Fortune for St. Patrick's Day: A Calendar Girls Novella

By Gina Ardito

Money Can't Buy Happiness…

Dog groomer Cara Laskin won the lottery, and her life will never be the same. Dealing with financial planners and tax attorneys leaves her dizzy. Her past, present, and future are all under scrutiny. Despite her best efforts to stay below the radar, she's besieged by friends, family, and the media.

…Or Can It?

When she's finally forced to hide away until the furor dies down, she finds herself turning to historical novelist, Ben Hartwell, to shelter her from all the grasping hands. During their time together, Ben will provide her with a peace she's never known. In exchange, she opens his eyes to a world he never knew existed and insight into his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gina Ardito
• Release date: Mar 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733918909

Gina Ardito

Gina Ardito is the award-winning author of more than twenty-five romances in contemporary, historical, and paranormal sub-genres. In 2012, she launched her freelance editing business, Excellence in Editing, and now has a stable of award-winning clients, as well. She’s hosted workshops around the world for writing conferences, author organization chapter meetings, and library events. After raising a husband and two kids (the kids are grown; the husband’s still a child), she now focuses her attention on her books and her rescue pups. To her everlasting shame, despite all her accomplishments, she’ll never be more famous than her dog, who starred in commercials for 2015’s Puppy Bowl. 

Book preview

Dear Reader,

The old adage says history is written by the victors. Throughout time, those victors have been men. Few women have had their contributions chronicled, and those who do often have their reputations besmirched in the retelling. Think about Cleopatra, Catherine the Great, Anne Boleyn, Theodora of Byzantium, and Empress Wu. Dig beneath the innuendoes and inaccurate historical portrayals—written by men—and you’ll find strong, capable women who dared to threaten the patriarchy.

The brief tales of other brave and clever women I’ve included in this story may or may not be true. I’ve changed their names (or numbers) and the location of their deeds to fit the story. In reality, their exploits as they were written in history might be exaggerated, or they may have been downplayed.

I prefer to think they lived, they dared, and they ticked off a lot of men along the way.

Live. Dare. Regardless of what’s said about you when you’re dead, you’ll be in great company. 

—Gina

Chapter One

CARA – PRESENT DAY

The day I won the lottery I thought, at last, my luck has changed.

If you live in the New York tri-state area, you probably saw my story on the news or in the papers. My fifteen minutes of fame, Andy Warhol would say.

I’d say, Keep it, thanks.

I never want to go through that crap again.

I know what everyone says. I’d love to have her problems. All three million of them.

Well, let me tell you, it’s a lot more treacherous than you know. Especially for someone like me, with a ton of ballast you’ve been tossing overboard for a decade or so.

Oh, it started out happily enough.

The first headline in the New York Post blared, DOG GROOMER $TEP$ IN $H*T. The Daily News took a more subtle tack: BOW-WOW! Newsday used the cutesy FROM WAGS TO RICHES. Even The New York Times reported on my windfall, though in deference to yet another scandal in Congress, their article, EAST END WOMAN ONLY WINNER OF $5M JACKPOT, sat in a teeny, outlined box on the bottom of page twelve.

The three major news networks, plus the local cable affiliate, sent crews to interview everyone who'd ever known me: neighbors, co-workers, old classmates, even my high school guidance counselor (who said he always suspected I'd be a success one day—like my lottery win was pre-destined somehow because I passed algebra).

Sounds nice, right? A feel-good story about a poor young woman who finally got lucky. Then someone kicked over the right rock, and the ugliness crept out. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Despite all that coverage, all the flurry and hubbub, to this day, no one knows the whole story. Except me.

Yes, I bought a lottery ticket with my coffee one January day, a special treat for this overworked single gal who dared to dream. And yes, two days later, the numbers on that ticket floated up one by one in the oversized corn-popper lottery officials use to choose a winner. But like I said, that's where my story begins. So, let me fill you in on what really happened from there...

I SAT ON A DOG CRATE in Paws and Claws's storage/break room, studying the newspaper spread out on an unopened carton of wee-wee pads. Or more specifically, I studied the winning lottery numbers listed in the newspaper. I blinked, then read the numbers on the ticket in my hand. Then back again. Then one by one: newspaper, ticket—the same; newspaper, ticket—the same; newspaper, ticket...

A perfect match straight down the line, all six numbers in the paper mirrored what I held in my hand. I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to ten, then looked again. No change. My entire body trembling, I laid the ticket against the inky box in Newsday and picked up my travel mug. After sucking down the last of my coffee, I tried again. A good shot of caffeine would straighten out my eyesight. Then I'd see the date on my ticket was from last week. Or I'd transposed a couple of digits somewhere.

But ten minutes and hundreds of verifications later, everything remained the same. Which led me to one inevitable conclusion.

This has to be a gag.

One of my hilarious co-workers had set me up. Maybe all of them. I peered around the open doorway, past the row of fish bowls full of colorful betas to the front counter where Brendan stood setting up the front end for the day’s business. Brendan O’Shaughnessy. Nineteen years old, good with computers, endlessly amused by his own juvenile sense of humor, and paying absolutely no attention to me at the moment. No sideways glances, no quick head-fakes to see if I’d looked up the numbers yet.

Still, suspicion lingered.

I stood up, tucked the ticket into the chest pocket of my purple grooming scrubs and checked my schedule. My first appointment, Lily the cockapoo, was due in ten minutes. I grabbed my purse and raced to the front of the store. Brendan still didn’t glance up as I sped past him. I decided to give him a reason to look me in the eye.

I’m running to the deli for another cup of coffee before Mrs. Martin gets here with Lily, I told him. Want anything?

Oh, great! he exclaimed, sliding the till of cash into the register drawer. Can you get me an extra-large Arnold Palmer? Lots of ice? Thanks, Cara. I’ll pay you back on my break.

You got it, I said and headed out the door—without my coat. The straw-colored sun was no match for the wind chill factor, and thanks to spending most of my day up to my shoulders in water, I rarely wore sleeves to work, including today. The hair on my arms stood at attention, and I gave myself a tight hug and brisk rub to get my blood moving again.

Crossing the street, I replayed my brief interlude with Brendan in my head. He didn’t seem to show any keen interest in me today. No more than usual, anyway. And based on previous escapades he’d been involved in, I could admit without a doubt that his reaction, if he was the culprit, wasn’t his usual MO. No smirk, no snide comment about getting lucky or fortune smiling upon me.

Then again...

Who knew?

I dashed into the Anchor Delicatessen and jerked my head at Sal and Jenny at the counter. Morning. Can I get a large black coffee and an extra-large Arnold Palmer with lots of ice, please?

You got it, Cara. Sal grabbed the cups while I made a beeline for the table loaded down with today’s newspapers.

I flipped open three different issues. All of them showed the same numbers. I picked up another, from lower in the stack, and brought it to the register with me. After paying for the drinks and the paper, I returned to the pet shop.

Brendan was with a customer, so I held up the iced tea/lemonade combo and gestured I’d put it in the fridge in the breakroom. He gave me a quick thumbs-up then returned to ringing up the holistic dog food and natural treats for the woman at the counter.

Alone in the breakroom, I checked my numbers again against the new newspaper I’d picked up. All the same as on my ticket. This was no joke. I’d just become a multi-millionaire. How much, I didn’t know yet. Nor did I know what my next step should be. But I figured it might involve a lawyer.

I tucked the ticket into my wallet, inside my backpack, in my employee locker, with my trusty padlock secured, and tried to focus on my day. Yet, every time I had five minutes to myself, I ran back to my locker to check the ticket was still safe. At the end of the day, I drove home and compared the numbers again.

Yes, I know how crazy that sounds, but let’s face it. Like everybody else in the state, I had a better chance of being struck by lightning—twice!—than predicting all six numbers in the lottery. But here I was.

Seated on one of the two mismatched barstools at the kitchen counter in my itty-bitty studio apartment above Snug Harbor Hardware Store, I grabbed my cell to look up lawyers in my area and scanned the list that popped up. I bypassed the ones who handled DUIs and speeding tickets, the big ads with smiling faces and large fonts, and anyone who didn’t mention discretion on their site. If I had the option to remain anonymous and not stand behind some giant check with a bunch of smiling state representatives, I didn’t want to risk having a loudmouth legal eagle out me publicly. Considering the family I grew up in, given the choice, I would never let the world know about my windfall. Anonymity was my shield.

Believe it or not, those simple filters narrowed my internet search to three local attorneys. I’m slightly ashamed to admit my first choice was the lone female on the list. Julia Randolph had an office on Sandal Lane, the new professional site in the middle of town. I pictured her in my mind: short, dark hair; tall and reedy; red power suit; a staunch wall of resistance, competence, and confidence. Exactly what I needed in a lawyer. Now, how to call her to set up an appointment without revealing my reason for consulting with her until I’d nailed down whether I wanted her to represent me or not?

I was so engrossed in my research and dilemma, when Zorro perched his front paws into my lap, I screeched as if an eighty-pound tarantula had landed on my thigh.

Zorro, my Siberian husky, gave a quick whine and backed off.

Oh, baby, I’m sorry! I grabbed his leash and my coat. Lost in my lottery world, I’d forgotten his nighttime walk. Come on. Let’s go.

He practically dragged me out the door and into the frigid night air. The temperatures had dropped even lower since I’d left work, and my exhales created warm clouds with each breath. I wished I’d thought to grab a pair of gloves but had to settle for looping Zorro’s leash around my wrist and jamming my fists in my pockets.

We jogged past the back parking lot and across Coastline Road. As was his habit, Zorro stopped at the curb to do his business. Once I’d bagged his leavings, we took the narrow access path that would lead us down to the desolate beach, with me dropping the knotted plastic bag in the trash receptacle at the edge of the ramp. As soon as we hit the soft sand, I unclipped his leash and let him run. While he took off like a bullet toward the shore, I sat on the dunes, hugging my arms in my cheap coat to ward off the frigid breeze. The things I did for the lone male in my life...

He ran straight into the ocean without hesitation, and I shivered in empathy. Not that he appreciated my concern. Zorro was such a dorky dog, a rolling ball of energy in a gray and white fur coat. Like others of his breed, he needed lots of time and room to run. Cold weather and icy water were favorites for my winter-centric pooch.

After a couple of minutes of splashing at the