The Virgin Mistress. Linda Turner

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.”

      Dean, a big, ruddy-faced man who knew everyone and everything in Jester, read them again. People were pressing around her, looking over her shoulder, blocking her light. It had to be a trick of the shadows cast on the ticket.

      She followed every number with her finger, heard Dean read every number on the sixth line of the ticket—the winning line. They were Gwen Tanner’s numbers because she, like Shelly, had played her age—twenty-nine.

      Shelly looked up at Dean, unable to speak. She parted her lips, but her throat refused to make a sound.

      “How much did you win?” someone in the crowd asked.

      “Forty—million—dollars!” Dean shouted, hands raised to heaven.

      “That’s…” Dev was calculating. “Three million, three hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and…well, you know. One of those numbers with threes that go on forever!”

      “There’ll be taxes.” That brutal dose of reality was provided by Wyla Thorne, a pig farmer twice divorced, who usually invested with their group but had grown tired of the disappointment. Her life, Shelly guessed, judging by the woman’s attitude, had been full of it. Jack Hartman, the veterinarian, had bet in her place.

      “We’ll still be millionaires!” Dev said, grinning from ear to ear. Then he wrapped his arms around Amanda Bradley, Shelly’s friend and Dev’s nemesis. Amanda owned Ex Libris, a bookstore that shared the building that housed the Heartbreaker. She and Dev were at odds about everything. But he’d apparently forgotten that in the joy of the moment as he waltzed her out of earshot.

      “Do you know what this means?” Dean asked, hugging Shelly, bringing her thoughts back to her own good fortune.

      She nodded, afraid to speak the word aloud. “Solvency. Maybe even…” It was a word most merchants in Jester never even considered. “Wealth!” she whispered reverently.

      He laughed and, putting an arm around her shoulders, raised the other in a roundup gesture. “Come on, everybody. I’m buying drinks!”

      They partied at the Heartbreaker for hours and it was three in the morning before everyone finally went their separate ways with promises to meet at The Brimming Cup the following morning. They’d commissioned Dean to hire an attorney for their group, who would call the lottery commission in the morning and find out the procedure for claiming their winnings.

      Shelly sat alone in her dark living room—thinking she’d never be able to sleep and she had to be up at five anyway—and dealt with a weird and out-of-place trepidation.

      Things were going to change, she’d realized in alarm about an hour ago.

      Twelve people whose businesses had been hanging by a thread had just won enough money, even after taxes, to support themselves through old age if they were careful and invested wisely.

      She made a note to herself to find out what in the heck a Roth IRA was. Everyone was saying it was the thing to do with their money.

      That was already a small suggestion of change. People who never thought beyond paying the rent or the mortgage were now throwing around financial terms she’d never heard before.

      So her financial woes were over, but she couldn’t help wonder just what had begun tonight. Life in Jester had been difficult, but predictable. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter, friends were family and family was everything.

      The Merchants’ Association of Pine Run, the county seat, had always laughed at Jester because nine businesses comprised the entire economic base of the town. Still, they’d managed to do their part in community and charitable events. Imagine, she thought, what they would be able to do now.

      But would money affect the cohesive quality of their group? Would they build bigger houses and bow out of business life downtown, preferring lives of leisure? Or would some leave Jester altogether, finally able to chase their dreams?

      She’d accepted that her life was here, but she’d come to depend upon these people to give it its warmth and texture. They were what stood between her and loneliness. She didn’t think of herself as a business or career woman; she thought of herself as a nurturer. She provided food that kept her friends going, she listened to their problems, told them hers, exchanged advice and affection.

      She needed them!

      “Okay, calm down,” she told herself. “You tend to grasp and cling