Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  “But why keep it a secret?” Hayden shrugged. “He hasn’t exactly hidden his other conquests.”

  “The girls at the bar, you mean?” I asked. Hayden nodded. “Please tell me he doesn’t go into detail about that with Ian. I know Mal can be obnoxious, but bragging about his sexual conquests is beneath even him.”

  “No, of course he doesn’t. But he was pretty obvious about leaving with a different girl every night,” Hayden pointed out. “Until recently, that is. I haven’t seen him there with anyone in a long time. Have you?”

  I considered this. It was true: I hadn’t noticed Mal leaving the Drum Roll with a pretty young thing on his arm recently—not that I’d been watching. Well. Not closely, anyway.

  “So either he’s a male slut and a gigolo,” I said, “or he’s just a male slut who’s possibly reforming.”

  “Or he’s a gigolo who’s so overworked, he’s decided to drop all extracurricular activities,” Hayden said, grinning. “Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you, your sister called while you were out.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She sounded upset. Said she really had to talk to you. Something to do with her wedding.”

  I groaned and slumped back against the counter. “No! No more wedding talk! I love my sister—really, I do—but I cannot handle one more minute of listening to her obsess about dresses, and flowers, and bridesmaids, and God knows what else. I don’t have it in me.”

  “Hey, I’m just the messenger.” Hayden held up her hands in mock defense.

  “I’ll call her back later,” I said. Much, much later.

  Seventeen

  I PUT OFF RETURNING EMMA’S CALL FOR A FEW DAYS. I kept meaning to get around to it, but something always came up—a rough nail needed filing, or a movie I’d seen only two or three times before was on cable. When the guilt finally overcame my lack of enthusiasm for the task, I called home one evening while I was waiting for Hayden to get ready to go out to dinner. My dad answered the phone.

  “Hi, Dad. It’s me. Lucy.”

  “Lucy? Hi, honey! How are you? We hadn’t heard from you in so long, your mother and I were starting to worry.”

  “Didn’t Emma tell you I called a few days ago?”

  “No.”

  I sighed. Typical Emma. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Trouble seems to have a way of finding you,” Dad said dryly.

  I couldn’t argue with him on that point. “Yeah, well. Bridezilla called me. So what’s the wedding crisis this time?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve learned to tune your sister out whenever she gets on the topic,” Dad said.

  “But that’s all she talks about.”

  “Exactly. I’ll have to have her call you back, though. She’s not here now.”

  “That’s fine. Actually, Dad, there’s something I need to talk about with you too. My financial adviser told me that you and Mom haven’t cashed the check I sent you.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Dad?”

  “I’m still here. I just…well, I don’t feel like we should take that money from you.”

  I sighed impatiently. “I want you to have it. I want you and Mom to use it to do something amazing.”

  “And I want you to save that money for your future,” Dad insisted. His voice took on the steely tone that, when I was growing up, meant I was wandering dangerously close to trouble.

  “I have lots of money. Lots and lots of money. Piles of it, in fact.”

  “You can’t think of it that way. If you start spending the capital—” Dad began.

  “Then I’ll still have more,” I said. “I couldn’t possibly burn through all of that money. Not in my lifetime.”

  “Lucy, you’ve always been very careful with your finances. I want you to promise me you won’t let this money enable you to slip into bad habits.”

  I wondered if he’d consider my recent splurges on Worth Avenue to fall under the heading of bad habits and thought I’d probably better not mention them.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I will promise you on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You cash the check,” I said.

  “Lucy—”

  “Consider it a quid pro quo,” I said. My dad had been very big on the concept of quid pro quo when Emma and I were growing up. Whenever we wanted something, from a Bonne Bell Lip Smacker to car privileges, Dad would say, “And what’s the quid pro quo going to be?” And we’d end up having to do a chore to earn it.

  “Blackmail wasn’t exactly the lesson I was trying to teach you.”

  “Blackmail is a bit harsh, don’t you think? Especially since I’m trying to give you money, not get it out of you,” I pointed out.

  “I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to your mother about it.”

  “I thought Mom was all in favor of taking the money.”

  “Yes,” Dad said. “Your mother wants to build a kennel in the backyard. I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, she says it will mean fewer dogs in the house.”

  I laughed. “Fat chance. Knowing Mom, it will just mean more dogs, inside and out.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Dad said, sounding resigned to this inevitability.

  “I meant for that money to be a good thing for you two. I didn’t mean for it to be the source of conflict,” I said.

  “I know you didn’t,” Dad said. “Will you think about what I said about not overspending?”

  “Of course,” I said. I decided this wasn’t a good time to mention that I had an appointment that afternoon to test-drive a car. And not just any car—a 1963 Porsche 356 Cabriolet. Frankie—Hayden’s and now my stylist—had heard I was in the market for a car and had put me in touch with a client who was selling it. It would certainly solve my problem of needing to buy a car but not wanting to go through a dealer, who would almost certainly insist upon seeing my license and might recognize my name. I knew I would still need to arrange for the title transfer and insurance, but that was the sort of thing Peter Graham had said he could do for me.

  “It’s easy. I’ll create a corporation, name you the sole shareholder, and the corporation will buy the car,” he’d said the last time I’d seen him. And I had thought for the hundredth time in recent weeks that having money really does solve most problems. The old saying Money doesn’t buy happiness really should be Money may not buy happiness, but it can solve all the problems standing between you and happiness.

  “I should get going. I have to get to the office,” Dad said. “I have three back-to-back root canals.”

  “Okay. Tell Emma I called. And say hi to Mom,” I said.

  “Will do. Bye, honey. I love you.”

  “I love you too, Dad.”

  The car was amazing. Not being a car person myself, I’ve never really understood how people can get excited about a machine that has the dull if necessary job of ferrying you from place to place. But as I gazed at the cherry-red Porsche convertible, I felt it for the first time: car lust.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I breathed. And it was. The car was a sporty little two-seater with an elongated front, round headlights, and buttery-soft brown leather seats.

  “I know,” Sherman said sadly. “I hate to part with it.”

  I walked around the car slowly, trailing one finger on the shiny lipstick-red paint. “Why are you selling?”

  “My company is transferring me to Paris,” Sherman explained. He was about my age and height and had dark hair with blond highlights, thick eyebrows, and even thicker lips. He was wearing a skintight blue T, flowing linen pants, and leather thong sandals. “I thought about taking it with me and having it shipped over—”

  “I’ll take it,” I said quickly, before he could change his mind.

  Sherman laughed. “You don’t know how much I’m asking for it.”

  “Whatever it is, I’ll take it,” I said. And then, realizing that this was perhaps not the best negotiation tactic, I a
dded, “How much are you asking?”

  “I’ll tell you what. You take the car for a test-drive, decide if you like it, and if you’re still interested when you get back, we’ll talk about the price,” Sherman said. He walked over and opened the driver’s side door for me.

  “Really?” I asked excitedly.

  “Hop in,” Sherman said. Then, with the furrowed brow of a worried parent, he patted the car protectively. “Just be careful with her.”

  Five minutes later, cruising down South Lake Drive, I was convinced: I had to have this car. It didn’t matter what Sherman was asking for it, I was going to buy it. Everything looked better from behind the wheel. The sky was an even deeper azure blue, the whitecapped ocean looked even more lovely, the mansions were even larger and more imposing. And I was sure the car made me look better too—prettier, sexier, more glamorous. The knowledge that I was going to own something so beautiful, so luxurious, made my pulse hum with excitement.

  I put on my turn signal and was about to turn right and loop back around to Sherman’s condo when I saw Mal drive by. At least, I thought it was Mal. Yes, it definitely was, I decided. That was his car, a little silver Mazda. I’d seen him getting in and out of it at the club. Mal was now driving west on Royal Palm Way, about to head over the bridge.

  Palm Beach really is a small town, I thought. A very rich town, but small nonetheless.

  And then suddenly I remembered: It was Thursday. And if I remembered correctly—and I knew I did—Mal’s secret assignations, the ones he refused to talk about, took place on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Without thinking it through, I turned left instead of right and followed him.

  Mal drove over the bridge to West Palm and took a right on South Flagler, driving along the water. I followed as far behind as I could without losing sight of him, realizing belatedly that a red Porsche convertible is not the best car for going undercover in. Mal made a left, then a right, and then another left, and suddenly the surroundings took a sharp turn for the worse. Gone were the waterfront mansions and towering office buildings. Here the houses were small and shabby, often with boarded-up windows and lawns that had more weeds than grass.

  This is where Mal goes on his romantic trysts? I wondered. It didn’t seem possible. There wasn’t a luxury hotel in sight.

  Ahead of me, Mal turned into a school parking lot. The sign in front read, LEEANDER HIGH SCHOOL. The school was two stories high and painted royal blue. Along one wall there was a mural of a majestic yellow lion, his head raised and turned so that he was staring out at the street. Above the lion, THE LEEANDER LIONS was painted in red block letters.

  I hesitated, not wanting Mal to see me but not wanting to lose him in case he was just cutting through the parking lot. I watched him turn right into a looping driveway, which he followed around toward the back of the school and out of my sight. I drove slowly after him. A minute later his Mazda was back in view.

  I came to a full stop and watched Mal pull into a spot in the school’s rear parking lot, just next to the asphalt tennis courts. Like the rest of the school, the courts looked taken care of—the net was hanging straight and the lines were freshly painted—but it was utilitarian and designed for wear, not aesthetics. A group of girls, mostly black and Hispanic, were assembled on the court, some sitting, some standing. A few of the girls were hamming it up as they waited, dancing and wiggling their hips from side to side, as they waved their tennis racquets around overhead.

  Mal jumped nimbly from his car and pulled his tennis racquet and a hopper of yellow tennis balls out of the trunk. When the girls saw him, they let out a loud cheer that I could hear, even at a distance.

  “Mr. Mal’s here! Mr. Mal’s here!”

  Mal waved his racquet in greeting, and one of the girls—tall and dark-skinned, with white beads braided into her hair—dashed out to greet him. He gave her a high five and handed her the ball hopper. The girl carried it easily and followed after him, beaming.

  I stared openmouthed at the scene before me, as it began to dawn what exactly was going on here. Mal was coaching these girls. Yes, there was no mistake about it. After he’d greeted them—which seemed to involve some good-natured ribbing on both sides—the girls lined up on one side of the court, Mal on the other, and he began hitting balls to them. I recognized the drill—it was one he’d done with me. A fore-hand shot, then a backhand, a jog up to the net to take a volley, and then back for an overhead smash. The girls knew the drill, and the line moved quickly as each one stepped up to the baseline to take her turn.

  I wasn’t close enough to hear what Mal was saying, but the girls looked intent and focused, breaking into smiles only when they’d finished and been rewarded by a cheer from Mal.

  And all the while I just sat there, staring at the spectacle and wondering how I could have gotten it so wrong. Even though I’d befriended Mal and spent hours with him, playing tennis or hanging out at the Drum Roll, I had never really given him a chance. I’d always assumed that that guy, the one I was getting to know, was really just a frothy whipped topping over a more mercenary and shallow core. And all along, I had misjudged him. He wasn’t having sordid afternoon assignations with married women. He was doing something meaningful, something that had value.

  Mal was, I realized, doing exactly what I most loved—teaching. Sadness pressed like a cold stone in my chest. I missed my job. It didn’t matter how much money I had—after Matt Forrester’s accusations against me, I would never be able to teach again. And if I wasn’t a teacher, then who exactly was I?

  My cell phone rang, startling me out of my reverie. I fumbled for it and quickly hit the talk button, while I crouched down behind the steering wheel. Thankfully neither Mal nor the girls seemed to have heard the ring tone, for no one even glanced in my direction.

  “Hello,” I whispered into the phone.

  “Lucy? Is that you?”

  I didn’t recognize the voice. I was immediately wary. Had the press finally tracked me down? Had they somehow gotten hold of this number?

  “Who’s this?” I asked, my voice sharp and cold.

  “It’s Sherman. You have my car.”

  “Oh! Sherman! Right…sorry. I got…distracted,” I said.

  “I was about to call the police,” he said testily.

  Yikes, I thought. “Don’t do that,” I said. “I’m coming right back. And I definitely want to buy it.”

  “You do?” Sherman asked. He still sounded suspicious, but the prospect of the fat check I was about to write him seemed to dampen his anger.

  “Yes,” I said. “I do. Hold on, I’ll be there in five minutes.” Then, looking around and realizing that I wasn’t entirely sure where I was, I said, “Better make it ten.”

  I took one last look at Mal. He’d broken the girls up into teams of two for doubles practice. On one side of the net the girls were serving, while the girls on the opposite, cross-court side returned service. Mal was jogging up and down the courts, trying to watch four sets of players at once, pausing occasionally to adjust a grip or correct a swing.

  Wow, I thought, shaking my head. It was still hard to fully comprehend just how wrong I had been about Mal. It made me wonder: What else had I gotten wrong?

  I made a neat three-point turn and drove slowly back down the driveway and off the school grounds.

  Mal and his high school tennis team were still very much on my mind that evening while I was having dinner with Drew. We were dining at Café Boulud at the Brazilian Court hotel. I was having the grilled tuna; Drew had opted for the lamb chops. Drew was telling me a story about a client, an elderly woman who had been ripped off in a security-fraud case. I was half listening to him and picking at my fish.

  “Is everything okay?” Drew finally asked. “You seem a bit preoccupied.”

  “I guess I am,” I admitted. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such lousy company.”

  Drew smiled and shook his head. “You’re not. Just more quiet than usual. Sometimes I wonder what you’re thinking.
You can be a bit mysterious, Lucy Landon.”

  Lucy Landon. How could I be in a relationship with a man who didn’t even know my real name? It was ridiculous and, frankly, insulting to Drew. He deserved better than being deliberately misled. No, misled was too mild. I had lied to him. And the time to stop lying had finally arrived. I drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to—” I began.

  But Drew was so intent on his own news, he didn’t hear me. “I was thinking it’s about time you met my family,” he said.

  This startling announcement chased all thoughts of confession out of my mind.

  “Your family? Really?” I asked.

  Drew nodded. “My parents are hosting a fund-raiser for the local children’s hospital. It’s being held at Mar-a-Lago—black tie, thousand dollars a plate. My mother has told me in no uncertain terms that I am to show up with a date. And so I told her I’d been seeing someone….”

  “Me,” I said, smiling.

  “You,” Drew agreed. “She said that it was about time they met you. And I agree. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m a little nervous,” I said. “Will your parents like me?”

  “Of course they will. But I should warn you: My mother is on a one-woman mission to become a grandmother. My sister Josie got married last year, and our mother’s been driving her crazy, demanding to know when they’re going to start a family.”

  “Does your sister want children?”

  Drew laughed. “I have a hard time seeing Josie as the maternal type. She doesn’t like kids. And my baby sister, Delia, hasn’t ever been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than a few weeks, so she’s not going to settle down and start popping them out anytime soon. I think our mother sees me as her best chance for grandchildren. So don’t freak out if she interrogates you about your readiness and ability to bear children.”

  “Are you serious? She’d really ask me about that?”

  “Oh, yes,” Drew said. “Perfectly serious. You don’t know my mother.”

  “Maybe I should get a letter of reference from my gynecologist.”