Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  I usually never heard why she’d left these jobs; Hayden called only when she was bubbling with excitement over her future prospects or when she had yet again fallen in love. When she was licking her wounds over another job failure or breakup, she withdrew completely and wouldn’t return my phone messages or e-mails for months at a time.

  Although our lives couldn’t have been more different in the eleven years since we’d left school—Hayden leading her glittering chaotic life in the big city, me teaching in quiet, sleepy Ocean Falls—we still managed to stay in touch. I called Hayden every few weeks, usually leaving her a message—she was never home—which she would eventually return. Twice I traveled up to Manhattan to visit her, and every year she came down to Florida to spend a few weeks at her family’s estate on Palm Beach, and I would drive down to meet her there.

  It had been over three months since I’d heard from her. I’d called and left messages, which went unreturned. I assumed she was in the midst of another of her withdrawn phases, which meant she was either out of work, or brokenhearted, or both. So I was thrilled to hear her voice on my answering machine. I fumbled for the phone, nearly knocking over a glass of water as I reached for it.

  “I’m here, I’m here!” I said after I’d punched the talk button. “Don’t hang up!”

  “Stop yelling, I’m still here.”

  “I haven’t heard from you in ages,” I said, smiling for the first time in days.

  “Is that what this is all about? A stunt designed to flush me out?”

  “That’s right. I won the lottery and got fired from my job just for you.”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s all about me, me, me.” Hayden laughed her wonderful deep laugh, and then I heard the unmistakable sound of a cigarette being lit.

  “I thought you quit smoking.”

  “I did. And then I started up again. It’s like Kurt Vonnegut said—smoking is a socially acceptable form of suicide. Or at least it used to be, before all of the antismoking Nazis took over Manhattan,” Hayden said.

  “So, seriously, where have you been?”

  “Vancouver.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “It was a business thing,” she said vaguely.

  “What sort of business?” I asked.

  “You know: for my job.”

  I tried to remember what it was she was doing these days. PR for that record label? No, that was last year.

  “You don’t even know what I do, do you?” Hayden asked accusingly.

  “Well…no,” I admitted. “What are you up to these days?”

  “It was really exciting. I got in on a new dot-com venture. A personal-shopping Web site for people who don’t live near stores with personal-shopping services. Which apparently is most of the country. Customers could submit pictures of themselves, and then our personal-shopping experts would pick out the outfits for them from various online stores. And here’s the best part: We’d get paid twice. Once from the customer for performing the service and then again from the clothes vendor for referring the business,” Hayden enthused.

  “That sounds great,” I said. “Very inventive. Is it up and running now?”

  “Well…no,” Hayden admitted. “That’s why we were in Vancouver. We were trying to get investors for the project. But the financing fell through.” She sighed, and I could picture the smoke pluming from her nose. “So we couldn’t move forward with it.”

  “We?”

  “I was working with a partner. Craig Wilson. He’s a whole other story.”

  I had a feeling I knew where this was going. “A new boyfriend, I take it?”

  “No. A very ex ex-boyfriend.”

  “What happened?”

  “He went back to his wife,” Hayden said flatly. “The wife who he claimed had never understood him and who he was no longer in love with—and who, come to find out, is now pregnant with their second child. Yes, I really was that stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. He sounds like a creep,” I said. “How were you supposed to know he was lying?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really want to talk about him. I want to talk about you—and whether that really was Elliott I saw being interviewed by Larry King last night.”

  He went on Larry King too? I wondered, as a wave of nausea washed over me. I’d been trying to avoid the television. Listening to reporters bandy my name around had felt surreal at first. Now it was just depressing. But this was the problem with not watching the news when you’re at the center of the biggest story in the country—you don’t know when your asshole of an ex-boyfriend is going to do yet another interview where he tells millions of people what a horrible person you are.

  “Lulu?” Hayden asked, using her pet nickname for me. She was the only person I let get away with calling me that, having hated it since childhood. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes,” I said miserably. And then I burst into tears.

  “Oh, my God! You’re crying! What’s wrong, sweetie?”

  “You mean other than my boyfriend turning out to be a lying, cheating sack of shit, and getting fired from my job, and the entire town thinking I hit on teenage boys?” I bleated.

  “But what about the lottery money?” Hayden asked, sounding surprised.

  “What about it? It’s just money. It can’t buy me my life back.”

  “Oh, honey.” Hayden laughed her slow, deep laugh. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong. That kind of money can buy you anything.”

  “I need to get out of town,” I said. “There are reporters camped out in front of my house day and night. I can’t even go to the grocery store. I’ve been eating frozen waffles for three days straight.”

  “That’s easily solved: Meet me in Palm Beach. It’ll be perfect! I’m sick of the city. A few weeks at the beach is exactly what I need.”

  “Aren’t your parents there? I don’t want to impose.”

  “Nope. They never go to Palm Beach before December,” Hayden said. “We’ll have Crane Hill all to ourselves!”

  Crane Hill was the name of the Blair family’s Palm Beach mansion. And, like all of the Blairs’ houses, Crane Hill was huge and glamorous and subtly themed. Whereas the Connecticut estate was filled with Oriental rugs and Chippendale chairs, and their ski lodge in Vermont had massive leather sofas with nail-head trim and a chandelier made of deer antlers, the Palm Beach house was decorated with low sofas covered in pale-blue silk, bamboo tables, and enormous Art Deco mirrors, including one reportedly purchased from the Duchess of Windsor. It was located on the east side of the island, with stunning views of the white-capped ocean.

  “Well…” I said slowly, the idea growing on me. “I do have an appointment with a financial adviser in Palm Beach on Friday.”

  “See? It’s fate!”

  “But how am I going to get there? I told you, the press is camped out on my front lawn. They’ll just follow me.”

  “Luckily, you happen to be talking to the very woman who perfected the art of sneaking out of her house at the age of thirteen,” Hayden said. “Give me a rundown of your basic house plans, including all possible exits, and I’ll figure out a way to get you out of there. If I remember correctly, your back door is pretty well hidden from view, right?”

  “Yes, my backyard is fenced in; I don’t think the press can see back there. But how will I get to Palm Beach? My car’s in the shop. I guess I do have the rental…but it’s parked in my driveway. There’s no way I can go out there without the press seeing me.”

  Hayden sighed. “Did you or did you not just come into a gazillion-dollar windfall? You can buy a new car. You can buy fifty new cars and hire drivers to chauffeur you around in them,” she said.

  Oddly enough, I hadn’t considered this. Even though I certainly hadn’t forgotten the money—the knowledge of it sitting in the bank thrilled me whenever I thought of it—I’d been so wrapped up in everything that was going wrong in my
life, it hadn’t really occurred to me that I could buy my way out of it. Of course I could easily buy another car. What had I been thinking?

  “Okay,” I said, my enthusiasm growing. “I think this could work!”

  “Of course it will work,” Hayden said confidently. “Now, let’s figure out an escape plan and get you the hell out of there.”

  The plan was pretty simple. Once it was dark I’d sneak out through the back door, climb the fence into my neighbor’s yard, and walk two miles to the Ocean Falls Marriott. There, I’d hire a car to drive me down to Palm Beach.

  “A taxi?” I’d asked Hayden.

  “A town car with a driver would be better. The hotel will know someone. They may even have a car and driver you can use,” Hayden said.

  “But why would they help me? I’m not a guest there.”

  Hayden sighed. “That’s where the money comes in handy, Lucy. How much cash do you have in the house?”

  “I don’t know…maybe fifty dollars?”

  “That’s not nearly enough. Where’s the nearest ATM?”

  “There’s a bank next to the hotel.”

  “Perfect. Stop there and get out as much money as the ATM will let you withdraw. Use that to bribe the desk clerk, the concierge, the driver, whoever. Just make it clear that you want them to keep quiet about it. And if they ask for your name, make one up. Or use mine.”

  “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be you for a day.”

  “Have them take you to The Breakers on Palm Beach. They’re used to dealing with high-profile clients there. Tip lavishly, and hopefully they won’t tell the press you’re there,” Hayden continued. “I’ll fly down tomorrow and meet you at the hotel.”

  On Hayden’s instructions, I didn’t bother to pack; a suitcase would slow me down. I just threw a toothbrush and change of underwear in my purse, and then stuffed Harper Lee into her hated black zip pet carrier. Then I went online and moved a sizeable chunk of money from my savings, where I’d deposited the lottery money, to my checking account. Once the transfer had gone through, I turned off the computer and called my parents. Thankfully, it was my father who answered.

  “Hi, honey. How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “Peachy keen,” I said.

  “Are the reporters still staking you out?”

  “Yep. That’s why I called: I’m going to get out of town until this blows over.”

  “Where will you go?” Dad asked, his voice infused with concern.

  “Palm Beach. I’m going to stay at my friend Hayden’s house. Let me give you the address.”

  “Hold on, let me get a piece of paper and a pen,” Dad said. There was a brief pause. “Okay, go ahead.”

  I rattled off the address and phone number for the Blairs’ beach house.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything here. Your house, your mail. What about Harper Lee?” Dad asked.

  “I’m going to bring her with me,” I said. “Would you mind returning my rental car for me, too?”

  “Of course not. Give us a call when you get settled in, okay?”

  “I will. Thanks, Dad,” I said gratefully. “Give Mom my love.”

  “Take care of yourself,” Dad said.

  After we hung up, I sat down at my desk. I took out my checkbook—I had novelty checks with pictures of French bulldogs on them—and wrote out three checks for a half-million dollars each. It felt so weird to be writing out such an enormous sum, as though I were playing with Monopoly money. I addressed three envelopes—one for my parents, one for Emma, one for Maisie—and put a check in each envelope. Once they were sealed and stamped, I slipped them into the knapsack I’d be using as a purse, right next to my tattered copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.

  I went into my bedroom and changed from my uniform of ratty sweats into black pants and a black T-shirt. Excitement skittered through me; this must be what it felt like to be an undercover spy. And in a sense I was going undercover. I was leaving my life behind and setting off on a new course. Before I switched off the light, I checked out my reflection in the mirror. The fatigue circles under my eyes were purplish, and my skin was wan—black has never been a good color on me—but I was still me. The same kinky out-of-control hair, the same too-round cheeks, the same boring brown eyes. Normally the sight would cause me to roll my eyes and curse the genes that had failed to give me the sleek hair and chiseled cheekbones I’d always coveted. But for some reason, seeing myself looking so normal, so ordinary, was reassuring. I turned off the light. Hopefully the reporters still camped outside would think I’d gone to sleep and would let their guard down.

  I headed through the dark house toward the kitchen. I’d left my bag and Harper Lee, whimpering softly inside her carrier, there by the back door. I slung the knapsack over my right shoulder and Harper Lee’s carrier over my left. I reached for the doorknob, but then hesitated and looked back at my modest little kitchen, which I could just barely make out in the dim light shining in from the neighbor’s house lights…at the Formica cupboards, Corian countertop, and basic white appliances…at the vivid cornflower-blue walls I’d painted myself…at the oak Heywood-Wakefield dining table I’d discovered at a thrift store and spent three weekends stripping and restaining. It wasn’t a glamorous room by any stretch; design snobs would probably look down their noses at it. But it was my home. And now I was leaving it. I didn’t know when—or even if—I’d be able to return.

  I opened the door, walked out into the darkness, and locked the door behind me.

  Nine

  I WOKE UP TO THE PHONE RINGING. IT TOOK ME A few beats to remember exactly where I was, although it all came back quickly—my nighttime escape from Ocean, Falls, the expensive, clandestine ninety-minute chauffered car ride to Palm Beach, checking into the glamorous Breakers hotel, where I’d handed the clerk my American Express card and a fifty-dollar bill when he asked what name I’d like to check in under.

  “Hayden Blair, please,” I said nervously, fully expecting to be refused a room and possibly treated as a national security threat. But the clerk just nodded, palmed the fifty, and upgraded me to a water-view room.

  I switched on a light—the night before, I’d drawn the heavy blackout shades—and reached for the phone, which was still insistently chirping at me.

  Please don’t let this be a reporter, I thought. If it was, it meant our escape plan had failed. I braced myself and picked up the handset.

  “Hello?” I said nervously.

  “Is that the famous Hayden Blair speaking?” asked a familiar voice.

  “Thank God it’s you,” I said, exhaling deeply.

  “You know, I never tire of hearing that,” Hayden said.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at home. There’s a slight problem.”

  My heart sank. “You’re not coming?”

  “Of course I’m coming,” she said.

  “Oh, good, I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

  “Nope. I just missed my ride.”

  “Your ride?” I asked. “What, were you planning on driving down?”

  Hayden laughed. “Of course not. But I was supposed to catch a ride with a friend who was flying down there for some business thing, but I stayed out a little later than I meant to last night and ended up sleeping through my alarm. I’m going to have to fly commercial.”

  Since I lived in a world where commercial was the only choice, I wasn’t sure what the problem was.

  “So…can’t you get a flight?”

  “No, I did. I made a reservation. The only problem is…” Hayden’s voice trailed off. She cleared her throat. “My credit card was declined. I think I must have maxed it out when I was in Vancouver with Craig.” When she said the name of her ex-lover, her voice had a bitter bite to it. “He said his money was all tied up because of the divorce and that he’d pay me back once it was worked out.”

  “The divorce that never happened,” I said. God, men really did suck.

  “Right.
”

  “Look, don’t worry. Give me your reservation number. I’ll call the airlines and give them my credit card.”

  Hayden sighed. “I was hoping you’d say that. You’re a life-saver, Lucy. I’ll pay you back, of course.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just get packed and get to the airport. I’ll see you when you get here. I’m in room fourteen-twelve.”

  “Room fourteen-twelve,” Hayden parroted back. “Got it. See you soon!”

  After Hayden and I hung up, I called the airline. I was a bit taken aback by the price they quoted—$1,408 for a one-way ticket—and then learned that Hayden had reserved a seat in the business-class cabin. I’d never flown anything but coach. Even now that I was a multimillionaire, it would probably never occur to me to fly first class. Why throw the money away when coach class will get you there just as quickly? But then I realized that it probably didn’t even occur to someone like Hayden—with her family money and easy access to friends’ private jets—to fly coach. She and I had been raised in such different worlds. I gave the airline my credit-card number—saying a silent prayer that the customer-service representative wouldn’t recognize my name; luckily he didn’t seem to—and then hung up and stretched out on my bed. My foot nudged against Harper Lee, who was curled up in a tight ball at the foot of the bed, although her eyes were open.

  “I have to let you out,” I said, and wondered where one went in a posh hotel to let a dog relieve herself. I slid out of bed, put on the white terry-cloth robe hanging in the closet, and called room service.

  “I’d like to order some coffee, and…” I trailed off. For the first time in days, I suddenly felt ravenous. I looked at the room-service menu, helpfully positioned just next to the phone.

  “Yes, madam?” a polite voice replied.

  “And a ham and cheese omelet. And a muffin basket,” I said. “A glass of orange juice too, please.” Harper Lee stared at me meaningfully. At times like this I could swear she understands English. “Also, an order of scrambled eggs.” I started to mentally add up what I was spending—oh, God, was I really ordering a fifty-dollar breakfast?—but I tried to put it out of my mind. This was Palm Beach, after all. Home of the rich and famous. It wasn’t like I was going to find a Denny’s anywhere around here.