It's more neurotic than poetic, I hate to tell you.

The old lady giggled again, patting Ginger's tensed-up shoulder. My dear, we are right back to where we started, are we not?

How do you mean?

You sit here, your arms and legs all twisted up like a pretzel, your foot swinging back and forth, scared to discover what life has to offer you.

Ginger's mouth fell open. Pardon me?

Does the intensity of your love frighten you?

Ginger pursed her lips. Somewhat.

Mrs. Needleman laughed quite loudly. So we could say that the intensity of your passion for Lucio has you scared somewhat shitless?

Ginger gasped, not even sure an eighty-something-year-old lady should be using that kind of language.

The important thing to realize is that you weren't just sitting around killing time, as you put it. You were growing, Genevieve. You were maturing. You were collecting the life experiences that would open you to Lucio when he finally arrived. And, all the while, he was doing the samepreparing his heart for you!

Ginger tilted her head, listening.

That process was not wasted time, on your part or his. Mrs. Needleman smiled warmly. What we're dealing with here is fate, my dear. The grand plan. Do not be afraid.

Ginger felt her eyes sting. Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with a surge of emotion. She didn't know where it came from or how long it would stay, but it packed a wallop. I apologize, but I don't know what the hell's wrong with me lately. Was menopause this rough on you? Ginger was embarrassed to look at Mrs. Needleman with tears dropping on her cheeks.

Mrs. Needleman chuckled. Soon you'll understand everything, my dear girl. Now, look at me and listen very closely, Genevieve. The old woman scooted closer on the plastic couch, taking both of Ginger's hands in hers. Just because a relationship feels more intense or powerful than you're accustomed to, it doesn't mean it's something to fear.

Ginger wanted to wipe her eyes but Mrs. Needleman had her hands locked in a viselike grip. Okay, she whispered.

I've always thought that romances were like foodevery dish and every relationship has its own distinct flavora flavor that's produced by the chemical reaction of the ingredients.

Uh what? Ginger wasn't following her.

Some romances are oatmeal. Some are five-alarm chili.

Ginger laughed.

Mrs. Needleman smiled. And what do you think you have with the handsome photographer?

She managed to free a hand so she could wipe the tears from her face. Is there a six-alarm?

Why not? Mrs. Needleman reached into the front pocket of her jumper and handed Ginger a clean, pressed handkerchief. Here. I can see all those hot peppers are getting to you.

Yeah, Ginger said, dabbing her eyes with the crisp linen. But that's what I'm worried abouta six-alarm fire can't burn forever.

Ah.

Roxanne tells me I'm headed for a fall.

Mrs. Needleman nodded. But it can be a controlled fall, my dear. Even the hottest spices mellow over the years. It's the way of things. The taste will deepen, become more complex and satisfying over time. Mrs. Needleman winked.

Oh, God, Ginger said, sighing loudly. That's the problem! Lucio's never stayed in one place long enough to simmer over a low flame, if you know what I'm saying.

Mrs. Needleman placed her hand on Genevieve's arm, her eyes fierce. A man's past does not always determine his future.

I try to tell myself that.

Keep doing so, Mrs. Needleman said. Everything will work out for the best, just you wait and see. It's a good thing you came to see me today.

Ginger nodded.

But may I be frank about something? Mrs. Needleman suddenly looked quite concerned.

Ginger had to laugh. You mean you haven't been frank yet? My God, I don't think I want to hear this next part.

The old woman giggled, too. I just wanted to tell you to hold on tight, my dear girlyour journey will be bumpy before it becomes smooth.

Ginger scowled. Bumpy?

Mrs. Needleman smiled. The important thing to know is that your little family will come out just fine. Never doubt it.

A few minutes later, Ginger backed out of the drive of the powder-blue stucco house on Cayuga Street, double-checking that her seat belt was fastened. Mrs. Needleman's last few words had left her scared somewhat shitless.

Ach, nein!

Despite everything, Lucio had to laugh. He hadn't heard Ilsa Knauss's German-flavored groans of displeasure for more than two years, and it brought back fond memories. He'd always liked her. She was a perfectionist and a control freak, but she'd been a whole lot of fun when she wasn't working.

Lucio had debated with himself whether to call her, but he knew it had to be done. He could not sic the police on her unless he was sure she was responsible. He needed to hear her admit it. Thanks to the Internet, it had taken him less than five minutes to find her London phone number.

Ah, Ilsa, surprised to hear from me? he asked her.

The long-distance phone line was silent. For a moment, Lucio feared he'd lost the connection.

What do you want, you schmutzige Hund? Please tell me you're not in the U.K.

Uh, no. I'm in the U.S.

So? What do you want? I'm busy.

It's the middle of the night in London.

She was silent again, then said, I'm hanging up.

Don't! Lucio called out. Look, I need to talk to you about what happened in China. It's important we discuss thisget everything out in the open so that we can put it behind us.

He heard her giggle. Did you like your little rat friend? I thought he bore a striking resemblance.

Lucio sighed.

She chuckled again. Are you calling from jail, Lucky? Because the last I heard, your ass was headed to prison. And what a shame about the Erskinesucks for you, eh?

Whatever sentiment Lucio felt at the beginning of this call had disappeared. How could you do this to me, Ilsa?

Because you deserved it, Schwein! I woke up and you were gone and all I got was a note on the kitchen table. Lucio heard Ilsa breathe heavily, as if she were overcome with emotion. I had to chase you down like a dog at the airport! You humiliated me! And I really cared for you, you heartless, bastard Scheissekopf!

Lucio dropped his head, truly ashamed of his behavior. Maybe if he'd apologized earlier, he wouldn't be in this mess. Better yet, he could have had the decency to sit down and talk with Ilsa before he left. Why had such basic kindness been impossible for him?

I hurt you, Ilsa. I was wrong. I apologize. But your revenge has been over the top. You've succeeded in ruining my career.

Mein Gott, you are such a crybaby!

I saw the e-mails you sent Piers.

Piers Skaarsgard? That oaf? So what? I was sorry to hear about Sylvie, though. That was extremely sad.

You deny you e-mailed Piers about how you got your revenge on me in China?

Ilsa laughed. So what if I e-mailed Piers? Look, Lucky. She sighed loudly. You deserve whatever you got. It's karma. Now, fuck off.

She hung up.

Lucio stared at the phone and shook his head. All right. Fine. He could now give her name and a copy of the e-mails to Sydney, the lawyers at Geographica, the State Department, and the police without missing any sleep. Maybe somehow he could find a way to get the information to the Erskine Prize committee without it looking as if he were begging.

Regardless of the outcome, at least he had the relief of knowing the truth. That was a very good thing, yes? But it did not feel good. It was awful to think that a woman he once slept with could hate him so much, call him such horrible names.

No wonder it didn't feel like much of a victory.