Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  “So what do you say, Ms. Parker?” Hannigan asked in a grating tone. “What do you want to tell our readers?”

  I stared up at Mitch Hannigan and decided that I hated him. I hated his flat, soulless eyes, I hated his sneering mouth, and I especially hated his ugly goatee. And suddenly I was angry again. I was furious with Mitch Hannigan for tracking me down and yet again blowing my life apart. But I was also mad at Hayden for stealing from me. At Emma for being so selfish. At Maisie for letting me down. At my parents for letting the stupid money come between them. At Elliott for being an ass.

  I took a deep breath and said through clenched teeth, “The only thing I have to say is this: Ruining someone’s life should not be treated as entertainment.”

  I leaned out of the car and punched the code into the security box, taking care to shield the keypad from his view. As the gate slowly opened, Mitch Hannigan called out, “What do you mean by that, Lucy? Whose life was ruined? Yours or Matt Forrester’s?”

  I looked back at him. “Which makes for the better story?” I asked. And then I drove up the driveway without a backward glance at him.

  I walked, zombielike, through the main house back to the pool house to get the bags I’d packed earlier. Because there was no doubt about it—I couldn’t stay in Palm Beach. Not now that the press had found me. I had originally been booked on a flight down to Miami that night, and then on a connecting flight to Paris, but then I ran into Mal, and…well. Those plans had evaporated into smoke as soon as he kissed me. I checked my watch. There was no way I’d be able to make the flight out of West Palm. But if I could somehow get out of here without Mitch Hannigan seeing me, I could drive down to Miami and maybe still catch the flight to Paris. If I missed it, I’d hole up in a hotel for a night and take the first available flight out tomorrow.

  This time, I wasn’t traveling light. I guessed that Hayden would appropriate anything left behind to sell on eBay, and I didn’t want to make any more contributions to her gambling problem. As for the money she’d taken, she could keep it all. The only thing I couldn’t take with me were my books; they’d be too heavy to travel with.

  I set down my luggage and took one last look around the pool house. The pale-blue walls, the ethereal white bedding, the sound of the ocean thrumming in the background. It was such a peaceful place. I was sorry to be leaving it.

  “You’re really going, then?”

  I spun around to see Hayden at the door. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts, I hadn’t heard her approach. Now that she was here, I found I didn’t know what to say to her, so I just nodded stiffly.

  “Did you know the press is out front?”

  “Yeah. I ran into that guy on the way in,” I said. “He’s a reporter for the Palm Beach Post.”

  “There’s a crowd of them out there now. The news vans were arriving when I got home. I barely got inside, and they were all shouting questions at me,” Hayden said.

  “Great,” I said curtly. I wondered how I was going to get to Morton’s to see Mal and tell him I had to leave town, without the press following me there.

  The corners of Hayden’s mouth turned up in a humorless smile. “I guess my parents are going to find out we’ve been living here after all. They’re going to be pissed. I lost house privileges when they cut me off.”

  I was still focused on the press, whom I could already picture swarming outside the gates. Just the thought made me feel claustrophobic, and I pressed a hand to my sternum, willing myself to breathe. The memory of sitting in my house like a prisoner was still fresh. In the distance I could hear the house phone ringing, and I knew it was them, starting to close in on me.

  “What?” I asked distractedly, aware that Hayden had spoken but not focused on her words. It took a few beats to process what she’d said. “Your parents. Will they really be angry?”

  “Furious,” Hayden said, nodding. She shrugged. “But what are they going to do? Charge me back rent?”

  “They could kick you out.”

  “Maybe. But probably not once I tell my mother about Trip,” Hayden said.

  I glanced at her sharply. “Speaking of Trip, I saw Ian earlier.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  “The Drum Roll.”

  “You’ve been at the Drum Roll already?” Then Hayden suddenly frowned. “Did you go there looking for him?”

  For a minute I thought she meant Mal, and my heart skittered.

  “Looking for whom?” I asked cautiously.

  “Ian! Who else?”

  “No, of course not. Why would I?” I asked. “Oh, you mean to tell him about you?” I shook my head, disgusted that our friendship had unraveled to this point. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “What did you say to him about me?”

  “Nothing. He wanted to know why you hadn’t been returning his phone calls. I told him he should talk to you,” I said.

  Hayden made a face. “That’s basically the same as telling him that I cheated on him.”

  “I’m not going to rat you out, but I’m not going to cover for you either,” I said. I shrugged and turned away from her, tired of the conversation.

  I liked Ian and felt sorry for him, but his relationship with Hayden was really the least of my worries at the moment. I was too busy wondering how I was going to get past the swarming mob of reporters and get to Mal so I could tell him in person that I had to leave.

  Mal. The thought of leaving him caused a tight, painful sensation in my chest. I could ask him to come with me, and for a wild moment my hopes soared at the idea of Mal and me traveling through Europe together. I pictured us walking hand in hand through Paris, taking a gondola ride through the canals of Venice, staring up at the domed roof of St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was crazy, we had only had that one afternoon together, but maybe…

  No. It was crazy, I thought, and reality came crashing down with a thud. I was deluding myself. Who would leave his job, his friends, his whole life, to run off to a foreign country with someone he barely knew? I wasn’t his girlfriend; I didn’t know if he was interested in seeing me again. Hell, we hadn’t even spent a whole night together. It was ridiculous. No, it was worse than ridiculous—it was desperate. Wouldn’t it be better—much, much better—to remember our perfect afternoon together than to taint it with my sloppy neediness and his inevitable rejection?

  “Lucy, look, I just wanted to say—” Hayden stopped and swallowed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken that money. I just…I guess I was scared. I got in too deep, and I couldn’t see another way out. And I’m sorry for what I said. About how I didn’t need advice from someone like you.”

  I nodded stiffly, not yet ready to forgive.

  “Is there anything I can do to fix this? To make things better between us?” Hayden asked. There was a quaver in her voice, and she looked at me with wide, beseeching eyes.

  I shrugged, feeling helpless. What could she do? Even if she repaid the money, the trust between us had been breached. “I don’t know, Hayden. I really don’t know.”

  It was Hayden’s turn to nod. She looked as weary as I suddenly felt.

  “So where are you going?” she asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. Right now I have to figure out how I’m going to make it past that mob of reporters.”

  Hayden brightened. “Oh, I can help you with that!”

  “You can?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Didn’t I tell you I perfected the art of sneaking out undetected at the age of thirteen?”

  “This is a little more complicated than getting past your parents’ room without waking them up. There’s a horde of them out there,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the front gate.

  Hayden smiled. “That just makes the challenge more fun,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Hayden’s plan was quite devious. She put on the clothes I’d worn home from Mal’s house, wrapped her head in a scarf so that her dark hair was concealed, and put on a pair of huge sunglass
es. Taller and thinner than me, she wouldn’t fool anyone if we were standing side by side. But squealing out of the driveway and racing past the reporters in my little red convertible, the press would think she was me. Especially when she headed straight off the island, picked up I-95, and drove north toward Ocean Falls.

  I watched her drive off, peeking out from behind the drapes in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and saw the reporters—Mitch Hannigan leading the charge—scramble to climb into their cars and news vans and peel off after her, all convinced their story was getting away. Ten minutes later the street in front of Crane Hill was empty. So empty that no one saw the black town car with the tinted windows pull up through the gate and then moments later depart, with me in the backseat.

  “You’re going to Miami Airport, ma’am?” the driver asked in a thick New York accent.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m booked on a flight that’s leaving at nine. Do you think there’s any way I’ll make it?”

  The driver shrugged his square shoulders and looked up at me in the rearview mirror. “We can try. It’ll be cuttin’ it close, though. But maybe if the traffic’s not too bad.”

  I thought of Mal, who was probably at Morton’s by now, sitting and waiting for me. “Is there any chance we can swing by Morton’s steakhouse on the way?” I asked hopefully.

  “Not if you want to make your flight, lady,” the driver said.

  It was the moment of decision. Should I go see Mal, tell him what had happened, and take the ridiculously slim chance that he might want to come with me? Or should I try to make my flight before the press figured out that Hayden wasn’t me and swarmed back to Palm Beach, ready to bribe the dispatcher at the car service I’d hired to find out where I was going?

  I stared out the tinted window as the mansions standing aloof behind their high-hedged walls passed by. My mouth felt dry, and a trickle of sweat dripped from my neck down my back.

  “What do you want to do?” the driver asked.

  I swallowed. I knew what I wanted. I wanted Mal, wanted to be with Mal. I knew it the same way I knew myself. What I didn’t know was how he felt about me. I knew Mal liked me, but that didn’t mean he was falling in love with me. Or that he ever would.

  I inhaled deeply and then released the breath slowly.

  “Take me to straight to the airport,” I said.

  I pulled out my cell phone, called information, and got two numbers. First I called Morton’s. Mal hadn’t arrived yet, so I asked the hostess to tell him that I wouldn’t be able to meet him after all and to please extend my apologies. Then I called Mal’s condo. When the machine picked up—the sound of his warm, slow voice made the skin on my arms and chest break out in goose bumps again—I simply said, “It’s me…I’m sorry.”

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I pressed the off button and went back to staring out my window.

  Twenty-Three

  OVER THE FOLLOWING WEEKS I STROLLED THROUGH the streets of Paris, and then, when I tired of the city, I rented a car and drove south, heading for the picturesque scenery of rural Provence. From there I traveled to Italy, where I rode in a gondola in Venice, wandered through the Boboli Gardens behind the Pitti Palace in Florence, and spent Christmas Day sitting by the edge of Lake Como, staring off at the mountains in the distance, marveling at the breathtaking view. I spent a few days touring Berlin and Prague and then headed to Amsterdam, where I walked the canals and visited the Van Gogh Museum. Finally, I flew to London with plans to stay awhile. Peter Graham had arranged a three-month lease for me on a flat in South Kensington. I wanted to see everything—St. Paul’s Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, and make day trips to the English countryside. It was the great European tour I’d always dreamed of taking.

  The only problem was, I was miserable. I had never truly been lonely before—I’ve always been content to spend time on my own—so the force of the choking, desolate feeling surprised me.

  I talked to my parents a few times, and I had a feeling they knew something had happened between Emma and me, even if they weren’t sure exactly what it was. But they were both careful in what they said to me, confining their conversation mostly to local news and reports on Harper Lee, who was staying with them while I traveled. When I spoke to Peter Graham, he told me that my parents had finally cashed the check I wrote them, but when I asked my dad what they’d decided to do with the money, he simply said, “Nothing yet.” It was clear he didn’t want to discuss it further, and neither did I. I didn’t have the energy.

  I missed Mal more than I imagined possible. Thoughts of him were constantly with me. And it wasn’t only in the romantic locales—Paris and Venice—that I keenly felt his absence. I wondered if he’d have also gasped in awe to see the ruins of Rome juxtaposed against the modern city, or if he, too, would have been moved to tears when touring the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam. Would he have insisted on seeing all of the sights of Florence, or would he have chosen—as I did—to spend an entire afternoon sitting by a fountain in a town square, eating gelato and people-watching?

  By the time I finally arrived in the British capital, I was so tired that I spent three straight days in the flat, hardly mustering the energy to get out of bed. I ate cereal straight from the box and watched American sitcoms on the television. I didn’t know if I had the flu, or if I was depressed, or both. I finally made myself get up, shower, and head out into chilly London and join the throng of tourists taking in the sights. But I tired easily and found it hard to work up much enthusiasm for anything I saw.

  Happily, no one recognized me as the Lottery Seductress. The story apparently hadn’t gotten any traction in Europe, and on the few occasions when I saw an American news broadcast, I wasn’t on it. I stopped by an Internet café a few times to check my e-mail, and while I was there, I did a Google news search on my name; the posted stories were all over a month old, dating back to my flight from Palm Beach. As for my e-mail, once I cleaned out the 1,546 junk messages that had accumulated there, there were a few interesting items. Maisie had sent me a picture of the twins at Halloween, dressed as pirates and smiling their heart-melting grins, and another from Christmas morning, where they were still in their pajamas and surrounded by a mountain of discarded wrapping paper. Hayden sent me an e-mail that began with another apology, explaining that when her father had cut her off she’d gotten deeper and deeper into debt at the casino, which sent her into a spiral of anxiety and fear that eventually led to her stealing from me. Not that it excused what she did, she was quick to say, and she was again very, very sorry. I was surprised to find that I couldn’t summon up much in the way of anger toward her.

  Then there was the message I almost deleted, mostly because of the subject: Gigolo for Hire. I figured that it was a junk e-mail, one promising miracle cures to enlarge the penis I didn’t possess. Also, I didn’t recognize the address: grandslam@gnet.com. But something made me click on it anyway.

  TO: litteach@mailso.com

  FROM: grandslam@gnet.com

  SUBJECT: Gigolo for Hire

  So what now?

  Grand Slam—as in tennis, not sex—and the gigolo in-joke. It was from Mal. He must have gotten my e-mail address from Hayden. I stared at the e-mail for a long, long time, as I tried to come up with a reply to this enigmatic question. I wanted to say something witty and sexy, something that would remind him of the afternoon we had spent tangled up together. But everything I thought of sounded cheesy or flat, overly sentimental or cold. So finally I hit the reply button and just wrote the truth: I have no idea.

  And then I hit send.

  A few weeks after I replied to Mal’s e-mail—I hadn’t heard from him since, even though I’d made a point of checking my messages a few times a day after that—I finally bottomed out.

  It had been a particularly dismal day. First I mistakenly went to the Tate Britain, when I meant to go to the Tate Modern, and didn’t figure out I was in the wrong place until I had walked twenty minutes in the rai
n, without an umbrella, from the Tube stop to the museum. Then, when I figured out my mistake and got back on the Tube, the train came to an abrupt stop in the middle of a tunnel, forcing us to sit there in the dark for a half hour while the driver made the occasional announcement that we would be delayed for only a few more minutes.

  I finally made it to the Tate Modern, toured the exhibits without any real enthusiasm, and then had tea in the café. I sat next to a moony-eyed couple who proceeded to hand-feed each other bites of cake while I stared down at my tea feeling like the loneliest person in the world. To cap off the day, someone pick-pocketed me on the Tube on my way home, stealing my Oyster fare card and a twenty-pound note. Actually, I wasn’t entirely sure I’d been robbed; it was perfectly possible that I had dropped them in the jostle of the crowd. But in the dark mood I was in, I felt completely justified in blaming the loss on theft.

  When I got home to the flat, I curled up on the bed, and sank into my misery. I missed my home, my family, my life. It hadn’t been perfect, but it had been mine. How had I ended up here, alone and far away from everything and everyone I loved? And yet, what right did I have to feel sorry for myself? I was in good health and had an obscenely large fortune; there were people out there who were sick or hungry and who had no real hope of things getting better for them. It was time to get my life together and move forward.

  “Enough is enough,” I said out loud.

  And then I picked up the phone and made a call.

  We arranged to meet for tea at the Ritz London. I was so nervous, I arrived ten minutes early and sat waiting in the extravagant Palm Court, with its decorative plasterwork, crystal chandeliers, and marble columns. I told the waiter I’d postpone the actual tea and sandwiches until my companion arrived, but I quickly regretted the decision. Tea would have given me something to do with my hands. So I played with my silverware, unfolded then refolded my napkin, and wondered how long I would have to wait.