The Lucky Ones

by Anna Godbersen

  “You could always take the extra turn.”

  When she revolved to face him she saw that he didn’t really care one way or another—he was smiling at her in a happy way, and she knew that he wasn’t suggesting it because he wanted to win. He only wanted the game to go on longer. She wanted the game to go on longer, too, and she liked him for being so peculiarly indifferent to winning; but she could see the way the sky was darkening overhead, and anyway she herself hated to lose. “Not a chance, mister,” she said with a wink.

  Victor ambled toward her as she put her foot on her own ball to steady it. With one long swing she knocked the orange ball high into the air. They both sucked in breath as it sailed, farther than she’d meant it to, up the hill and over the wall of the hedge maze. “Damn!” she said, when she saw it was gone.

  “Come on.” Victor reached for her hand and pulled her toward the maze. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

  “No.” He glanced at her face and then at her hand, as though it had suddenly occurred to him that holding it wasn’t the best idea. She waited for him to let go, but he didn’t, so she went on, “It’s going to rain, can’t you see? I’ll send Milly out for it later.”

  “All right.”

  The air was full of that dry, earthy smell that comes just before a downpour, and the atmospheric static was playing in her yellow hair. She smiled and pulled him in the opposite direction, back toward the house. “I think I’ll beat you at backgammon next,” she mused as they walked over the grass.

  “As you wish.”

  “I do wish. And after that, I don’t know, maybe table tennis? Although I will have to ask Charlie to buy a set, I guess, because there isn’t one in the house… Are you good at table tennis?”

  “I wouldn’t ruin the suspense for you.” He grinned. “Although perhaps we should start with billiards, since Dogwood already has a billiards table.”

  “Aha! So that’s where your abilities lie. And you thought you could hide it from me. I’ll tell you what, Victor, I’m going to give you a shot, one shot…” She trailed off as they came to the rise that separated the south lawn from the less tended meadow where they had been playing. At first it was because she realized that she had been squeezing his hand, and then it was because she saw Dogwood sitting there below, like the country castle of some English lord. She didn’t want to let go—the surface of his palm was large and dry, and she liked the way it felt against hers—but then she saw a tall figure emerging from the shadows of the verandah on the south side of the house and her pulse quickened. She couldn’t remember what she had been trying to say, so she released her grip and went striding ahead of him across the grass.

  They didn’t speak again until she was within shouting distance of the house and could make out the features of her husband, standing on the first flight of steps. “Thanks for giving my ego a little boost, darling. If you insist I’ll return the favor sometime soon over billiards.” Then, raising her arm above her head and calling out in a voice loud enough that Charlie could hear her: “There you are!”

  The scowl she saw at a distance was still on Charlie’s face when she began to climb the steps. Behind him, at the breakfast table, was Cordelia, but she was absorbed in a telegram and didn’t acknowledge her friend. Astrid spread her vermillion lips in a brilliant smile that held steady even when he didn’t reciprocate it, and she threw both arms around his middle. “Don’t look cross,” she said with a laugh, shaking out her hair.

  “Where have you been all morning?”

  “Playing croquet.” Glancing over her shoulder she saw that Victor had remained below, leaning against one of the stone statues and staring in the direction of the city as though something might come at them from there. “Where have you been?”

  “Business, I’ve been seeing about the business.” His voice was still gruff, and he was staring down at her as though he didn’t know her very well. “You spend more time with your bodyguard these days than you do with me,” he spat out resentfully.

  Astrid’s heart dropped, and a cold fear settled in around her temples. But her smile was unwavering, and her voice was fine and clear. “Well, that’s because my own husband is too busy for me!” His torso was stiff to her, but she pressed firmly against him and went on. “Pay attention to me, take me out once in a while, and I wouldn’t be forced to waste time with what’s-his-name down there!”

  For a minute Astrid thought Charlie was going to be furious. That he somehow knew about what had happened in the pool last night, and she and Victor were both in big trouble. A clap of thunder sounded somewhere off in the distance, and the first drops went splat on the verandah. Then she felt his middle relax and his arms fold around her. “I’m sorry, baby, I’ve just had so much on my mind,” he said. He buried his face against her neck and kissed her there. Though it embarrassed her, the touch made her lips part, and she wanted him to go on putting his mouth along her hairline. “Friday night!” he said, lifting her so that her feet came off the ground. “Friday night I’m taking you out.”

  If she could have she would have turned to see if Victor was watching them, but it was impossible from that position.

  In the next moment Charlie shouted, “You hear that, Victor? I’m taking my wife out Friday night—till then your job is to see she’s entertained!”

  After that, there was no chance that Victor had not seen how Charlie was holding her. He had said Victor’s name in that self-important, threatening way, and she hated him for it, and she hated him for holding her so that she was pinned against him, and she hated that Victor had to stand there watching them. She didn’t quite know why, but it made her insides crumble to think that her bodyguard saw her husband handling her as though she belonged to him and only him.

  “And Cord,” Charlie said when he put her down. Cordelia glanced up, surprised, and half waved at Astrid. “I changed my mind. Let’s call those bastards and tell them yes.”

  10

  “YOU DON’T HAVE TO.”

  “I know.”

  “You were supposed to be my little sister,” Charlie said, almost like a complaint, but when he bent down to put his meaty arms around her, Cordelia could smell his guilt. “Now here you are cleaning up my messes.”

  “I’ll be all right, Charlie.” She squeezed him and then pushed up on her tiptoes to kiss his forehead. He twisted his face away, as though he didn’t want the others to see how he savored this gesture of affection, but she sensed it was so rare for him that he almost didn’t know how to accept it.

  “We’ll be here till you get back,” Jones said, and lifted the yellow slicker so that Cordelia could put her arms into its sleeves.

  After midnight last night a rain had come through while the three of them sat in Charlie’s office, talking over what terms they would accept and what they wouldn’t. It was still drizzling now as she set off in the motorboat. One of the Hales’s men operated the rudder—he, too, was wearing a slicker. As they sailed out to sea, she looked back at the little crowd of men whose features were soon indistinct but whose black umbrellas cut perfectly through the dense atmosphere. Duluth Hale was with them, unarmed, and he had promised he would wait there that way until Cordelia was returned safe from the boat that Thom Hale had anchored some distance offshore. She hadn’t spoken to Thom’s father—that, she would never do—but he had ogled her with those little pig’s eyes that were set too close together in his big platter face.

  She’d only seen that face once before, the night she’d driven to Avalon, the Hales’s place on the Sound, with the intention of killing Thom for what he’d done to her family. For a quarter of an hour she had pretended that she still loved Thom, and they had swayed together on the dance floor. Somewhere in between that dance and the moment when Thom had tried to get her alone in the dark, Duluth had spotted her, and she had shuddered under his gaze. The way he moved, that heavy preying gait, had revolted her then, and she felt no less suspicious of him today as they took off from Rock Point.

  A
wave came at the motorboat from behind, and her heart leapt as the craft shot up and went down beneath her.

  The Hales’s man smirked. “Hope you don’t get seasick.”

  “No.”

  The men on the Point were too small to see now, so she turned and gazed out in the direction of New York Harbor instead, letting tendrils of tawny hair blow across her chin. She had told Charlie that everything would be all right, but in fact she wasn’t sure of that herself. The whole plan had taken shape so quickly, and now all the ways it could go wrong began springing up haphazardly in her thoughts. Maybe the Hales really did want a war, and nabbing Cordelia would be the confirmation. Maybe this was Thom’s idea alone, and he was going to make her pay for what she’d wanted to do that night at Avalon. But she tried to remember how Thom had seemed to her the other night—just a rival like any other, and one she happened to know how to talk to.

  At Dogwood they had been up late last night, drinking black coffee and debating whether to let Cordelia talk to the Hales, and she’d woken up tired. She was still tired, but her fatigue was due to something more than lost sleep. She had done so many things, made so many mistakes. Back in Ohio, she’d always thought that if she met her father, her life would magically start to make sense, but instead she had blundered in ways that led to his death. And of course there was John Field, whom she had promised to have and to hold forever on the same day that she slipped off in the night. Finally there was Max, who, because of her, had lost everything he’d ever worked for. If she did this one thing right—if she reached an agreement with the Hales and ended the violent tit-for-tat the two families had been engaged in—then perhaps she would be able to put her head down and rest awhile.

  The shore receded until it was just a misty blue line, and she held tight to the side of the boat. When the man across from her cut the engine abruptly and stood up with his arm raised, she twisted in her seat and saw the hull of Thom’s ship rising above.

  Hands reached for her, pulling her up, and then she was standing on the blond plank deck next to Thom Hale. His coppery hair was a little overgrown now and his eyes were more lucid than she remembered them being, and he wore a blue-and-white plaid shirt tucked into beige pants. These were the simplest clothes she’d ever seen him wear.

  “Here I am.” She lengthened her neck and spoke with as much indifference as possible.

  “Yes.” He observed her in the same way he always had before—his chin lifted, his eyes taking in everything and offering nothing. The line of his patrician lips curled on one side, as though he were amused or disgusted or otherwise onto something nobody else was. Suddenly Cordelia wished the slicker weren’t two sizes too big for her and that its hood didn’t flop stupidly over her face.

  “This is your boat?”

  “My father’s. Just one of his toys; he never used it much. Dad gave up on social climbing a long time ago.”

  “What do you do with it?”

  “You know. Your family stole my cargo.”

  Cordelia’s eyes widened. Earlier, he’d spoken of the hijacking almost neutrally, but now she saw how it angered him to have his loot taken.

  “You brought that shipment down yourself, then?”

  Thom shrugged, but she caught a fugitive light in his eyes and knew he was proud. “I’d show you around, but then you’d just tell Charlie my secrets.”

  “We have our own ways, Thom.” The wind and the salt spray were so relentless against her face that she could only squint at him. “Shouldn’t we talk?”

  “Yes.”

  Just then the sea lurched under them. A wave broke over the deck, sending a sheet of water across its surface and soaking her tennis shoes. She froze, shocked by the sudden wetness of her feet and the growing realization that she was not on equal terms with Thom and his crew. No matter what she had to offer him in negotiation, out here she was at his mercy. Then she felt Thom’s arm against her back, pushing her toward the pilothouse. The others were on the far side of the deck—even though they were Thom’s men, she had felt better knowing there were witnesses. Now it was too late for that.

  Inside, the ocean was less fierce-sounding, and the large panel of levers and dials framed by shining blond wood seemed to promise control over the elements. Now that they were alone together in an enclosed space, she was suddenly aware of Thom’s breathing. The rhythm of her heart became fast and erratic, and she tried to tell herself this was only because she was frightened.

  “We haven’t been alone together since the night you…” He trailed off and hung his head.

  “The night I pointed a gun at you?” There was no chance either of them had forgotten the fact, so she figured she might as well just say it.

  “It wasn’t me. You know that, don’t you?”

  Cordelia’s features folded quizzically. “It wasn’t you who what?”

  “Told my father. About the tunnel.”

  “No?” She gave him a hard look and crossed her arms over her chest. The mention of her father and his murder made her want to tell Thom to forget the whole thing. But then she realized that he was only trying to make her angry, that it was a clever trick with which to begin a negotiation. Thom always had been clever. “He’s dead,” she pronounced with precise and quiet fury. “Change that, and I’ll agree to whatever you like.”

  Thom put his hands in his pants pocket and gazed out through the window. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He worked his jaw angrily and shook his head once.

  “So you brought in that champagne yourself?” Cordelia said, to change the subject.

  “Yes, from Canada.”

  “That’s how you got so much sun.”

  “Yes.” He made a gesture like he might take the wet slicker from Cordelia, but she waved him off. Instead she pushed the hood back and brought herself to her full height. “Drink?” he offered.

  “No, thanks.” The ocean lifted the boat up beneath her, but she forced herself to hold his gaze and made believe the rocking didn’t trouble her. “I guess you want those crates back.”

  “No—we’ll let you sell them.”

  Cordelia arched an eyebrow.

  “You can sell those crates, but when your clients want more they’re going to have to come to me. If they want quality French champagne, that is.”

  Tilting her head back, Cordelia regarded him with a wry smile. “And here I thought all champagne was French.”

  A dimple emerged in his cheek, the ripple of a smile suppressed. Thom’s eyes remained on her as he pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his front pocket and offered one, and she felt almost as she had in those first days of knowing him, when there was such camaraderie, when even his smallest gestures seemed brilliant and exciting. Shake your head, she told herself. Once she had refused the cigarette she knew that it was going to be easier to harden her voice. “All right, we keep those crates, but we won’t be giving you back any of the clients we took.”

  “How ’bout the ones you took from Coyle Mink?”

  The name startled Cordelia. What did Coyle Mink have to do with this, and what hadn’t Charlie told her? “I guess you know all our business,” she said coolly.

  “And I’m sure you know ours,” Thom replied with matching detachment. He left his cigarette between his teeth as he inhaled and exhaled, watching her. She had never wanted to smoke so badly in her whole life.

  “Listen, Thom, I don’t like it, and I don’t like your father, and I don’t like you. But we don’t want to fight you anymore.”

  “Sure.” Thom sneered. “I figured that’s why you came.”

  With a little sigh and a gaze tossed out to sea, Cordelia concluded: “We will fight if we have to.”

  A cloud of smoke escaped Thom’s mouth and filled the cabin. “No, we don’t want to fight you, either.”

  “Why? You did before.”

  “That was when Darius was around. You’re more manageable now.”

  After that there was more stone in Cordelia’s heart. “What do you want, then? Y
ou seem to have it all figured. Why don’t you just tell me, and we can wrap this delightful chat,” she spat, her lips twisting with sudden sarcasm.

  “No more hijackings, no more kidnappings, no more blown-up warehouses.”

  “No more murders.”

  Thom glanced away and took two furtive drags of his cigarette. “No more murders,” he said eventually.

  “And in exchange?”

  “Nothing. Territories stay as they are. We got two of the big hotels with our new stuff—we keep those. But otherwise, the Greys continue to supply the hotels, the Hales keep their speaks. Whoever you sell to now, you keep; same with us, so long as there’s no poaching in the future.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Agreed.” Cordelia put her hand forward and gave Thom’s a quick, firm shake. He met her eyes, as though to make sure she was for real, and she returned his gaze steadily. “Well,” she went on, now blithe, bringing the hood of her slicker over her wind-tossed hair as she moved toward the door, “I guess that’s that.”

  “Wait.” His voice had changed, as threatening as that of a radio villain. When she felt his fingers grabbing for her wrist, her heart dropped and she saw how stupid she had been to think it would be that easy, coming out here alone. He spun her around hard; his expression was fierce, all lightness and camaraderie drained away. An instinctual fear passed through her, darkening her eyes. With an ominous shake of his head, he repeated: “You’re not going yet.”

  “That’s enough for me,” said Dave, the biggest and blondest of Charlie’s men, who also happened to be the worst of them at hiding what he was thinking.