“It’s fine. And, sure, we’re still on,” I said. After all, the new Lucy wasn’t going to act sulky over not having heard back immediately from a guy she’d been out with only once. Then I wondered if maybe the new Lucy shouldn’t be so readily available, should not have kept her night open, should in fact be so busy, it would be a struggle to fit Drew in. For no reason at all, I remembered Mal calling me a “girl about town,” and the memory made me smile. That was certainly as far from the old Lucy as it got. That Lucy spent her nights at home, ensconced on the sofa with a cup of herbal tea and a good book.
“Fantastic,” Drew said, and he sounded so pleased, I was glad I hadn’t played hard to get. “Should I pick you up? Say about seven?”
“Sounds great,” I said. I gave him directions to Crane Hill, and then we said good-bye and hung up. And I couldn’t stop smiling. Two dates in one week!
Take that, Elliott, I thought, and pictured myself knocking him over with a well-placed karate kick to the stomach. Hi-ya!
That evening, before my date, I called my parents from the pool house. It had been too long since I’d talked to my family, and I didn’t want them to worry. Emma answered the phone.
“Hey. It’s me,” I said. I was sitting on one of the white linen sofas, and I tucked my feet up underneath me. Just hearing my sister’s voice suddenly made me homesick. Harper Lee, who was curled up on the sofa next to me, settled against my thigh with a heavy sigh.
“Lucy?”
“Yes. Of course it’s me,” I said.
“Hey! How are you? I’m so mad at you, by the way. I can’t believe you ran off to Palm Beach and didn’t take me with you. I could have used a little R-and-R right about now.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Well, the wedding planning is extremely stressful, of course. And Mom’s been in a tizzy. Do you know who called her?”
“Who?”
“Oprah Winfrey. Well, not Oprah herself, but one of the producers from her show. Can you believe that?”
“What did they want?”
“What do you think? She wanted to do an interview with the Lottery Seductress. In fact, she wanted the whole family on her show,” Emma continued. “Mom said no, of course.”
Good old Mom, I thought. She’d never sell me out.
“But then she started to think about it and decided she made a mistake turning it down.”
“What! Why?”
“Because of the publicity she could have gotten for whatever her project du jour is. Spay and Neuter Week, maybe? Or maybe it was Save the Sea Turtles. Anyway, she called the producer back to discuss it.”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “First Elliott was on Good Morning America and Larry King, now Mom’s going to be on Oprah?”
“No, she’s not. They told her they wanted to do a show just on you. You know, the Lottery Seductress.”
“Please don’t call me that. And there’s not a chance in hell I’m going on Oprah to talk about it.”
“That’s what Dad said you’d say,” Emma said. “Where are you staying, anyway? Hayden’s house?”
“Why? Are you going to sell me out too?” I asked suspiciously.
“No,” Emma said. “Not even for Oprah.” Then she reconsidered. “Well. Probably not for Oprah.”
“Did you get the check I sent you?”
“Oh, my God! I totally forgot to thank you!” Emma exclaimed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I’m going to have the most amazing wedding ever!”
“Look, Em, it’s your money to do with what you wish. But please don’t spend all of it on the wedding,” I said. “I want you to save it for your future with Christian.”
But Emma wasn’t listening to me. “Actually, we were a little confused. You sent a check to me and one to Mom and Dad. Were they both supposed to be for the wedding?” she asked.
“What? Of course not!” I said, thinking not even Emma could come up with a way to spend one million dollars on a wedding—could she? God, I hoped not. “I thought Mom and Dad would use the money to do something fun. Take a great trip somewhere, or maybe buy a second house. Dad’s always said he’d love to spend his summers in Maine. They could use the money to buy a cottage up there.”
“Dad won’t accept the money,” Emma said, suddenly serious.
“Won’t accept it?” I repeated, confused. “But why?”
“He said he won’t have you supporting him. Mom’s ticked off at him. She said you wouldn’t have given it to them if you didn’t want them to have it. She wants to use it for one of her causes.”
“I was hoping they’d spend it on themselves,” I said. As much as I respected the animal-rescue work our mother did, I wanted my parents to put the money toward something fun. And the last thing I’d intended was for it to be a source of conflict between them. “I should talk to them. Is either of them home?”
“No. Neither one. Dad’s still at work, and I think Mom went to feed the feral cats.”
“Tell them I called. And that I’m fine,” I said.
“Will do. Hey, wait, before you go, let me ask you something,” Emma said.
I smiled. Emma might be self-centered and wedding-obsessed, but when it came down to it, she was a good sister. She probably wanted to know how I was dealing with the breakup. Or whether I was worried about the allegations Matt Forrester had made against me. And the truth was, I was still feeling a little shaky. So much had changed in such a short time, and I was still trying to get used to this new life I’d suddenly been thrust into. I could use some sisterly support right about now.
But then Emma continued: “What do you think about blush?”
“Blush. What about it?”
“Should I wear it?” Emma asked patiently.
“Um, are we talking makeup?”
Emma laughed. “No, silly. I always wear blush. You should too, you know. You should try Nar’s Orgasm. It would be perfect with your skin tone.”
I looked wildly around the pool house, as if the answer to what the hell my sister was talking about was floating there in front of me.
“Did you just tell me you think I should have an orgasm?” I asked slowly. “Because you know I love you, Emma, but that’s sort of personal.”
“It’s a shade of blush, you idiot. That’s what the color is called: Orgasm.”
“Lovely.”
“It is. But that’s not what I was talking about.”
Does the sudden desire to pound your head against the wall until you manage to knock yourself unconscious happen to everyone when they’re talking to their family? I wondered. Or was it just me?
“I’m talking about wedding dresses. Do you think they have to be white or ivory, or do you think it’s okay to go with blush instead?” Emma continued.
“I think I have no opinion on this subject whatsoever,” I said. I stroked Harper Lee’s head, and she snorted appreciatively.
“Because my wedding is going to be very traditional. A five-course dinner, a jazz band, huge silver urns of white and pale-pink roses on the tables. But I thought maybe if my dress was a little untraditional, a bit unexpected, it would make more of an impact, especially against the traditional background.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, wondering if I could just hang up on Emma and pretend that we’d been disconnected. Although then I’d just have to call back, and she’d probably insist on continuing with the wedding-dress talk. She might even start over from the beginning.
“At first I thought I’d just go with a more modern dress. Strapless, maybe. Or shorter, with a really full, knee-length skirt. But the problem with that is that I’ve always dreamed about wearing a real wedding gown on my wedding day. And then I thought, what if I got a really traditional gown but in a nontraditional color? I was thinking something shocking, like red or fuchsia, but that seems like too much of a statement, if you know what I mean. So then I thought maybe blush would work—”
That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Emma. I have to go
,” I said, cutting her off mid-rant.
“What? Why?” she asked, suddenly sounding hurt and very young. Like a little girl who’d been told she couldn’t have ice cream for dessert because she didn’t finish her Brussels sprouts.
“I’m sorry. It’s just…” I cast around for a reason. I had a feeling that it wouldn’t help matters to tell her if I ever heard the word blush again, my ears would start to bleed. Then inspiration struck. “I have a date tonight, and I have to start getting ready.”
“A date! With who?” Emma asked eagerly, immediately ready to forgive my lack of interest in her wedding plans.
“His name is Drew,” I said, feeling another rush of girly stomach squirms. “He’s a lawyer. We went out a few nights ago, and he asked me out again for tonight. He’s…well, he seems really great. He’s very smart and witty.”
“Way to go, you!” Emma said. “Is he cute?”
I attempted to take the high road. “You know, there are more important qualities in a man,” I said loftily.
“So he’s not cute. Well, that’s okay. Looks aren’t everything.”
“For your information, he happens to be very attractive,” I said. “Tall, dark hair, broad shoulders. And he has really great eyes. All sexy and squinty when he smiles.”
“Mmmm. Have you slept with him yet?” Emma asked.
“None of your business!”
“So you haven’t. Well, do yourself a favor.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Two words: Nar’s Orgasm,” Emma said. “Trust me, it’ll do wonders for your face. You’ll look like you have cheekbones.”
“And on that note, I’m going to hang up,” I said.
“Bye, Lucy.”
“Bye, Emma. Give my love to Mom and Dad,” I said.
“Knock knock,” Hayden said, opening the door to the pool house and sticking her head in.
“Come on in,” I said. “I’m just getting ready.”
“Hey, look at you, gorgeous girl!” Hayden said, beaming at me.
“You like?” I asked, smoothing down the black strapless dress. It was made out of a surprisingly comfortable and flattering stretchy cotton sateen that somehow sucked in my stomach and yet still allowed me to breath.
“I love,” Hayden said. “You should wear those long red beads we picked up the other day.”
I rummaged in a carved ivory box on the coffee table. The box was probably meant to be decorative, but I’d been using it to store the jewelry—mostly costume, although still jaw-droppingly expensive—Hayden had insisted I buy. I pulled out the beads, and Hayden took them from me, looped them around my neck twice, and fastened the clasp.
“Turn around,” she instructed me. When I complied, she adjusted the beads so that one loop was up high on my neck, like a choker, while the other dipped down low over the bodice of the dress. “There. Perfect! And wear the Jimmy Choo shoes. No, not those. The tan ones. He’s very handsome, by the way. If you go for that blue-blazer-and-chinos sort of guy.”
“Who? Drew? He’s here?” Hayden nodded, and I felt a tingle of nerves, which I tried to smother by taking a deep breath.
“He said he’s taking you to Chez Jean-Pierre,” Hayden said approvingly. “Very nice. Obviously, he likes you.”
“You think?”
“Either that or else he’s just hoping to get you into bed by buying you an expensive dinner,” Hayden teased.
I rolled my eyes. “Somehow I don’t think so. Not after the cheek-kissing fiasco.”
“Maybe he’s just shy,” Hayden suggested. “Or maybe he was nervous. Anyway, tonight will be your night. And if not, come meet Ian and me at the Drum Roll later on. Mal will be there. I bet he’d be more than happy to step in if Drew doesn’t want to put out.”
I swatted at her, and Hayden ducked, laughing.
“Sleeping with Mal would just be asking to contract a scorching case of gonorrhea,” I said.
Hayden snorted. “Yeah, Mal does seem to subscribe to the theory that variety is the spice of life, doesn’t he?”
“I thought he might be a—” For some reason, the word gigolo sounded too ridiculous to say out loud.
“What?”
“I thought he might sleep with women for, you know, money.”
“You think Mal’s a prostitute?” Hayden practically screamed the word, before dissolving in a fit of giggles.
“No! Not a prostitute! More of a…gigolo. In it for what he can get,” I said sheepishly.
Still laughing, Hayden shrugged. “Maybe. But isn’t everyone, to a point?”
“I’m not,” I said.
“You, my dear, are worth thirty-four million dollars,” Hayden reminded me. “You don’t need anything.”
“That’s not true. Everyone needs something. Friendship, companionship, love.”
“Well, maybe this Drew guy is the man for you.”
“I doubt it. He doesn’t know about my…situation,” I said delicately. As though being accused of making a pass at a student, getting fired unceremoniously from my job, and winning a multimillion-dollar jackpot all at once was the sort of medical condition that couldn’t be mentioned in polite society. I shrugged. “I’m not thinking of him that way. He’s my rebound guy.”
“Rebound guy or not, you’d better not keep him waiting. Dinner at Chez Jean-Pierre is a real treat. You don’t want to miss it.”
Hayden was right—dinner was spectacular, easily one of the best meals I’d ever had. I ordered the Dover sole, and Drew had the rack of lamb. And as we ate, and sipped chilled white wine, the conversation flowed easily between us. Drew told me a funny story about a client of his who went out on a day fishing trip with two business associates. All three of them proceeded to get bombed on mojitos and were so drunk they didn’t realize their boat was sinking until they were ankle deep in water.
“So what did they do?” I asked.
“Put out an SOS call. And even though they immediately got in touch with the Coast Guard, they started talking about the movie A Perfect Storm and managed to scare themselves so badly, they had another round of mojitos to calm down. When the Coast Guard finally got to them, one of them was unconscious and the other two puked on the rescue helicopter on the way back to shore.”
“And the boat?”
“Sank. It’s somewhere on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, along with the Titanic and the Lusitania,” Drew said with a grin, as he took a swig of his wine.
“Who’s your client suing? The company who insured his boat?” I asked.
“Oh, no, that’s completely unrelated. The lawsuit has to do with the dissolution of a corporation he was a minority shareholder in. But that doesn’t make for as good a story.”
“No, I guess not,” I said, smiling back at him. “Do you like practicing law?”
Drew shrugged. “Sure. How about you? Did you enjoy being an office manager?”
“I guess,” I said. The problem with living a lie is that it requires a certain amount of proficiency in dishonesty. And I’ve always been a terrible liar. I tried to remember tips for sounding more believable while lying. Was I supposed to include more detail—or less? More, I thought. “It was pretty boring. Lots of…paperwork,” I finished lamely. I had no idea what sort of paperwork I was supposed to have been performing at my fictional job and hoped that Drew wouldn’t press the point.
“You prefer what you’re doing now?”
“Right now I’m not doing anything, other than loafing around, shopping, swimming in the pool, and going out to dinner,” I said. “Actually, what am I saying? This is paradise; of course I prefer it!”
And who wouldn’t prefer a vacation in one of the most glamorous spots in the world over teaching English to a class full of overprivileged brats? I thought defiantly. And if I kept telling myself that, maybe I would eventually believe it.
Throughout dinner, Drew kept finding excuses to touch me. He patted my hand for emphasis as we talked. He brushed a loose hair from my bare shoulder. His
calf pressed against mine under the table. And although he was never overt—he didn’t run his hand up my thigh or squeeze one of my breasts—the physical connection between us hummed along with a low-key sensuality.
Drew kept me laughing. He told me stories about growing up with his two sisters, both younger, and how they had all terrorized one another, or how when he went to college he had no idea that he was supposed to change his own sheets and so had slept on the same stale, grimy bed linens for an entire semester.
“That’s revolting,” I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust.
“Yeah, well, I was an eighteen-year-old male. Revolting was par for the course,” Drew said. “I won’t even tell you about what it was like living in a frat house. We didn’t do the dishes for weeks at a time, and by the time we got around to it…Well, I won’t give you the details. It’ll put you off your dinner.”
“I can’t eat another bite anyway,” I said, putting down my fork with a groan. “That was fabulous.”
“I’m glad you liked it,” Drew said. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled up at the edges, and suddenly I felt a nervous flutter ruffle through me. We were almost at the end of our dinner, and unless I was completely illiterate at reading the signs, this date wasn’t going to end as innocently as our first.
“Dessert?” Drew asked softly. I had the distinct feeling that he was wondering the very same thing I was.
The old Lucy would have waited for him to make the first move. So I banished that instinct and instead looked Drew straight in the eye.
“I have a great view of the ocean from my room,” I said.
The sex was weird. Nice—but weird. Or maybe weird wasn’t the right word, as it tends to conjure up images of whips and squeaking black vinyl and demands that your partner bark like a dog. Sex with Drew wasn’t weird-kinky, just weird-different. More specifically: different from how it had been with Elliott. Which wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t as if Elliott had been the world’s greatest lover. He’d treated my orgasms like they were a baton handoff in a foot race, asking me, “Did you come yet? Did you come yet?” over and over again, until I wanted to scream, No, but I might manage it if you’d shut up for two minutes.
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