not ladylike or whatever, right?”
“My dear,” Larilla began in that slight drawl of hers, “men 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, ‘Hey, hot stuff.’ Boy, did he end up regretting that.”
The young woman’s eyes widened—in a gleeful way. “Whatja do?”
Larilla took a sip of her tea. “I bored him for a good fifteen minutes in the middle of the sidewalk on why it was inappropriate to comment on my appearance—anyone’s appearance, except perhaps to note that someone looked lovely today. Boring someone to death is an effective deterrent, I’ve noticed.”
“Kinda weird for me to tell this dude he looks lovely today,” the blonde said, raking her hazel eyes over him again.
“In that case, you simply ogle on the down low and keep mum,” 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 she’d graduate, and by then, James would be in Europe, on a gondola in Venice. This was one student who wouldn’t get to him.
Larilla turned to him. “James, I’m pleased to introduce my newest pupil, Ginger O’Leary. Ginger, my godson, James Gallagher.”
“Man, your eyes are blue,” Ginger said to him. “Guys 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!”
“Lahl?” James repeated. Was that a brand of mascara?
Ginger gaped at him as though he was nuts. “Lahl. El-oh-el. Get it?”
El-oh-el? What? Oh, he thought. LOL. “You mean the text acronym. Wait, so you were LOLing at your own joke? Larilla, write down that. Infraction of the worst degree.”
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. “Oh God, if that’s my biggest crime, I’m doing all right.”
Larilla smiled. “Well, James, thank you very much. I have what I need. And, Ginger, I’ll see you at 9:00 a.m. sharp for our first session.”
Ginger suddenly put her hands on her stomach, and her eyes widened.
Why was she doing that? He stepped a bit closer. “Are you all right? Dinner didn’t agree with you?”
“Are you kidding?” she said on a breath. “Filet mignon with roast potatoes always agrees with me. Like I ever have that.”
“Then what’s wrong?” he asked.
Ginger bit her lip and looked from him to Larilla and back to him. “I just felt that weird tightening sensation in my belly again. According to Dr. Google, it’s normal when you’re pregnant.”
“Pregnant?” He stared from Ginger to Larilla.
“Ginger is in the family way,” Larilla said. “She’s due in December.”
“If I counted right,” Ginger added. “I’ve never been great at math.”
“What did the doctor tell you?” he asked.
“What doctor? I just found out I was pregnant two days ago.”
“I’ll ask around for recommendations for an ob-gyn,” Larilla said. “You’ll need a checkup and prenatal vitamins.”
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 “fatherhood.” The last thing he’d 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 O’Leary.
You’ve got to be kidding me, Ginger thought, eyeing the packet of homework that Madame Davenport had assigned the three new students as they were dismissed from the group class the next afternoon. Ginger had barely managed to graduate from high school—though she did always get As in history—because she hated homework. Homework had reminded her of school, which had reminded her of how she was treated there. Let’s just say her name and nasty sayings were always written on the bathroom walls, even when half of it wasn’t true. Boys had claimed she’d done all kinds of sex acts, and girls had scrawled that she had every disease there was. For the record, the only disease Ginger had ever had was the mumps in third grade.
The morning class at Madame Davenport’s School of Etiquette had been on “comportment,” which Ginger had learned was a big word for behavior. How to act. How to be. The three new students had to stand up and share why they were taking the course, and Ginger had been honest again. Her fellow students had immediately warmed to her, which was rare in her world. One, a petite redhead named Karly, told her she should have thrown the scone at her baby daddy’s nose and broken it. The other, Sandrine, a dental hygienist with great teeth, was madly in love with her boss, who had a specific type—Ginger had learned what a debutante was—and Sandrine wanted to become it.
“Comportment means that one doesn’t throw baked goods at others,” Ginger had said with her nose in the air.
They’d all burst out laughing, except Madame Davenport, who’d said, “One most certainly does not.” But Madame had a twinkle in her eye, as always.
Crazy. Sometimes women took to Ginger and sometimes they didn’t. She was glad her teacher and classmates seemed to like her because she liked them. Being liked was nice.
For homework, she had to write a one-page essay on the five no-no’s of first meetings and why “one did not discuss these five topics”: money, sex, politics, religion and appearance. Per Madame, one could pay a compliment but not be critical of how someone was dressed or their shape.
Madame Davenport wanted the students to look the part of the people they wanted to become, so a shopping trip was on the schedule. Madame had already taken Karly, whose goal for the course was to get promoted to assistant editor of the Wedlock Creek Gazette, where she was the assistant to two editors. You have to dress for the job you want, not the job you have, Karly had said she’d read in Glamour magazine, and Madame Davenport agreed. Karly had returned from their trip to a boutique wearing a pantsuit that managed to be professional looking but not stuffy.
Now it was Ginger’s turn. She wanted to look like a mother, but did she even know what mothers looked like? None of her friends back in Jackson had kids. And her hours had always meant she slept during the day and worked till the wee hours, so she wasn’t exactly running into the stroller set. Madame Davenport had told her not to worry; they would look at magazines and the clothes in the boutique and try on different looks until Ginger liked what she saw.
