Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  “It is if you jump right in. The heater hasn’t been turned on. We’ll have to figure out how to do that,” Hayden said.

  “Would your parents mind if they knew we were here?” I asked tentatively.

  “Why would they? They’re not using the house.”

  “You don’t think we should call and tell them?”

  Hayden rolled her eyes. “Hell, no. Then I’ll be stuck talking to them. Or, even worse, Mother might get it into her mind to nix her White Christmas plans and come down here instead.”

  “It’s only October,” I said. “The Season hasn’t started yet.”

  Even though I was not a Palm Beach native, I was—as all Floridians are—well aware of the Season. From November to April, snowbirds flocked down to the Sunshine State, seeking an escape from the chilly northern climate. Ocean Falls attracted well-to-do retirees, who rented villas on the golf course or owned smallish second homes kitted out in shell-or palm-tree-themed decor. Palm Beach, of course, attracted a wealthier crowd. But the calendar was still roughly the same, with the population swelling over the winter months and then ebbing in the late spring.

  “Even so, I’m not risking it,” Hayden said firmly. “My mom and I aren’t exactly getting along at the moment.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing new. I’m still not measuring up to my sisters. You know—they both had high-powered careers, married investment bankers, then downshifted onto the mommy track. And then there’s little old me.”

  “What’s wrong with being you?”

  “Everything, according to my mother. It wasn’t so bad when I was in my twenties, but now that I’ve reached the ancient age of thirty-two, she has informed me that enough is enough. It’s time I give up my bohemian ways, find a rich husband, and get down to the important business of producing grandchildren.” Hayden was drifting around the pool, inclined back, and occasionally pushing off the bottom to propel herself slowly through the water.

  “Have you explained to her that modern feminism has given women choices? That we can be strong, secure, independent women of substance all on our own?”

  Hayden snorted at this. “No. But I’d love to be there when you try to explain that to her.”

  “You’re on,” I said. “Because I’m in a very anti-man phase at the moment. I’m practically bursting with girl power.”

  “I’m pretty sure my mom thinks that’s code for lesbianism,” Hayden said, laughing. “After we dry off, we should pick out bedrooms. I always stay in the Yellow Room, but you can sleep wherever you want.”

  I remembered, from past visits to the house, that there were a seemingly endless number of bedrooms. And they all had titles: the Blue Room, the Chinese Room, the Rose Room, which featured a hand-painted mural of roses on every wall.

  “Would you mind if I stay in the pool house?” I asked.

  “What? You mean the cabana?” Hayden asked, looking surprised.

  I nodded. “It’s so fresh and airy in there. And I’d love to be able to wake up and jump right in the pool.”

  “Sure, whatever.” Hayden shrugged. “I don’t think anyone’s ever stayed in there. But there’s a first time for everything.”

  After dinner—the freezer in the kitchen was well stocked, so we defrosted a few steaks and a container of pesto to toss with tagliatini—Hayden appeared in the door of the pool house, armed with a pair of scissors.

  “What are you planning to do with those?” I asked suspiciously, eyeing the silver shears. I’d been curled up on one of the white couches, reading a copy of Rabbit, Run I found on a shelf in the den.

  “Cut your hair.”

  “What?” I shrieked. I jumped up and sidled behind the sofa.

  “I have to cut your hair short enough so that it will fit under this,” she said, holding up a hot-pink nylon baseball cap. The caption, It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere, was blazoned across the front in black lettering.

  “That’s supposed to be my disguise?” I asked, eyeing the cap with distaste.

  “Would you rather risk someone recognizing you?”

  “Do you think anyone will really be paying attention to me?” I asked. True, I had been worried I’d be recognized while I was at The Breakers. But I’d been trying to convince myself that this was just paranoia and that, when you look as ordinary as I do, people tend not to remember you. Plus, the hat was truly awful.

  “Are you kidding? Everyone checks out everyone here. Palm Beachers secretly love to spot celebrities, even if they pretend they’re too jaded and sophisticated to care. So…” Hayden held up the scissors and snipped them menacingly in the air.

  “But it will look terrible!” I wailed, raising a protective hand to my curls.

  “It’s just for a day or two, until we can get you in to see Frankie.”

  “Who’s Frankie?”

  “The best stylist in the world. I always go to him when I’m here. I’ll call him and see when he can fit you in. He’s normally booked up months in advance, but he always makes a special exception for me.”

  “And what if he doesn’t?”

  “He will,” Hayden promised. “Come on. If you’re serious about changing your appearance, you’re going to have to get rid of those curls.”

  So I sat on a pool towel spread out on the middle of the floor and closed my eyes tightly. Hayden lifted up heavy sections of my hair and sawed away at them with the too-dull scissors. The sound of the clicking metal shearing through my thick curls caused goose bumps to erupt over my shoulders and arms.

  “All done,” Hayden finally said.

  “How does it look?” I asked. I tried not to look down at the long strands of chestnut curls discarded around me on the towel.

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment. I turned anxiously and felt my stomach clench when I saw her doubtful expression.

  “Well?” I said.

  Hayden bit her lower lip. “I won’t lie to you. It’s not good. But don’t forget, this is temporary.”

  I practically ran to the pool-house marble bathroom, took one look at myself in the enormous gilt-edged mirror, and burst into tears. I looked like a brunette Little Orphan Annie. My hair, freed of its weight, stood on end in a frizzy mess.

  Hayden appeared in the doorway, brow knitted in concern.

  “Frankie will fix it,” she promised.

  “I look like a poodle! I look like Pepper!”

  I could tell what Hayden was thinking—that this comparison was really an insult to the lovely and graceful Pepper—but she was tactful enough not to say so out loud.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, handing me the baseball hat. “When we’re done with you, you won’t even recognize yourself.”

  “You say that like it’s a good thing,” I muttered.

  Ten

  AT FIRST GLANCE, WORTH AVENUE LOOKED LIKE THE typical picturesque palm-tree-lined tourist-town shopping area. It was a narrow street between rows of charming one-and two-story Mediterranean-style buildings. Cars were parked along the curb beside meters. Awnings provided shade for the crowds bustling along with shopping bags. Purple bougainvillea had been trained to climb up arching columns.

  But upon second look, there were some startling differences. The first hint that I wasn’t in Ocean Falls anymore were the shop signs: Chanel, Gucci, Tiffany, Escada, Cartier. And the cars weren’t just the usual Volkswagens, Fords, and Toyotas—here there were also Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and even a vintage Aston Martin. There were plenty of camera-toting tourists out and about, but there were also very thin, very glamorous women strolling around in head-to-toe Lilly Pulitzer and equally glamorous men clad in linen. Dogs seemed to be popular among the Palm Beach denizens—pugs, whippets, and Jack Russell terriers wearing jewel-studded collars trotted smartly along by their owners’ ankles. There were even doggy water fountains to keep the pampered pooches well hydrated.

  I was all for strolling up and down the street, window-shopping and investigating the little vias that branched off
from Worth Avenue and led to European-style courtyards, complete with fountains and decorative tile. But when it came to shopping here, I had no interest.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” I said, when Hayden suggested we start off at an upscale boutique. When I peeked inside, I saw it was one of those minimalist stores where the clothes are all hung four inches apart on stainless-steel racks and nothing, not even a belt, costs less than three hundred dollars.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just…” I stopped and shrugged helplessly. “Can’t we start someplace a little less scary?”

  I watched as two terrifyingly thin women, one of whom was wearing a fur coat even though it was eighty degrees, teetered past us on four-inch heels and disappeared into the Gucci shop next door.

  Hayden laughed. “These stores are scary only if you can’t afford the prices. And trust me, you can afford them.”

  “Shhh!” I looked around nervously.

  “No one can hear me. Come on, let’s go in and look around.” Hayden reached for the door.

  I stalled for time. “I think I’d be more comfortable somewhere more anonymous. Like Macy’s. Or we could try out the Bloomingdale’s at the PGA mall,” I said hopefully.

  “Do you trust me?” Hayden asked.

  “That depends,” I said suspiciously.

  “You’re not supposed to say that! I’m one of your oldest and dearest friends! You’re supposed to trust me unconditionally,” Hayden said in affronted tones. “Now, do you trust me?”

  I sighed, martyrlike, puffing my cheeks as I exhaled. “Fine. I trust you,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “Good. Then we’re going in to this store, and I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Hayden ordered. She held the glass door open for me.

  I took one look back at the street, wondering if I could escape.

  “Lucy!” Hayden hissed.

  I had no choice but to follow her inside.

  The sales clerk was very tall and regal, with perfectly coiffed short blond hair. She was dressed in a gray pants outfit made out of the sort of clingy material that would probably make me look like an elephant, showing every bump and lump, but it only served to highlight the sales clerk’s itty-bitty waist and long, long legs.

  “May I help you?” she asked politely, directing her comment to Hayden.

  “Thank you, but we’re just looking,” I said.

  The sales clerk glanced at me for the first time, and practically recoiled in horror. This is why I hate going into upscale boutiques: The sales clerks are always such snobs. Okay, sure, so I was still dressed in the same black clothes I’d snuck out of my house in, which admittedly were looking decidedly shabby after three straight days of wear. I’d topped it all off with the hot-pink baseball hat and a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses I’d picked up at CVS. I knew my outfit wouldn’t land me on any best-dressed lists, but surely it wasn’t so bad as to deserve this sort of reaction. I’d passed people on the street wearing fanny packs. Fanny packs! Even I, fashion-challenged as I may be, know enough not to wear a fanny pack.

  But Hayden was undeterred by the snobby sales clerk’s reaction. She grabbed me by one wrist and practically dragged me over to stand in front of the haughty woman.

  “We’re doing a makeover on my friend here,” Hayden said. “Basically, she needs a whole new wardrobe.”

  “Hayden,” I said, wriggling my arm in a vain attempt to shake off the death grip she had on me. “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

  “Are the rest of her clothes like this?” the sales clerk asked Hayden, as though I wasn’t standing there, perfectly capable of fielding questions about my wardrobe.

  “Yes,” Hayden said. “Some are even worse.”

  The sales lady suddenly put a hand to her chest and gasped. My heart felt like it was seizing up in my chest. Oh, dear God, she’d recognized me as the Lottery Seductress. One call to the media, and news crews would be swarming all over me again. I looked around wildly, wondering if I should make a run for it.

  “Is this for one of those television makeover shows?” the sales clerk asked excitedly. “Is there a camera crew hiding somewhere?”

  I stared at her. “Makeover show?” I repeated. This was getting more and more insulting with every passing minute.

  “Well…we’re not supposed to say anything,” Hayden said, leaning toward the sales clerk in a confidential way. She smiled. “I’ll just tell you this: We need her transformation to be spectacular.”

  The sales clerk beamed at us as though this would be her big break. “Leave it to me,” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “What size do you wear?” She eyed me critically. “Ten?”

  “I wear an eight,” I said, trying not to sound as sulky as I felt.

  “Really?” The sales clerk obviously thought I was lying. But not to be deterred from her television glory, she marched determinedly off toward the clothes racks. She began pulling out dresses, skirts, sweaters, and trousers—it looked like one of everything in the store—and hanging them up on a rolling clothes rack that had materialized as if out of nowhere.

  “Hayden,” I whispered furiously. “Why did you lie to her?”

  “I didn’t,” Hayden said, with absolutely zero shame. “I told her we can’t tell her what we’re doing. That’s the truth. If anyone finds out who you are and what you’re doing here, your cover will be blown.”

  “But she thinks she’s going to be on TV!”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure she works on commission, and we’re definitely going to make this worth her while,” Hayden said. She gave me a nudge. “Now, go on, get into the changing room, strip down to your underwear, and start trying things on.”

  I spent the next few days playing Eliza Doolittle to Hayden’s Henry Higgins. It was exhausting. We shopped for hours at a time, with Hayden pushing me from store to store with the ruthless determination of a general launching an armed invasion.

  And shopping on Worth Avenue wasn’t like any shopping I’d ever done before. In the past, I’d always stuck to T. J. Maxx and the sales racks at Macy’s. The boutiques that lined Worth Avenue were sandwiched between jewelry shops that buzzed customers in one at a time and antiques stores that didn’t have prices on any of the merchandise.

  “Two hundred thirty-five dollars for a pair of jeans?” I hissed at Hayden, as she worked through the racks at one of the boutiques, pulling out the garments she wanted me to try on. “I’ve never spent more than forty dollars on jeans!”

  Hayden handed me the jeans and a periwinkle-blue short-sleeved cashmere sweater to try on. “You can afford this now, remember?”

  “Not if I keep shopping like this,” I grumbled. But I tried on the jeans, and, I had to admit, they did look pretty fabulous.

  “See? Told you,” Hayden said, adding them to our pile by the register. The sales clerk, a cool Asian girl with silky dark hair that cascaded down her back, could barely contain her excitement as she mentally calculated what her commission would be.

  Up and down Worth Avenue we went. Almost everything I picked out Hayden dismissed as being too old, too frumpy, or generally unacceptable. And almost every time she’d hold something up to me, narrow her eyes, and thoughtfully say, “I think this will work,” she would be right. It did work—the Versace blouses, the Gucci shoes, the Diane von Furstenberg dresses. We spent a day in Saks alone, where we shopped for shoes, handbags, and makeup, and where Hayden insisted I buy an evening gown.

  “You never know when you’ll need something formal—and when you do, it’s usually too late to go shopping for one,” she said in Saks, handing me a Badgley Mischka silk chiffon gown, the purple-black shade of an eggplant. “And, look, it’s on sale!”

  “For a thousand dollars!” I said incredulously. “That’s almost as much as my first car cost!”

  “Hmmm. A car. Have you thought about buying a new one?” Hayden said. We were driving around in a zippy BMW Hayden’s parents kept on the island, having returned the red
coupe to the car-rental agency the day after Hayden arrived.

  “No cars. Not yet,” I said. “At least not until I talk to my financial adviser.”

  “When are you going to see him?”

  “Friday,” I said.

  “The day after tomorrow?” Hayden looked horrified. “You can’t go with your hair looking like that.”

  “Maybe I can get a nicer hat. They do sell hats here, don’t they?”

  But Hayden had already pulled out her cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer me. Instead, she said, “Frankie! It’s Hayden!” Pause. “I know! It’s been ages.” Another pause. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Great! Look, I need a favor. I’m here. Yes, here-here. The island. And I need you to make a house call tomorrow.” Pause. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” She was using her stern, I-will-not-be-disobeyed voice. It had worked on me to tremendous effect in the past. “Yes, tomorrow. Yes, as in tomorrow-tomorrow.” Another pause. Then she smiled. “Good. We’ll expect you at the house at three o’clock.” Pause. “See you then. Bye.”

  Hayden closed her phone with a click and smiled triumphantly at me. “You’re on with Frankie for tomorrow.” Then she narrowed her eyes, as she looked from me to the evening dress I was still holding. “What are you waiting for? Go try on that dress!”

  On Thursday morning, we drove over to CityPlace, an attractive outdoor mall in downtown West Palm Beach. It was a popular area—the sidewalks were cluttered with shoppers—but it had a decidely more democratic demographic than Worth Avenue. There were a lot of national chains represented there—the Gap, Ann Taylor, Pottery Barn, Williams-Sonoma.

  But Hayden dragged me past the Gap. She had a specific destination in mind: the Anthropologie store. “It has cute basics,” she explained. “Ts, skirts, little cotton sundresses you can throw on with a pair of sandals.”

  “Isn’t that what we’ve been buying?” I asked. I had, over the course of several days, accumulated a wardrobe that was easily five times the size of what I had in my closet back home in Ocean Falls. And one hundred times as expensive. I didn’t want to think about how much I’d spent, although it was hard not to be all-too-aware of it, since I’d insisted on paying for everything in cash. I worried that if I used credit cards, someone would eventually recognize my name.