it she wore a white shirt with a band of silky ruffles down the V-neck, no cleavage in sight. A pair of skinny jeans that molded to her “slammin’ bod” but weren’t too tight, and flat silver sandals finished the outfit.

  “You look great!” he said. “Wow.”

  “Right?” she asked, beaming, turning this way and that in the three-way mirror in the dressing area. “But do I look like a mom? I kind of feel like I just look...nice.”

  “Nice is good to shoot for,” he said. “Larilla would approve, for sure.”

  “Yeah?” she asked, looking at her reflection. “I never want to take off this jacket. And it doesn’t even have rhinestones. I could stare at myself in this mirror all day.”

  He had to admit, it was nice to see the sparkle back in her eyes. “You’ve got a bunch more to try on. And I’ll have to get to my office in about thirty minutes.”

  “Back in a flash,” she said, zipping into the dressing room with a big smile.

  Why did he have to like that smile so much?

  Fifteen minutes later, she had three outfits, two dresses and three pairs of shoes. Larilla didn’t have an account here, so he would need to pay. His godmother would reimburse him—the wealthy businesswoman insisted on comping a week’s worth of new clothes for all of her students—but walking up to the checkout with his credit card sent a jolt of acid to his gut, reminding him of Ava and her betrayal.

  Careful, he reminded himself. You don’t know Ginger O’Leary or what she’s capable of. You never know what someone is capable of.

  “Mama got some pretty new clothes!” Ginger said, seemingly to her belly, one hand on her stomach.

  He instantly relaxed. Ginger was pregnant. Pregnant. If there was anything that would keep him running for the hills, it was that. After seven years of “parenthood” times five, he was ready for croissants and good coffee in Paris, and the white sand and turquoise waters of Bali. Not a baby. So he really had nothing to worry about in terms of becoming attracted—or attached—to Ginger O’Leary.

  Phew.

  Chapter Three

  Ready to faint? Guess who got a B+ on her first etiquette school quiz? Ginger sat on her bed at Madame Davenport’s the next day, looking over the quiz paper again. She’d only gotten two questions wrong. She’d forgotten that sex was one of the five no-no’s in conversation—at Busty’s she and her fellow waitresses talked about sex all the time—and what poise meant. Ginger had confused it with sitting straight instead of slumping, but apparently it meant dignity of manner.

  Ginger liked that. She often didn’t have dignity of manner, but she wanted it. A mother-to-be with dignity of manner would not have picked up the scone and thrown it at the jerk who told her she was low-class. Right? Ginger would have to ask what the correct response was the next time she met with Madame.

  Last night, after Madame had dismissed the class, she’d run up to her room and given another fist pump at her B+, then called James, all excited about her good grade. He’d been kind of quiet on the phone, other than offering her congratulations. She tried to picture where he was, talking to her on his cell phone. Maybe lying down on his sofa in his sexy jeans and bare feet. Or maybe he’d just gotten out of the shower and was naked. Either way was fine with her.

  “So what should I have done, instead of throw the scone at that jerk?” she’d asked him, flinging herself on her bed and closing her eyes, excited for his warm, deep voice to rush over her.

  “Well, I guess Larilla would say to always keep your composure. To never let the other side see they got you. Which means not throwing anything. Not even saying ‘screw you.’ Just walking away.”

  “Whaaa?” she’d said. “Walk away? And let the jerks get away with being jerks? No way.”

  “It would be Madame Davenport’s School of Etiquette approach,” he said. “Reserve your dignity and don’t give the jerks another thought or breath. When they go low, you go high and all that.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “In the heat of the moment...”

  “All about self-control. It’s everything.”

  “Everything?” she repeated. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, we’re two very different people, aren’t we,” he said—a statement, not a question—and a balloon popped and wildly deflated inside her.

  They sure were.

  His final words swirling in her mind, Ginger now folded the quiz so that the B+ showed and slid it into the bezel of the huge round mirror at her dressing table. Then she sat down and took a good look at herself. Her hair was still damp from the shower. She twisted it into a low bun at her nape, the way the saleswoman at Jazzy’s had her hair yesterday.

  Huh, she thought, turning to the left and right. She’d always thought the bigger, the better, but she kind of felt like Meghan Markle with her hair like this, as though she could be sitting next to Queen Elizabeth with this do.

  Now for makeup. No way was Ginger going out in public without makeup. Yesterday, when the beyotch at the snotty boutique had taken that wipe and rubbed off Ginger’s makeup and had her wash her face squeaky clean, she’d felt so naked and undone. If she hadn’t been hanging with James, if he’d been any other guy, she would have run back into the bathroom and put at least half her face back on. But being around James was like being around her best girls.

  That was a weird thought. How could being with James be like chilling with a friend when he was such a Hemsworth? She could barely look at him without wanting to rip off his clothes and run her hands all over his chest and those muscled arms. So why would she feel okay about not having any makeup on around him?

  “Who knows, right, Esme?” she asked Madame’s cat, who’d come inside Ginger’s room last night and slept on top of the dresser. The sleek gray-and-black cat was now grooming herself in a patch of sunlight on the windowsill. “So much info is being thrown at me it’s no wonder I can’t think straight.”

  She looked at her face, her skin, which was blemish-free and managed to be fair and rosy at the same time. Do I really even need foundation or even powder? she thought,
putting her bottle of Covergirl back down. She leaned close and stroked a little eyeliner against her eyelids, then checked it out. Normally she’d rim the entire eye with her favorite liquid liner and then go over it with her sparkle pencil. Honestly, she thought she looked a little blah, but according to Madame Davenport, less was more. She picked up her pink tube of mascara and put some on—“enough to enhance, not overwhelm” per something she read in a homework assignment on appearance—then sat back and looked at herself.

  “With my hair like this and the super light makeup, I kind of look like Mom.” Ginger smiled in the mirror. Her mother had been a maid for a cleaning service, and they had to wear their hair pulled back. Ginger’s mom had never worn much makeup, and now she could see how much she looked like her mother, who’d been her biggest hero. Heroine. “Whatcha think, Ez?” she asked the cat. “Do I pass as a mom?”

  Her own question threw her off balance, and she leaned a hand out on the table to brace herself. The answer seemed so simple. And upsetting. How I look won’t make me a good mother. That’s inside, not outside. She’d had a good mother, so maybe it was already inside her to know what to do. But had she even ever held a baby? Nope, she didn’t think so. She needed a crash course on all things baby. Maybe she’d start with that big baby shop she’d seen from the freeway. It was only about ten minutes away. She could go check it out and be back in time for her private session with Madame Davenport on the art of conversation.

  Ginger got up and opened her closet, reaching for the sundress. A dress that went past her knees? She shook her head with a smile. The cotton had felt so nice against her skin in the dressing room yesterday, the soft material flowing over her curves and ending midcalf with a flounce. She slipped her feet into her new flat sandals and headed out, Esme the cat following her down the grand staircase.

  There was no one around—Madame had a private session with Karly now, and Sandrine was practicing her conversation skills by making small talk with shop owners on Main Street. Ginger would have thought Sandrine had plenty of small-talk experience as a dental hygienist, but apparently she got so tongue-tied around her boss that she tended to clam up. Ginger gave Esme a scratch behind her ear, then left the Queen Anne to head to her car, the old but still-chugging little Honda that never let her down.