Good Luck (12 page)

“Yes,” I said miserably. And then I burst into tears.

“Oh, my God! You’re crying! What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“You mean other than my boyfriend turning out to be a lying, cheating sack of shit, and getting fired from my job, and the entire town thinking I hit on teenage boys?” I bleated.

“But what about the lottery money?” Hayden asked, sounding surprised.

“What about it? It’s just
money
. It can’t buy me my life back.”

“Oh, honey.” Hayden laughed her slow, deep laugh. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong. That kind of money can buy you
anything
.”

“I need to get out of town,” I said. “There are reporters camped out in front of my house day and night. I can’t even go to the grocery store. I’ve been eating frozen waffles for three days straight.”

“That’s easily solved: Meet me in Palm Beach. It’ll be perfect! I’m sick of the city. A few weeks at the beach is exactly what I need.”

“Aren’t your parents there? I don’t want to impose.”

“Nope. They never go to Palm Beach before December,” Hayden said. “We’ll have Crane Hill all to ourselves!”

Crane Hill was the name of the Blair family’s Palm Beach mansion. And, like all of the Blairs’ houses, Crane Hill was huge and glamorous and subtly themed. Whereas the Connecticut estate was filled with Oriental rugs and Chippendale chairs, and their ski lodge in Vermont had massive leather sofas with nail-head trim and a chandelier made of deer antlers, the Palm Beach house was decorated with low sofas covered in pale-blue silk, bamboo tables, and enormous Art Deco mirrors, including one reportedly purchased from the Duchess of Windsor. It was located on the east side of the island, with stunning views of the white-capped ocean.

“Well…” I said slowly, the idea growing on me. “I do have an appointment with a financial adviser in Palm Beach on Friday.”

“See? It’s fate!”

“But how am I going to get there? I told you, the press is camped out on my front lawn. They’ll just follow me.”

“Luckily, you happen to be talking to the very woman who perfected the art of sneaking out of her house at the age of thirteen,” Hayden said. “Give me a rundown of your basic house plans, including all possible exits, and I’ll figure out a way to get you out of there. If I remember correctly, your back door is pretty well hidden from view, right?”

“Yes, my backyard is fenced in; I don’t think the press can see back there. But how will I get to Palm Beach? My car’s in the shop. I guess I do have the rental…but it’s parked in my driveway. There’s no way I can go out there without the press seeing me.”

Hayden sighed. “Did you or did you not just come into a gazillion-dollar windfall? You can
buy
a new car. You can buy
fifty
new cars and hire drivers to chauffeur you around in them,” she said.

Oddly enough, I hadn’t considered this. Even though I certainly hadn’t forgotten the money—the knowledge of it sitting in the bank thrilled me whenever I thought of it—I’d been so wrapped up in everything that was going wrong in my life, it hadn’t really occurred to me that I could buy my way out of it. Of course I could easily buy another car. What had I been thinking?

“Okay,” I said, my enthusiasm growing. “I think this could work!”

“Of course it will work,” Hayden said confidently. “Now, let’s figure out an escape plan and get you the hell out of there.”

The plan was pretty simple. Once it was dark I’d sneak out through the back door, climb the fence into my neighbor’s yard, and walk two miles to the Ocean Falls Marriott. There, I’d hire a car to drive me down to Palm Beach.

“A taxi?” I’d asked Hayden.

“A town car with a driver would be better. The hotel will know someone. They may even have a car and driver you can use,” Hayden said.

“But why would they help me? I’m not a guest there.”

Hayden sighed. “That’s where the money comes in handy, Lucy. How much cash do you have in the house?”

“I don’t know…maybe fifty dollars?”

“That’s not nearly enough. Where’s the nearest ATM?”

“There’s a bank next to the hotel.”

“Perfect. Stop there and get out as much money as the ATM will let you withdraw. Use that to bribe the desk clerk, the concierge, the driver, whoever. Just make it clear that you want them to keep quiet about it. And if they ask for your name, make one up. Or use mine.”

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be you for a day.”

“Have them take you to The Breakers on Palm Beach. They’re used to dealing with high-profile clients there. Tip lavishly, and hopefully they won’t tell the press you’re there,” Hayden continued. “I’ll fly down tomorrow and meet you at the hotel.”

On Hayden’s instructions, I didn’t bother to pack; a suitcase would slow me down. I just threw a toothbrush and change of underwear in my purse, and then stuffed Harper Lee into her hated black zip pet carrier. Then I went online and moved a sizeable chunk of money from my savings, where I’d deposited the lottery money, to my checking account. Once the transfer had gone through, I turned off the computer and called my parents. Thankfully, it was my father who answered.

“Hi, honey. How are you holding up?” he asked.

“Peachy keen,” I said.

“Are the reporters still staking you out?”

“Yep. That’s why I called: I’m going to get out of town until this blows over.”

“Where will you go?” Dad asked, his voice infused with concern.

“Palm Beach. I’m going to stay at my friend Hayden’s house. Let me give you the address.”

“Hold on, let me get a piece of paper and a pen,” Dad said. There was a brief pause. “Okay, go ahead.”

I rattled off the address and phone number for the Blairs’ beach house.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything here. Your house, your mail. What about Harper Lee?” Dad asked.

“I’m going to bring her with me,” I said. “Would you mind returning my rental car for me, too?”

“Of course not. Give us a call when you get settled in, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Dad,” I said gratefully. “Give Mom my love.”

“Take care of yourself,” Dad said.

After we hung up, I sat down at my desk. I took out my checkbook—I had novelty checks with pictures of French bulldogs on them—and wrote out three checks for a half-million dollars each. It felt so weird to be writing out such an enormous sum, as though I were playing with Monopoly money. I addressed three envelopes—one for my parents, one for Emma, one for Maisie—and put a check in each envelope. Once they were sealed and stamped, I slipped them into the knapsack I’d be using as a purse, right next to my tattered copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
.

I went into my bedroom and changed from my uniform of ratty sweats into black pants and a black T-shirt. Excitement skittered through me; this must be what it felt like to be an undercover spy. And in a sense I
was
going undercover. I was leaving my life behind and setting off on a new course. Before I switched off the light, I checked out my reflection in the mirror. The fatigue circles under my eyes were purplish, and my skin was wan—black has never been a good color on me—but I was still me. The same kinky out-of-control hair, the same too-round cheeks, the same boring brown eyes. Normally the sight would cause me to roll my eyes and curse the genes that had failed to give me the sleek hair and chiseled cheekbones I’d always coveted. But for some reason, seeing myself looking so normal, so ordinary, was reassuring. I turned off the light. Hopefully the reporters still camped outside would think I’d gone to sleep and would let their guard down.

I headed through the dark house toward the kitchen. I’d left my bag and Harper Lee, whimpering softly inside her carrier, there by the back door. I slung the knapsack over my right shoulder and Harper Lee’s carrier over my left. I reached for the doorknob, but then hesitated and looked back at my modest little kitchen, which I could just barely make out in the dim light shining in from the neighbor’s house lights…at the Formica cupboards, Corian countertop, and basic white appliances…at the vivid cornflower-blue walls I’d painted myself…at the oak Heywood-Wakefield dining table I’d discovered at a thrift store and spent three weekends stripping and restaining. It wasn’t a glamorous room by any stretch; design snobs would probably look down their noses at it. But it was my home. And now I was leaving it. I didn’t know when—or even if—I’d be able to return.

I opened the door, walked out into the darkness, and locked the door behind me.

Nine

         
I WOKE UP TO THE PHONE RINGING. IT TOOK ME A
few beats to remember exactly where I was, although it all came back quickly—my nighttime escape from Ocean, Falls, the expensive, clandestine ninety-minute chauffered car ride to Palm Beach, checking into the glamorous Breakers hotel, where I’d handed the clerk my American Express card and a fifty-dollar bill when he asked what name I’d like to check in under.

“Hayden Blair, please,” I said nervously, fully expecting to be refused a room and possibly treated as a national security threat. But the clerk just nodded, palmed the fifty, and upgraded me to a water-view room.

I switched on a light—the night before, I’d drawn the heavy blackout shades—and reached for the phone, which was still insistently chirping at me.

Please don’t let this be a reporter,
I thought. If it was, it meant our escape plan had failed. I braced myself and picked up the handset.

“Hello?” I said nervously.

“Is that the famous Hayden Blair speaking?” asked a familiar voice.

“Thank God it’s you,” I said, exhaling deeply.

“You know, I never tire of hearing that,” Hayden said.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at home. There’s a slight problem.”

My heart sank. “You’re not coming?”

“Of course I’m coming,” she said.

“Oh, good, I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“Nope. I just missed my ride.”

“Your ride?” I asked. “What, were you planning on driving down?”

Hayden laughed. “Of course not. But I was supposed to catch a ride with a friend who was flying down there for some business thing, but I stayed out a little later than I meant to last night and ended up sleeping through my alarm. I’m going to have to fly commercial.”

Since I lived in a world where commercial was the only choice, I wasn’t sure what the problem was.

“So…can’t you get a flight?”

“No, I did. I made a reservation. The only problem is…” Hayden’s voice trailed off. She cleared her throat. “My credit card was declined. I think I must have maxed it out when I was in Vancouver with Craig.” When she said the name of her ex-lover, her voice had a bitter bite to it. “He said his money was all tied up because of the divorce and that he’d pay me back once it was worked out.”

“The divorce that never happened,” I said. God, men really did suck.

“Right.”

“Look, don’t worry. Give me your reservation number. I’ll call the airlines and give them my credit card.”

Hayden sighed. “I was hoping you’d say that. You’re a life-saver, Lucy. I’ll pay you back, of course.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just get packed and get to the airport. I’ll see you when you get here. I’m in room fourteen-twelve.”

“Room fourteen-twelve,” Hayden parroted back. “Got it. See you soon!”

After Hayden and I hung up, I called the airline. I was a bit taken aback by the price they quoted—$1,408 for a one-way ticket—and then learned that Hayden had reserved a seat in the business-class cabin. I’d never flown anything but coach. Even now that I was a multimillionaire, it would probably never occur to me to fly first class. Why throw the money away when coach class will get you there just as quickly? But then I realized that it probably didn’t even occur to someone like Hayden—with her family money and easy access to friends’ private jets—to fly coach. She and I had been raised in such different worlds. I gave the airline my credit-card number—saying a silent prayer that the customer-service representative wouldn’t recognize my name; luckily he didn’t seem to—and then hung up and stretched out on my bed. My foot nudged against Harper Lee, who was curled up in a tight ball at the foot of the bed, although her eyes were open.

“I have to let you out,” I said, and wondered where one went in a posh hotel to let a dog relieve herself. I slid out of bed, put on the white terry-cloth robe hanging in the closet, and called room service.

“I’d like to order some coffee, and…” I trailed off. For the first time in days, I suddenly felt ravenous. I looked at the room-service menu, helpfully positioned just next to the phone.

“Yes, madam?” a polite voice replied.

“And a ham and cheese omelet. And a muffin basket,” I said. “A glass of orange juice too, please.” Harper Lee stared at me meaningfully. At times like this I could swear she understands English. “Also, an order of scrambled eggs.” I started to mentally add up what I was spending—oh, God, was I really ordering a fifty-dollar breakfast?—but I tried to put it out of my mind. This was Palm Beach, after all. Home of the rich and famous. It wasn’t like I was going to find a Denny’s anywhere around here.

“Also, I need to let my dog out. Where should I do that?” I asked.

“I’ll send someone up for your dog,” the smooth voice said.

“Really?” I exclaimed. “Thanks, that would be very helpful.”

“Of course, madam. May I assist you with anything else?”

“No, that should do it,” I said, smiling into the phone. I went to the window and opened the coral drapes, which color-coordinated with the walls and patterned carpet. Sunshine streamed into the room, and I looked out at my upgraded ocean view. I inhaled deeply and felt my shoulders relax for the first time in weeks. I’d always loved Palm Beach. It was so beautiful, so glamorous. Even the beaches were more luxurious here—the sand was powdery white and the sea was a Caribbean blue, dotted with bursts of white foam.

“You know,” I said conversationally to Harper Lee, “I think it’s going to be a great day.”

Service at The Breakers was a dream. A bellboy came right up to fetch Harper Lee, who was just starting to turn in circles and make her
I need to pee
face. He whisked her away, and by the time they returned, business completed, our food had arrived. I feasted as though I hadn’t eaten in days. Which, I supposed, I really hadn’t. The omelet was stuffed with shaved ham and oozing cheese, the juice was freshly squeezed, and the basket of muffins and rolls tasted as though they’d come straight from a Parisian bakery. (Or so I imagined, having never been to a real Parisian bakery.) Harper Lee gulped down her scrambled eggs, grunting happily as she ate.

After breakfast, I took a long, hot shower in the luxurious marble bathroom, which was stocked with private-label toiletries. Then I put the courtesy robe back on and got into bed with my book. I would have loved to lounge poolside, sipping a fruity drink, but I was too nervous that someone would recognize me after all of the television coverage. Still, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spent an entire morning lounging around in bed. It was deliciously decadent, and I enjoyed every minute. Despite my huge breakfast, I was famished by the early afternoon. I ordered room service again, this time a club sandwich with extra bacon. I gave one quarter of it to Harper Lee, who wolfed it down in one gulp.

“Don’t get too used to it,” I warned her. “We can’t eat like this every day, or we’ll both pork up.”

Harper Lee grinned up at me and rested her paws on my knees. She folded her ears back fetchingly.

“You’re not getting any more of my sandwich,” I told her sternly.

Her little stump of a tail wagged furiously. I relented and handed over another stacked square of the club sandwich. Harper Lee lunged for it, narrowly missing taking a bite out of my hand with her sharp teeth, and retreated to a patch of sunlight by the window to eat her sandwich.

As the afternoon rolled along, I started to get bored and restless. I’d finished rereading
Mockingbird
and realized I should have packed a longer, denser book. Maybe one of the Russian novels that take weeks to read. I turned on the television and flipped through the channels. Thankfully, the talking heads on the cable news channels weren’t covering the Lottery Seductress story today. Instead, they’d turned their attention to another, more salacious story: an infamous Washington, D.C., madam who was threatening to reveal her client list. Everyone was speculating who the rumored clients were; the madam had hinted that they included several high-powered and well-known politicians.

I turned off the television and laid back in the bed. But now, instead of reveling in this new-found decadence, I noticed that my body ached from lying down for so long. Somehow, I eventually drifted off to sleep. While I napped, I dreamed nonstop. In one, I walked in on Elliott having sex with my sister. And when I asked what the hell they were doing, Emma looked up and began to tell me in excruciating detail about how she was going to have not one but
three
wedding ceremonies, each in a different country. And the entire time she nattered on about whether she should have the second wedding in Italy or France, Elliott stood there, his face tensed in concentration as he thrust his hips into her. It was an awful dream, and I woke from it with a start. It took me a long, groggy moment to realize someone was knocking on the door.

“Coming,” I said groggily. I stood up, adjusting the robe around me.
It’s probably the bellboy, ready to take Harper Lee out again,
I thought. Harper Lee clearly had the same thought; she was already by the door when I got there, her tail wagging and her body squirming happily.

I opened the door—and saw that it wasn’t the bellboy after all.

“Ta-da!” Hayden cried out. She let go of her wheeled suitcase and threw her arms around me. She still smelled exactly the same as she had in college—a mixture of Fracas perfume and cigarette smoke.

“Happy to see me?” she asked, pulling back from our hug to beam at me. She looked the same too—the glossy dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, the chic bangs, the ruby-red lips. She was thinner than she was the last time I saw her, though, and there were faint laugh lines just barely visible at the corners of her slanted, striking green eyes, which lent her a vulnerability she hadn’t had before. It figured: Hayden was exactly the sort of woman who would manage to look even more glamorous as she aged.

“I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life,” I said.

Hayden ordered up Bellinis from room service. “I need a drink after that flight,” she said with a shudder, as she collapsed into a yellow chintz armchair. “There was a baby screaming back in coach the entire flight. Sometimes I think I’d like to have a baby, and then I meet one. Changes my mind every time.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s different when they’re your own,” I said, thinking of Maisie’s twins, sadness suddenly twisting in my heart. I missed Maisie and her boys. I wondered how she’d react when she opened the envelope with the check I’d mailed on my way out of Ocean Falls. I wished I could be there to see her face when Maisie learned that all of her financial problems would be instantly wiped out. She and Joe would finally be able to pay off what they owed and put aside college tuition for the twins. I imagined the tears shining in Maisie’s eyes, gratitude mixing with guilt over having yelled at me during our last conversation.

“You think?” Hayden asked. She shrugged. “At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably never find out.”

“You and me both,” I said, and we fell into a melancholy silence that was broken only when room service arrived with our drinks and a dish of shelled pistachio nuts. The sight of the slender crystal goblets filled with champagne and crushed peaches had an instantly buoying effect on Hayden’s mood.

“I think we should make a rule right here and now: no sulking over men. They’re not worth it. They’re a waste of Kleenex,” she announced.

“Hear, hear,” I said. I raised my champagne flute to her. “Here’s to a man-free life.”

“Unless we’re using them for sex,” Hayden amended as she raised her flute too. We clinked glasses and then drank.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.”

“I know,” Hayden said, tossing a handful of pistachios in her mouth. Harper Lee had jumped into her lap, and Hayden stroked the dog’s head absently. “We need a plan. First things first: We’ll head over to Crane Hill.” She looked me up and down. I was still wearing the hotel robe. “Do you have any clothes?”

“Just what I wore here.”

“Good! I’ll take any excuse to go shopping.”

“You sound like Emma,” I said.

“How is your sister?”

“She’s fine. Well, insane but fine. She’s getting married in February and won’t be content until her wedding rivals Princess Diana’s.”

“Good for her,” Hayden said approvingly. “Although I’m so over weddings. If I ever get married, I’m going to elope.”

“Like to Las Vegas?” I asked. The incongruous picture of the coolly elegant Hayden in a tacky, over-the-top wedding chapel, complete with an Elvis impersonator officiating, amused me.

“No. City hall, I think. I’ll wear a vintage Chanel suit and maybe even a little pillbox hat, just like Grace Kelly in one of those old movies from the fifties. Don’t you think that would be sweet?” Hayden mused.

“I thought we were off men,” I said.

“We are. I’m not talking
men,
I’m talking
weddings
. Totally different. Anyway, where were we? Oh, right: shopping.”

“Okay. But nothing over the top. All I really need are some jeans, a few tops, a sundress, a bathing suit. Basic stuff. I’m pretty sure I can get it all at the Gap,” I said.