Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

I laughed at the mental image, which, knowing the Wonder Twins, was all too easy to picture. “I understand. But I’ll miss you.”

  Maisie hugged me. “Me too.” She pulled back and looked up at me. “Come home soon, Lucy. Please.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I promised.

  And long after Maisie left, carried off to Heathrow in a large black taxicab, I did think about it. I couldn’t run forever. Sooner or later I would have to go home, wherever home ended up being.

  I also hadn’t told Maisie that when I checked my e-mail the day before, I’d finally gotten a response from Mal. He’d written simply: Let me know when you figure it out.

  I’d stared at the e-mail for a long time before closing my in box without replying. Before I decided whether or not I should go back to Florida, and if I should call Mal, I had to figure out what I was going to do about the lottery money. My father’s words back at the very beginning, when he’d first found out I’d won, kept echoing in my thoughts:

  You’ve been given a rare opportunity. The chance to make your life whatever you want it to be. Please don’t squander it.

  That’s exactly what I had done. From practically the first moment I’d arrived in Palm Beach, all I’d done was shop and party, party and shop. I’d never even asked Peter Graham about putting aside part of the money for philanthropy, as I’d meant to. Instead, I’d used my winnings to fund the sort of glamorous lifestyle that I’d never aspired to in the first place. But now I knew: That lifestyle wasn’t me. I wanted more from life. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I wanted less.

  Twenty-Four

  IT WAS A FEW DAYS BEFORE EMMA AND CHRISTIAN’S wedding, and I still hadn’t decided if I would be attending. True, Emma had uninvited me. But then a creamy linen wedding invitation printed in an elegant engraver’s font arrived at my London flat.

  I spoke to my mother on the phone a few days after I received the invitation, and she urged me to come home for the wedding, but I’d been deliberately vague about my plans. The truth was, I didn’t know if I wanted to go. Worry about the reaction I’d receive from the wedding guests and anger at Emma fought with my bone-deep desire to see my home and family. And, even if I was still upset with Emma, I didn’t want to miss my little sister’s wedding.

  It was the letter that finally made the decision for me. I knew my parents had hoped it would; after all, they had sent it by overnight courier so that it arrived at my London flat on a cold, dreary February morning two days before the wedding, with a yellow sticky note attached: READ THIS. LOVE, MOM AND DAD.

  I unfolded the single sheet of lined notebook paper and began to read the unkempt handwriting that I recognized from a former life.

  Dear Ms. Parker,

  As part of the program I’m in, I’m supposed to make amends by apologizing to the people I’ve hurt. And the way I figure it, you’re pretty much at the top of the list.

  I’m so sorry. More sorry than I can say.

  When I told my parents and Dr. Johnson that lie about you hitting on me, I was just hoping I’d be able to get back on the soccer team. But then it all got so crazy. First you got fired, and then suddenly it became a huge news story. I didn’t know how to stop it. I should have said that I lied, but I guess I was scared everyone would be mad at me. Which isn’t an excuse, I know.

  I talked to my counselor about it, and he said that I had to set things right, so I’ve told everyone the truth—my parents, the school, even that reporter who kept calling to interview me. I told them all that I made the whole thing up. I was right—everyone is pretty pissed off at me. I was even expelled from school. I don’t care. I figure I pretty much deserve it. The reporter said he’d write a story for the newspaper to set everything straight.

  I wanted to apologize to you in person, but when I called your family to find out where you were, your dad wouldn’t tell me. I guess I understand. I think he was afraid my parents’ lawyer wanted to know so they could sue you. To be honest—and that’s what I intend to be from now on, honest—my parents were planning to sue you, even after I told them that I made up the story about you hitting on me. They’re not bad people. I think they thought I was lying about having lied because I was embarrassed and just wanted to get them to drop the whole thing. But I told them that if they sued you, I’d tell the judge and the lawyers and everyone else that I lied, and they wouldn’t have a case. So they finally agreed to let it go.

  I hope that I get the chance to apologize to you in person someday.

  Yours truly,

  Matt Forrester

  I read the letter three times before the words sank in, before I let myself hope that it could possibly be true. And then I noticed that there was something else in the envelope—a newspaper clipping. My heart hammering, I pulled it out and read it. The article was written under Mitch Hannigan’s byline.

  LOTTERY TEACHER VINDICATED; STUDENT ADMITS HE LIED

  In a startling reversal, Matt Forrester, the Andrews Prep School student who claimed that multimillion-dollar lottery winner and former English teacher Lucy Parker made inappropriate sexual advances toward him, has come forward to admit he lied.

  “Ms. Parker never hit on me. I made up the story in order to get back at her for giving me a low grade,” Forrester said. “I apologize for all of the trouble I caused Ms. Parker and hope that someday she’ll be able to forgive me.”

  The article went on to give a recap of the story—how I was fired and went on to win the lottery, the media circus that followed, how I had stayed undetected in Palm Beach for several weeks. It concluded by stating that I was unavailable for comment and was believed to be traveling out of the country.

  I read it over several times too, wondering if it could really be true. But the words remained the same. Matt had admitted he lied. Mitch Hannigan had published the story. It was finally over.

  I picked up the phone and called British Airways. Once the cool English voice of the customer-service representative answered, I said, “Hello, I’d like to book a one-way ticket from London to West Palm Beach. Departing as soon as possible, please.”

  My house had an empty, neglected feel to it. The air was stale, and dust motes danced in the sunshine. I walked around, opening the windows to let in the cool late-winter breeze. I just missed tripping over two big boxes in the living room. When I bent down to look more closely at the boxes, I recognized Hayden’s handwriting on the address labels and realized they must contain the books I’d bought in Palm Beach. My dad, who had been taking care of my house while I was away, had brought the boxes inside for me.

  I stood back up and looked around. Everything was so familiar. There was the comfy chenille chair I had saved up for four months to buy, the beach-scene painting I’d discovered at a local thrift store, the silver candlesticks that had belonged to my grandmother. Everything had been picked out and bought by me, one piece at a time. When you don’t have any money, every purchase takes on a new importance.

  I finally wheeled my suitcase into my bedroom, where I looked longingly at my bed—it had been a long flight, and I hadn’t slept at all on board—but I only had an hour to get ready for the rehearsal dinner. So I showered and changed into a simple silk midnight-blue dress with flutter sleeves and sequins glittering along the hemline. When I was finally ready, I headed to the garage. My Porsche and Volvo were both parked there; Dad had taken care of getting them home to me. I started to pick up the Porsche keys—I really did love that car—but then a wave of nostalgia for my beat-up yellow Volvo washed over me, and I instead grabbed for the familiar I need coffee key ring and square Volvo key with the rubber-encased head.

  I slid behind the wheel of my old car and turned the key, wondering if the car would even start after so many months of inactivity. The engine had always been temperamental. But it roared to life, albeit vibrating so much it made my teeth rattle, and a moment later I was backing out of the driveway.

  It was only a five-minute drive to the waterfront restaurant where the wedding
-rehearsal dinner was being held, but as I turned down the familiar streets, I already noticed changes that had taken place in my absence. The house on the corner of Beach Street had been painted a pretty hydrangea blue, and the chiropractor’s office on Porpoise Drive had closed, a sign in front announcing that a Montessori nursery school would be opening in the space. As I drove, my nerves felt as though they were stretching, growing more and more taut with each passing moment.

  I knew my family would be happy to see me—well, perhaps with the exception of Emma—but what about the other guests? Which would they believe—the national story of the Lottery Seductress, or the much smaller, less publicized story that Matt Forrester had recanted his accusation? There was no way of knowing ahead of time.

  I pulled into a parking spot in front of the restaurant and climbed out of the Volvo.

  “Here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself.

  I saw a few people up ahead walking into the restaurant—Christian’s mother, Judith, whom I’d met at various family functions, and two of Emma’s best friends from high school. My pulse began to race, so I took a deep breath to steady myself and followed them inside. The hostess—a young girl wearing a black sundress—smiled at me in welcome.

  “Hi, can I help you?” she asked. She didn’t seem to recognize me, which I thought was a good sign.

  “I’m here for the rehearsal dinner,” I said.

  “Oh, sure, it’s right back here. I’ll show you.” She led me to a banquet room off to the side of the dining room.

  The room was set up with round tables, dressed in crisp white linens. Most of the guests were already there milling around, drinking champagne from flutes and munching on the hors d’oeuvres being circulated on round silver trays by the waitstaff.

  I saw Emma first. She was in the middle of the room, basking in the attention her bride-to-be status allotted her. She certainly looked the part. She was wearing a fitted gold sleeveless sheath that showed off her well-toned arms. Her blond hair was twisted up in a chignon, and she wore a gold bangle on each wrist. Christian stood behind her, looking as blandly handsome as ever in his blue suit. I’d personally never found him very attractive—his eyes were too close together—but he was an okay guy. Emma’s friends certainly seemed to like him, laughing up at Christian flirtatiously and throwing their heads back to expose long creamy throats, like birds in the middle of a mating ritual. I knew that their obvious interest in Christian and jealousy that Emma had snagged him would please my little sister.

  “Lucy!” my mother’s voice called out, rising sharply over the din. I was still staring at Emma, and at the sound of my name my sister looked up. When our gazes met, her eyes narrowed slightly. Was Emma angry that I’d come? Worried that I’d cause a scene? There was no way of knowing. A moment later I was engulfed in my mother’s embrace.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, suddenly fighting back tears I hadn’t known were coming.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here!” she said, sounding close to tears herself.

  “Kay, I don’t think she can breathe,” Dad said mildly. “Hello, Lucy. Welcome home.”

  My mom let go of me just long enough for my dad to hug me, and then she wrapped her arms around me again. “I knew you wouldn’t miss the wedding!”

  “When did you get in?” Dad asked.

  “Just a few hours ago. I stopped by my house before I came here. Thanks for watering my plants and taking care of everything.”

  “Happy to help,” Dad said, smiling down at me. “Harper Lee will be thrilled you’re back.”

  “I can’t wait to see her.”

  My mom, now clutching at my hand, peered at me. “You look so different.”

  “It’s the hair. I wanted to find out if blondes really do have more fun,” I joked.

  “Hi, Lucy.”

  I turned and saw my little sister standing there, viewing me with obvious suspicion.

  “Hello, Emma.”

  “I didn’t know that you were coming,” she said.

  “I didn’t either. It was a last-minute decision.”

  Emma bit her lip and looked down, not meeting my eyes. Although she looked glamorous in her sparkling dress and razor-sharp high heels, I could see the little girl with the missing front teeth and scabbed knees she’d once been.

  I smiled at Emma, and to my surprise she smiled back, tentatively at first, but then her face relaxed and her smile widened.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly, and reached out to squeeze my hand. “Lucy, I’m sorry. I acted like a spoiled brat. You must hate me. I would if I were you.”

  I looked at Emma for a long moment, wondering if I could believe her apology. Sometimes it felt as if I’d never be able to trust anyone again. And yet I didn’t want to go through my life twisted and bitter with suspicion.

  I finally said, “No, I don’t hate you. How could I? You’re my little sister.”

  Emma sniffed and pressed manicured fingers into the corners of her eyes. “Don’t make me cry,” she warned. “I don’t want my mascara to run. Wait! I have the most amazing idea: Now that you’re here, you have to be my maid of honor!”

  “Really?” I asked.

  Emma nodded enthusiastically.

  “Ashley can be a regular bridesmaid. I’m sure she won’t mind,” Emma said. “And all of the bridesmaids are wearing red, so as long as you wear red too, it won’t matter if your gown is slightly different. We can go to the mall after this is over. I’m sure we’ll be able to find something at Macy’s.”

  “I have a red dress,” I said, thinking of the red Carolina Herrera gown I’d worn to the fund-raiser at Mar-a-Lago.

  “You do?” Emma asked.

  I nodded. “Yes. And it will be perfect.”

  And it was. The whole wedding was pretty spectacular. Emma really was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen, radiant in her Vera Wang gown. Christian’s eyes actually teared up when she started down the aisle on our father’s arm, and I found myself warming to my new brother-in-law. So what if his eyes were too close together? There were certainly worse flaws for a man to have. And Christian seemed to truly love my little sister.

  The reception was held at a country club—not the Forresters’ club, which was probably just as well—and it was lovely. Twinkle lights had been entwined around posts and potted plants, hundreds of candles lit the room, and tall vases filled with calla lilies were on every table. There was a band with a singer who sounded like Patsy Cline, her voice deep and molasses rich. The champagne flowed freely, and couples filled the dance floor, even during the dinner service.

  The guests were for the most part very kind to me. The women noisily told me how different I looked and how much they liked my hair and how pretty my dress was, while their husbands kissed me chastely on the cheek. Not everyone was willing to offer public displays of acceptance, though. Christian’s parents were very warm toward me, but his two aunts kept their distance, and I saw them muttering together, casting me dark looks that made it easy to guess what they were talking about. I just lifted my head high, smiled at everyone who smiled at me, danced with the groomsmen, and made a point not to drink too much. It helped that Maisie and Joe were there, flanking me like a pair of bodyguards until I made them go off and dance together.

  Oddly enough, no one mentioned the lottery money. I don’t know if it had become inextricably tangled in the Lottery Seductress story, so that one couldn’t be mentioned without dragging up the other, or if it was simply a case of good manners trumping curiosity. Either way, I was thankful.

  It wasn’t until brunch the next day that the subject finally came up. The brunch was held at the hotel where Emma and Christian had spent the night in the bridal suite and where most of the out-of-town guests were staying. It wasn’t a formal gathering, just a buffet of scrambled eggs and French toast, and the wedding guests, many of them pale with bloodshot eyes, trickled slowly in as they dragged themselves up and out of bed.

  I was feeling virtuous for
not having a hangover, so I indulged in a mimosa with brunch. I sat at a table with Christian and Emma, the parents of the bride and groom, and the groom’s brother and very pregnant sister-in-law.

  “Lucy, I heard you just got back from a trip to Europe,” Christian’s mother, Judith, said, as she stirred cream into her coffee. She had a friendly open face and short dark hair softened with highlights. “That sounds exciting.”

  I returned her smile. “I had planned to go backpacking across Europe after college with some friends, but I broke my ankle right before graduation and ended up having to bow out of the trip. It took me ten years to get around to making it up,” I said.

  “Well, I’m sure it was nicer to do it your way than to go backpacking,” Judith said. “All of those awful hostels the kids stay in.” She shuddered. “Give me luxury hotels any day.”

  “Richard and I are going on a trip,” Mom announced, sipping a mimosa from a champagne goblet.

  “You are?” I asked, surprised. This was the first I’d heard of it. “Where are you going?”

  “A cruise through Alaska,” Dad said. He crooked his furry caterpillar eyebrows at me, and I grinned back at him, knowing that this was his way of telling me that they’d finally decided to spend the money I gave them on the trip.

  “That’s great,” I said warmly. “I’m so glad.”

  “We’ll be gone for a month. And when we get back, we’re going to break ground on our new kennel. We bought the lot next door that was for sale,” Mom said happily.

  “So a compromise was reached, then,” I said, and my parents both beamed at me, clearly pleased with the solution. I noticed they were holding hands under the table.

  I passed a few minutes of conversation with Judith about my trip to Europe, and when I mentioned the few days I’d spent on Lake Como, Christian’s father, Paul, chimed in to tell me about his and Judith’s trip there a few years earlier. The pregnant sister-in-law, Jenny, said she thought Lake Como was where George Clooney lived and asked if I’d run into him. Her husband, Scott—brother to Christian, and something of an asshole—rolled his eyes and told his wife not to be stupid. I shot him a dirty look and told her that, no, I hadn’t seen George Clooney, but then again, I hadn’t been looking for him. My mother, who had been only half listening to the conversation, suddenly leaned over and asked which George Clooney movie we were talking about, which then required a too-detailed explanation that we weren’t discussing any of his movies, just the fact that I hadn’t seen him in person.