My Lucky Groom

Prologue

    Eleven-year-old Ventura Hart sat with her back to the ornate mirror. There was something unnatural about watching herself eat. Or maybe when she wasn’t looking, she didn’t have to worry she was eating too much. Her mom and skinny teenage sister were always on her case. Tuck down your collar, straighten that skirt, and for goodness sakes, Ventura, pin up your hair… But for now, here in this moment, Ventura didn’t have to worry about any of that. She was with the one person who made her feel like a princess. Her father.
    His handsome face creased with worry as he set down his chopsticks.
    “You’re not eating.”
    “I was just deciding,” she admitted honestly, “if I should have some more.”
    He smiled pleasantly, heaping another serving of sesame chicken on her plate. “Of course you should have some more. A young girl…” He paused a moment, his temples reddening slightly. “Young woman like yourself, I mean, needs to keep her strength up.”
    Ventura grinned, thinking her face must look as bright as the pretty Chinese lanterns strung from the ceiling. This had to be the best night of her life. Her dad had never taken her on a date before. It was special having all of his attention for once, without having to share it with her competitive older sister. Not that Hope had to do much to compete. Just by being there, she somehow made herself seem better. She was smart and pretty, with long, straight, beautiful hair that made her look like she’d walked right off a television commercial. Their mom had stopped coming out to dinner with them a while ago. Ventura wasn’t sure why but thought it had something to do with her new business. Ventura’s mom was always starting a new enterprise , as she liked to call it. Ventura had actually won the fifth-grade spelling bee based on that word alone. She had her mom to thank for that, at least.
    Her dad made easy conversation, asking about her friends in school and laughing warm-heartedly at her lame eleven-year-old jokes. Ventura tried to be as witty as he was but wasn’t always sure her words came out right. She was determined to work on it, though. Someday she’d be just as glib as her well-spoken father. He wrote for a magazine, and she hoped that someday she would do that as well. It sure seemed a whole lot saner than starting a new enterprise every year or two.
    Before Ventura was ready for their dinner to be over, a waiter appeared to clear their plates and deliver fortune cookies. “This was so much fun!” she told her dad eagerly. “Really great, just the two of us.” She drew a breath, then pressed ahead with a hopeful gaze. “Maybe we can do it again?”
    “Yes, well. Ventura…” He studied her kindly, then set his wallet on the table. He’d been about to pay their bill, but something had stopped him. Ventura’s heart skipped a beat when she realized that whatever it was, it was likely bad news. He laid his hand on top of hers above the linen tablecloth. Ventura’s palm pressed the pilled fibers, her entire universe plummeting. “I’m afraid, darling, that we won’t be able to do this again for a long time.”
    “Why not?”
    His dark eyes brimmed with sadness. “I’ve taken an assignment in Kenya.”
    “Kenya?” Ventura asked in shock. She didn’t know exactly where that was but was fairly certain it was in Africa. On another continent entirely.
    Her lips trembled slightly. “You mean , we’re going there with you?”
    He slowly shook his head. “No, sweetheart. I’m going alone.”
    Ventura withdrew her hand and clasped it in the other one in her lap atop her nubby wool skirt, the one that was short enough to wear with tights but long enough to hide her chubby knees. “But what about Hope and Mom, and—”
    “That’s the other thing I need to tell you. I’m very sorry if this is hard, Ventura, but your mother and I haven’t been getting along for quite some time now. And we’ve decided to—”
    He couldn’t leave her. He wouldn’t. She shut her eyes, the word coming out as a puff of breath: “No.”
    “We’re getting divorced.”
    Ventura pursed her lips and counted to twenty-five. Twenty-five was a good number, because that was the age she would be when she was all grown up. She’d be her own person then, with no one to push her around, hurt her feelings—or break her heart. She opened her eyes and stared at her dad, her eyes bleary. “When do you go?”
    “Tomorrow, I’m afraid.”
    Ventura