Winning Amelia. Ingrid Weaver

It was redemption for Spencer’s crimes. It was the ability to think of tomorrow without feeling her stomach curl into a knot. It was the future. A brand-new, shiny, fire-engine-red, fresh-off-the-showroom-floor life in which she could stop apologizing and start living again.

      “We’d like to order, please.”

      Bubbles worked their way into her throat, stealing her breath and making speech impossible. The sensation was so unfamiliar, and it had been so long since she’d experienced it, Amelia didn’t recognize the joy immediately. Yet that’s what it was. Pure joy.

      “Hello?”

      She looked at the paper again, just to be sure. There they were, in all their multmillion-dollar splendor: 1, 3, 4, 17, 23, 29, the numbers she always played, the numbers she could never forget. She pumped her fist in the air and whirled.

      A pair of women was seated at the booth across from her. The older one raised a penciled eyebrow. “Well, it’s nice to see someone so happy. Did you read good news?”

      Amelia wouldn’t have thought she could smile any wider but she did. Her cheeks ached from it. Those crazy joy bubbles were swirling through her blood now. Her knees shook as badly as her fingers. She stumbled backward and came up hard against one of the boxes that held fake philodendrons. Plastic greenery crackled against her palm as she steadied herself with one hand. In the other she still clutched the paper. “Good?” Her voice rasped. She had trouble getting the word past her lips because every facial muscle was locked into her grin. “Uh-huh. Oh, yeah.”

      The woman’s amusement dimmed. Her gaze darted around the tiny restaurant, as if she were seeking help. The lunch rush at Mae B’s was over. Apart from the ladies and an elderly man in the booth near the entrance, the place was deserted. “Are you all right, miss?”

      Amelia nodded so hard, the pencil she’d tucked behind her ear slipped out and bounced on the floor. She left it there. She wouldn’t need to write down any more orders, or depend on finding tips when she cleaned the tables, or wear this stupid, frilly, pea-green apron. She took off the apron and dropped it on the plastic plant, then tore off the corner of the page with the lottery results and put it in her skirt pocket.

      The ticket. She had to get the ticket.

      Mae Barton and her husband, Ronnie, regarded her sternly as she raced through the kitchen. Though Ronnie was tall and fair while Mae was dark and well-rounded, like many longtime married couples, they had begun to resemble each other. Their frowns were identical. “Where’re you going?” Ronnie demanded. “It’s not time for your break.”

      Amelia gasped through her grin. “Purse!” was all she managed. She yanked open the storeroom door and skidded to a stop beside the first shelf. Her purse lay where she’d left it when she’d come in this morning, right next to the big cans of ketchup. She unzipped the purse and pulled out her wallet.

      “What on earth is going on?”

      She glanced over her shoulder.

      Mae stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “You had customers waiting, last I saw.”

      “Sorry, but...” Amelia’s voice broke as she peered in her wallet. A ten, two fives and a handful of change. No ticket. She sucked air through her teeth.

      Mae moved closer. “Amelia, are you okay? You don’t look well.”

      She groped among the tissues, mints, sunglasses, keys and stray coins in the bottom of her purse for a few panicked moments until she remembered: little Timmy had emptied her purse onto the floor last month when he’d been looking for candy, and the dog had eaten her paycheck. Since then, she’d taken precautions. She hadn’t stored the ticket in her wallet or her purse. She’d found a far better place. A good, safe place. She laughed.

      Mae grasped her arm. “You’re not high, are you? We told you up front we’ve got a zero tolerance policy for that sort of thing.”

      “I’m not sick or crazy or high, Mae.” She retrieved the scrap of newsprint from her pocket and waved it in front of her. “I’m just rich.”

      “What?”

      “I won Lotto 6/49.”

      “You what?”

      Amelia’s eyes misted as she looked at her boss. The Bartons weren’t her friends, but they had hired her when no one else in town would, and for that she would always be grateful. They had taken a chance. Granted, they gave her receipts extra scrutiny, and they certainly hadn’t let her anywhere near their books, but she didn’t hold that against them. She would have done the same in their place, considering her reputation. She flung her arms around Mae and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. She felt her boss stiffen, but she didn’t care—at this point she would kiss a ketchup can. “I won!”

      “How much?”

      “The whole enchilada.”

      “But—” Mae pulled back. “That’s...”

      “Fifty-two million, give or take a few hundred grand.”

      “Good heavens!”

      “What’s all the shrieking about?” Ronnie asked as he joined them. “It better not be another rat, after what I paid the exterminator.”

      “Amelia won the lottery.”

      “You’re kidding!”

      “The numbers were in the paper.” Amelia returned the newsprint to her pocket and wiped her hands on her skirt. “I only found out a minute ago.”

      “Are you certain?”

      Oh, yes, she was one hundred percent certain. She had bought the ticket at the corner store across from the high school on her way home from work on Thursday. She remembered that vividly. There had been a lineup at the cash and everyone was talking about the possibility of a record jackpot. Although the odds of winning were astronomical, she’d thought, why not take a chance? Her luck couldn’t get much worse.

      She couldn’t wait to tell Will. And especially Jenny. She plunged her hand back into her purse for her phone before she remembered she’d cancelled her wireless plan in order to economize when she’d moved in with her brother. But even if she still had a phone, this was the kind of news she should deliver in person. The look on their faces would be priceless....

      Actually, not priceless. The look would be worth fifty-two million.

      She gave both Mae and Ronnie more hugs, along with a garbled apology about leaving early. She would make it up to them. Buy them a new freezer and some real plants. She believed in paying her debts, and now, finally, she could.

      Luck seemed to be with her still, because Will’s old Chevette started on the third try, and it only stalled once before she could put it into gear and pull out of the parking lot. She would buy her brother a new car, or better yet, one of those big, manly pickups she’d seen him ogling. She could get a new minivan for Jenny that had built-in TV screens to entertain the kids and would be large enough to hold their growing brood. She could provide cars for each of the boys when they were old enough to drive. While she was at it, she could get one for herself. Nothing sensible or conservative like the black Beemer that had been repossessed last fall. No, this time she would get something fun. Bright and shiny, maybe even red, like that future that was dangling in front of her.

      A horn blared. Amelia had no idea how long she had been sitting at the green light, dreaming about new cars. With a jaunty wave to the driver behind her, she started forward. The summer tourist season was in full swing. There was more traffic than usual in Port Hope’s historic downtown. Located an easy hour’s drive along Lake Ontario from Toronto, it was a popular destination for day-trippers seeking a break from the city. Luckily—there was that word again—the congestion thinned quickly once she coaxed the Chevette into doing the climb up Walton Street. Within minutes, she had left the old brick and quaint shops of the heritage district behind.

      Will and Jenny’s neighborhood was a fair distance from the river