Praise for the novels of Caprice Crane
Family Affair
“Perceptive, touching, and always hilarious, this is Caprice Crane’s best work yet. It’s an irresistible story with equal parts humor and heart.”
—EMILY GIFFIN
“The phrase ‘You don’t marry the man; you marry his family’ has never rung so true. Family Affair is so full of heart and humor, you’ll want to squeeze into the family station wagon and sit shotgun for the ride.”
—STEPHANIE KLEIN, New York Times bestselling author of Moose
“With a finely tuned ear for dialogue and a biting sense of humor, Family Affair is another winner. Crane is masterful at creating lovably flawed characters and placing them in hilariously relatable predicaments. I simply adored this book because no one does fiction funnier than Caprice Crane.”
—JEN LANCASTER, New York Times bestselling author
“This is a clever and unique take on the romantic comedy—witty, touching, and often laugh-out-loud funny. I loved it.”
—ALISON PACE, author of City Dog
Forget About It
“So funny and wise, I forgot about my own problems while reading it.”
—VALERIE FRANKEL, author of Thin Is the New Happy
“Another triumph for the author … incredibly fun and empowering.”
—Romantic Times
“Savage wit and breathtaking tenderness … Caprice Crane has romantic comedy in her DNA.”
—JEFF ARCH, Oscar-nominated screenwriter of Sleepless in Seattle
“Hilarious … delightful from start to finish.”
—STACEY BALLIS, author of The Spinster Sisters
Stupid and Contagious
“Crane makes light comedy, usually so difficult to create and sustain, look effortless.”
—Booklist
“Heaven Albright, the irrepressible and sexy heroine, is bursting with humor that is smart and infectious.”
—BRIAN DOYLE-MURRAY, co-writer of Caddyshack
“Both endearing and hysterically funny.”
—Star magazine
“A witty romantic comedy debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Caprice Crane brings her respect for music and all of its universal sentiments into her stylish, page-turning, sharp-tongued debut novel.”
—LIZA PALMER, author of A Field Guide to Burying Your Parents
“So much fun … snappy dialogue … Crane’s giddy, playful prose feels fresh.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Caprice Crane’s writing is so cool, I feel like the geek girl stalking her locker, trying to slide a mix CD through the slats before she spots me. Stupid and Contagious is hilarious and insightful. A book with its own soundtrack, this is one not to miss.”
—PAMELA RIBON, author of Why Moms Are Weird
ALSO BY CAPRICE CRANE
Stupid and Contagious
Forget About It
Family Affair
With a Little Luck is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Bantam Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2011 by Caprice Crane
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Crane, Caprice
With a little luck : a novel / Caprice Crane.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-440-42342-3
1. Superstition—Fiction. 2. Disc jockeys—Fiction. 3. Chick lit. I. Title.
PS3603.R379W58 2011
813′.6—dc22 2010053287
www.bantamdell.com
Cover illustration: based on images © Will & Deni McIntyre/Getty Images (jeans, crossed fingers, and background) and © Shutterstock (T-shirt, four-leaf clover)
v3.1
This one’s for the fans. I am profoundly grateful for every single one of you. Every time I get an email from a reader it makes my day. You are the reason I do this.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Acknowledgments
Excerpt from Family Affair
About the Author
Let a smile be your umbrella, and you’ll end up with a face full of rain.
—GEORGE CARLIN
Chapter One
In this life, you could grow old sitting around waiting to get lucky.
That didn’t come out right. What I meant is that waiting to accidentally run into Richard Branson in line to buy a burger at the very moment he’s desperately looking for a new Executive Vice President of Adventure and Party Planning (“You’ll just have to do,” he says as he whisks you away in the limo), or waiting for that falling safe to just miss hitting you before it smashes through the sidewalk and plummets into a sewer tunnel, or waiting for a wealthy, athletic, artistic, wise, unpretentious, multilingual, manly, sensitive contradiction of impossible handsomeness to lean over and say, “Excuse me—I believe I left my stethoscope here on the way to the children’s hospital” … Well, let’s just agree you’re going to be waiting awhile.
Me? I don’t tempt fate. I don’t dare destiny.
I may talk about hitting the lottery, but the truth is I never play because deep inside—on some level that’s so far down it’s beneath where I keep the memory of the time I walked in on my parents showering—I know there’s no such thing as luck.
But I also have learned that believing there’s no such thing as luck is very unlucky. Like, the worst. Beyond stealing someone’s lucky four-leaf clover. (I know someone who did that and died. Seriously. Three years after doing it, he had a heart attack. And his great-granddaughter never forgave him—but I guess in some perverse way she got justice.)
If that sounds like a contradiction, I suppose maybe it is. But maybe not. Maybe I just don’t believe in good luck. Bad luck—particularly of the sort arising from ignoring intuition and superstitions—that’s another thing altogether.
The history of superstition is also a history of timing. We’ll never know whether a lone sober Trojan looked across the courtyard on that fateful night and said, “I don’t like the look of that horse thing. Bad luck.” But if he or she had, the protest would have fallen on deaf ears: The masses were completely tickled pink by the offering. History has shown that it pays to be suspicious of large, seemingly useless gifts from one’s sworn enemy. And that includes your aunt’s sketchy second husband.
Consider: If the captain of the Titanic had pulled out his tin bullhorn and announced, “Someone in first class just threw a shoe into a m
irror and broke it, so I’ve got a bad feeling about this route—let’s slow down and head south,” then as a purely scientific matter, superstition would have saved that ship. I’m just saying.
And if I had only listened to my intuition—that socially acceptable term for what is really superstition—I’d never have followed Emily Ottinger through that third yellow light (I swear it was still yellow) on the way to the mall and never would have ended up wrapping my mom’s new Audi around Mr. Pitrelli’s pickup truck when I was sixteen. Mean, old, grouchy, kid-hating Mr. Pitrelli, I might add.
One moment follows another. Next comes from previous. So you have to stay on your toes. Protect yourself. Listen to that little voice inside you that says, “Don’t do that! You won’t like the consequences.” Look at all the stuff that’s happened to you along the twisting road of your life—good and bad. Still think that all those seemingly disconnected, random events that have no interrelation, not even a simple correlation, have absolutely nothing to do with those best-laid plans crashing and burning in the face of your destiny? Tell my dad that. In a career spent chasing the elusive lucky score, he’s come up empty more times than a fashion model’s lunchbox.
Better yet, tell my mom that. She was the one unlucky enough to end up married to him.
I know that by now you’re thinking I sound like I know the score. But I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I may know the score, but half the time I’m not sure I know the teams or even what game we’re playing.
Most of the time, I feel like a total fraud. Like I have no idea how I’ve made it this far without the world figuring out that I have no idea what I’m doing or that I’m relying on some sign or the fact that I glanced at the clock at 11:11 or the fact that Paul McCartney’s “With a Little Luck” was playing on the radio when my alarm woke me up to give me a little extra confidence that “we can make this whole damn thing work out.” This “whole damn thing” being my life.
You’d think admitting to feeling like a fraud is the kind of thing that would qualify as an innermost thought. The very kind of thing that gives rise to the term “innermost thoughts,” in fact—because they’re born and live and die inside you, never seeing the light of day (unless you’re the type who regularly drunk-dials an ex and starts a horrifyingly ill-advised confession with, “You know, I’ve never told anybody this before, but …”). You’d think someone with any semblance of self-awareness or a good enough filter or enough Real World: Miamis under her belt would know better by now than to confess these types of things to another living breathing person. But you’d be wrong.
Here I am in this outward cloak of certainty covering extreme self-doubt, walking into Game Night with a bottle of chilled champagne and an outfit that says, “I’m definitely stylish but comfortable enough in my own skin that I don’t have to try that hard.” What I’m really thinking is that I tried really hard to look like I’m not trying hard; in fact, trying to look like you didn’t try hard is downright exhausting. Mind you, I’m not feeling terribly stylish. Especially since it’s raining. Rain is never good luck. Just ask my hair. I feel pretty good about myself, though—all things being relative. Me feeling good about myself means my up-three-pounds, down-three-pounds existence was leaning toward the down side this morning, I don’t have a golf-ball-sized zit screaming for attention on my cheek, and amazingly enough, tonight’s rain hair doesn’t have me looking like a brunette, Caucasian, female version of Don King. Definitely a good sign.
It’s hard enough being a normal girl these days. Sure, I’ve just described a few wacky characteristics, but I’m not talking mentality here—I’m talking normal as in “not enhanced.” More and more, everywhere I turn there’s some girl, some naturally beautiful girl, who is determined to turn herself into a Barbie doll. It’s frightening. Plus, with global warming and the sun getting hotter and hotter, isn’t there a good chance that one day all of these gals will just start to melt? I vowed to myself that I will grow old gracefully—granted, I’m only twenty-eight years old, so I’m gonna reserve the right to change my mind at some point, but for now, I’ll stick with what I’ve got.
Which, mind you, is pretty okay on most days. I have medium brown hair that’s a couple of inches below my shoulders. I put highlights and lowlights in to make it a little more exciting, but the only thing that really does is set me back a couple hundred bucks every few weeks. I have brown eyes that are fairly boring, and I’ve been told I have a “perfect” nose, but I don’t even know what that means. That said, nothing else about me is “perfect,” so I’ll take it. My teeth are straight (thanks, Dr. Edelstein!), and I have dimples when I smile, which I hate. Anyway, that’s me. Nothing spectacular, but I did manage to have the cutest boyfriend in school in the sixth grade, so I’m not entirely hopeless.
I walk into the party behind a guy who is wearing a T-shirt that says “Everybody Dies.” Oh, and that’s not the best part. See, the i in “Dies” is shaped like a gun, and it’s pointing upward, toward his face. Heartwarming. Hang on, it gets better. As he closes the door behind us, this dude’s small black umbrella pops open and blooms in front of him. Then he spins around to close it, and the umbrella catches my favorite sweater and claws a huge hole in it. It seems to be happening in slow motion, the umbrella opening, my eyes widening, the menacing tip moving toward me like a sword thrust. This is suddenly like the shittiest version of The Three Musketeers ever. And, yes, I’ve seen the one with Charlie Sheen.
“Sorry,” T-shirt Guy says with a shrug, nonchalantly unhinging his evil, renegade umbrella from my poor, sweet, now horribly disfigured sweater.
I exhale and swallow deeply. What can I say to him? What do you say when a complete stranger has not only just destroyed your sweater but also dragged you into his blatant violation of the “umbrella opened indoors” superstition, thus almost certainly setting off a downward spiral of unfortunate future events in your life?
“It’s okay,” I carefully respond, anger receding from DefCon 5 to a more reasonable 2. “But … aren’t you worried about bad luck?”
“Aw, I don’t believe in any of that,” he says and laughs, as if my concern is silly.
I’ll show him silly. “Well,” I say, and I think about it before I say it and decide not to say it and then say it anyway. “I would be if I were you. Bad luck for both of us.”
He turns and looks me square in the eye. I’d been too transfixed on his death threat of a T-shirt to look beyond it. His eyes are hazel. The kind of hazel in which, if you liked the guy, you’d notice the specks of green and gold, but if you despised him, you’d see murky brown, despite his desperately grasping at the hazel of it all.
“I promise you,” he says, “you will not have bad luck because of this. It will be my bad luck, and mine alone. I’m owning the bad luck on this one.” He seems amused, making air quotes every time he says “bad luck.”
“Fine,” I say. “I hope you’re right.”
“So you’re wishing bad luck on me?” he asks, smiling.
“No,” I correct. “Of course not. I’m just wishing it not on me.”
“Right …” he says, and then looks around the party.
I get self-conscious and think he’s bored of me, and why wouldn’t he be? I’m the crazy person telling him his umbrella is going to ruin his life and possibly mine. I’d run for the hills, too.
“Well, nice meeting you,” I say, even though we didn’t really meet, no names were exchanged (although I’m calling him “Everybody Dies” in my head and I’m hoping he’s calling me “Sweater Girl” in his because, hell, you know men, it could be a lot worse than that, like “Crazy Chick Who Thinks I’ve Doomed Us Both but at Least She’s Kinda Hot”), and I wonder if he does think I’m kinda hot—men dig torn clothing, right?—but now I’m even regretting saying “Nice meeting you,” so I rush off to blend into the party and leave this brutal, sadistic Eviscerator of Sweaters, his not-at-all brutal, wonderfully hazel eyes, and his inarguably bad luck behind me.
Jason is a script doctor who’s pretty well known around L.A. He gets paid a lot of money to rewrite scripts that were written by people who were also paid a lot of money but didn’t quite achieve what the producers wanted. Or they achieved what the producers wanted but not what the studio wanted. Or what they really failed to achieve was what the star wanted. Or what the star that replaced the original star wanted. And so on. So Jason comes in and “punches up” the script with new dialogue and jokes, and the big scenes that will usually end up in the trailer and quite often be the only funny parts of the movie. You know how sometimes you’ll catch a movie and you’ve already seen all the best parts in the trailer? That was done on purpose. The movie sucked, so they hired a guy to come in and build five “trailer moments” into the script. These moments trick gullible viewers into the theater, helping the studio to recoup at least some of the money it spent. You know, like in Point Break when Keanu Reeves’s boss says, “Do you think that taxpayers would like it, Utah, if they knew that they were paying a federal agent to surf and pick up girls?” And Keanu says, “Babes,” to which the boss replies, “I beg your pardon?” And Keanu says, “The correct term is ‘babes.’ ” Best line in the movie. Except it wasn’t in the movie. It was only in the trailer. (And, yes, Keanu’s name in the movie was Johnny Utah. You just can’t make this stuff up.)
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