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17 | (continued) I got the immediate sense that here was a woman who was simply having the time of her life when her less fortunate sisters were falling apart at the seams. The contrast almost made me wince on their behalf. Her car was of course a Cadillac, and though a few years old, it was the most expensive model short of a limousine, kept spotless and gleaming, inside and out, fully in keeping with her personal presence. When I had gently deposited the large packages in the pristine trunk, she shut the door firmly and gave me a hearty, “Thank you so much!” “You’re quite welcome,” I replied, in full sincerity for once, whereupon she reached into her purse and brought out my tip before I could protest. She handed me a small white envelope of the finest stationery, the size commonly used for invitations or calling cards, and anticipated exactly what I was about to say. “I insist,” she said, with a jovial finality that did not invite banter. I thanked her politely, and was about to step over and open her car door, when she strode up to it, flung it open herself, slipped inside, slammed it shut and started the engine with a single movement that left my jaw hanging open. It was obviously something she’d done several times a day ever since she’d taken delivery on the beast. Totally in control of her life, I ruminated, unable to suppress a smile. At that she buckled herself in, opened her window and called out, “Good luck!” before zooming out of the parking lot and on to her next errand. I didn’t catch her meaning until I got back inside and returned to my desk, still smiling, where I opened the envelope to see what it contained: a lottery ticket. A winning lottery ticket. The prize, which I picked up weeks later, was a lot of money. I described it to a friend as a kind of “financial trauma”—those who’ve had similar experiences will know what I mean. What I ended up doing with it is another story. It’s called A Season in Paradise Gardens, as yet unpublished. |
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