Ticket To Love. Jen Safrey
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much for getting her off the topic. “You know,” Acey said, “I think you two are the perfect couple. So you fight—” all the time “—but everyone fights. I heard that the couples who fight the worst are the ones most in love. Because they know how to push each other’s buttons.”
“Who said that? Dr. Phil?”
“I don’t remember. Maybe. Just be nice to him. I know he loves you.” This was true. As often as they argued, Anthony was always doing nice things for Lydia. Buying her little gold charms, taking her bowling even though he hated it, bringing her flowers. Acey thought they were the nicest couple, when they were being nice. Their fights were only over stupid things, but they escalated because they both enjoyed yelling.
“Yeah,” Anthony said, coming around behind Acey and giving her a platonic kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, babe.” He glanced at the sulking Lydia. “You should listen to your friend here. I’m a good guy.”
“Please. I wouldn’t come back to you if you were the lottery winner.”
“That’s interesting, huh?” Anthony said. “No one came forward yet.”
“Nope,” Acey said. She’d planted herself in front of the news every night for almost a full week with Steph, but no word. That no winner had revealed himself was becoming more of a story than the fact that there was a winner.
“What kind of a moron doesn’t take the money?” Lydia asked. “I’d run to the lottery office.”
“Maybe someone who’s out of the country. Doesn’t know he won,” Anthony said.
“Or maybe someone who doesn’t speak English, and didn’t hear it on the news,” Lydia suggested, temporarily forgetting the silent treatment.
Acey didn’t remind her. “Maybe the winner is scared.” This was her new theory, after discussing it last night with Steph.
“Scared? Of what? Being rich?” Anthony laughed.
Two junior-high-age boys approached the counter and asked Acey for zeppoles. She submerged five dough balls in the deep fryer. Lydia was saying, “It’s true. Like, if you’ve been dirt-poor your whole life, suddenly having all that money would be a jolt to your system.”
“I’m sure I could handle it,” Anthony replied. “Besides, I don’t think anyone around here is dirt-poor. Just average.”
Acey lifted the crispy zeppoles from the fryer, dropped them into a brown paper bag, and sprinkled in a generous amount of powdered sugar. She folded the top of the bag and shook vigorously, then handed it to one of the boys. Taking their money, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
Both boys looked supremely guilty.
“Next time you come in here during school hours, I’m going to charge you double. Got it?” she said. The pair scampered off.
“What about you, Acey?” Lydia asked.
“What about me?” Acey wiped her hands on her filthy white apron.
“Would you take the thirty-five million dollars in one lump sum, or the yearly checks?”
Acey considered a moment. “Yearly checks. That way, you’d always have a little something to look forward to. Or, a big something.”
“Not me,” Anthony said. “I’d take one payment. That way, if I ever got hit by a bus or whatever, my family would have the money right away.”
“If only you’d get hit by a bus,” Lydia muttered, and Anthony smiled as if she’d said something quite sweet.
“Anyway,” Acey interjected before any more yelling could commence, “I’m really dying to know who it is. Aren’t you guys?”
“No,” Lydia said, staring out the window at the busy avenue. “All I know is, it isn’t me.”
“I don’t care,” Anthony said. “Winning would be great, but I got something worth more than a lousy thirty-five million.”
Lydia looked back at him, and he winked at her. She threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking him backward. “You’re worth a hundred million,” she mumbled, kissing his mouth.
“You’re worth a million million.”
She pushed him against the counter, grabbed the back of his head and kissed him even more deeply.
“Guys, seriously,” Acey said, “take it to the back. People are coming in.”
The lovers stumbled together toward the restrooms, pressed together and running their hands all over each other. Acey fanned herself with one hand.
It had been so long since she’d had any kind of feeling for any man. Charlie had been the last, and after the way he and his family had treated her, it was easy to never want to have those feelings again. In fact, the first time she’d since felt any real stirrings was today, with that cowboy. And those had been the most genuine stirrings she’d ever felt. Too bad she hadn’t had time to do some more flirting. Well, he lived in the neighborhood now. She was sure fate would put him in her path again.
Acey stepped up to the counter and cut slices to order from the ready-made pies. But she took a second to peer once more at Romeo and Juliet in the back, and she knew that she, too, would rather have someone to love than a million million.
When Steve showed up to relieve Acey at seven, she scrunched up her greasy apron, tossed it in the employees’ coatroom and, with one wave over her shoulder, strolled out of Focaccia’s. Usually the walk home took her fifteen minutes, but today she was detouring around the corner.
Right through Bread and Milk.
Her week-old curiosity had nearly killed her, but now it was time for action.
Acey peeled off her denim jacket as she walked. The last couple of days had been unseasonably chilly and rainy, but now that June was here, it seemed the weather had decided to cooperate with the calendar.
She turned a corner, stopped and regarded Bread and Milk from across the street. There were haphazard signs in the window for sales and specials, and one was misspelled. “Corn mufins, 75 cents.” It wasn’t unusual, but this neighborhood didn’t care. Rosalia’s store was open from six in the morning until eleven at night, and Rosalia herself was almost always in the store.
Bread and Milk seemed to sparkle a bit now that it had sold the winning lottery ticket. Acey crossed the street. The door was propped open and no one was behind the counter. Acey wandered over to the refrigerator case and grabbed a carton of orange juice. Rosalia came out from her stockroom, hauling a box that had to be twice as heavy as she was.
“Hi!” Acey cried, putting the orange juice on the front counter and rushing over to take the box from her friend.
“Oh, Acey, don’t do that,” Rosalia scolded, but Acey ignored her and took the box, straining to hold it straight.
“Where does this go?”
“By the register there. You’re so sweet.”
“No problem,” Acey said. She dropped the box where Rosalia had indicated—really dropped, when it slipped out of her fingers—but she didn’t hear anything break. She turned to Rosalia and flexed a bicep. “Strong, huh? Check that out.”
Rosalia laughed. “Stronger than my boys. Wish you worked here and not my no-good bums.”
“I’d love to work here,” Acey said, and it was true. It was a friendly store, where everyone said hello and made small talk, and it was a thousand times quieter, without the soap operas that went on at Focaccia’s.
Rosalia put her hands on her hips and shook her head. Rosalia had a way about her, a way of carrying herself that made Acey ashamed of her own slumping. Rosalia was at least five foot ten, and walked with the book-balancing poise of a Miss Colombia. Her still-long hair was graying