Good Luck (20 page)

“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.

Ironically, one of the things that was different with Drew was how vocal he was. I’ve never been much for dirty talk, finding it awkward and silly. And other than Elliott’s orgasm watch, he never made a sound during sex, not even when he climaxed. He’d just grunt and then go very still and slack, until I gently pushed him off me.

But Drew kept up a stream of chitchat while we made love: “Do you like this?” and “Yes, keep doing
that,
that feels great,” and “Ouch! Was that your fingernail?” He didn’t wait for me to climax, the way Elliott always did—as though he’d receive a plaque engraved with L
OVER OF THE
Y
EAR
on it—which was both a relief to have the pressure off and a bit of a disappointment. I’d gone through a period when I was twelve where I’d been obsessed with the sort of romance books that had covers featuring women whose breasts were a millimeter away from popping out of their bodices and that were filled with steamy and incredibly graphic sex scenes, during which the heroine always orgasmed, even while losing her virginity. This had set up unrealistic expectations in my young, impressionable mind that even sixteen years of dating had not fully dispelled.

And then, when it was over, Drew rolled over to the other side of the bed, sighed happily, and said, “How was your sole? I think I might order that the next time I go to Chez Jean-Pierre.”

“It was delicious,” I said, wondering how the male brain could go from sex to food so quickly. Maybe it never fully got off either topic but kept them running along in the background, like the headline ticker on CNN, even while the rest of the brain was occupied with more mundane tasks like work or teeth-brushing.

Drew turned back over on his side and grinned at me. His face was damp with sweat, and his chest hair was dark and thick. He reached over and squeezed my arm.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. Wonderful.” Although to be honest I was now a bit sexually frustrated but couldn’t think of a way to say this without hurting his feelings.

“Good. What do you want to do?”

“Do?” I repeated.

“We could go for a swim,” he suggested.

“Did you bring a bathing suit?” I asked.

“Well, no, but you have seen me naked.” Drew grinned. We were both well aware that at that very moment his penis—now somewhat deflated—was lying against my thigh. “Unless skinny-dipping offends your sensibilities.”

I smiled back at him. “I haven’t gone skinny-dipping since…Wait. I don’t think I’ve
ever
gone skinny-dipping.”

“Never? We’ll have to remedy that immediately,” Drew said. And then he stood and scooped me up in his arms.

“What are you doing?” I squealed, clutching at his shoulder. I’d always thought it would be romantic to be swept up in the arms of a hunky guy, like something out of a Regency romance. Willoughby carrying Marianne home in
Sense and Sensibility
. Or Colonel Brandon carrying Marianne in from the storm in
Sense and Sensibility
. Now that it was happening to me, however, I was just hoping he wouldn’t drop me.

“I am taking you out for a swim,” Drew said, grunting a bit from the effort of carrying me, which further tarnished the luster of romance from the gesture. And made me feel fat. Then, when he got to the door, he couldn’t manage to grab the handle. “Can you open it?” he asked.

“Sure, just turn me around a bit,” I said. “A little closer…little closer…there!”

Drew carried me outside, kicking the door closed behind him, and then strode up to the edge of the pool and—I couldn’t believe this—
threw me in the water.

The pool was cold—very cold—and as my entire body plunged down into the water, there was a frightening second where it felt like the breath had been knocked out of me. And I was just sinking, sinking, sinking down to the blue tiled floor. But then, before I could really panic, my body regained its buoyancy and I popped back up to the surface, spluttering with outrage. Drew was laughing so hard, he had to brace his arms against his thighs.

“You bastard!” I screeched.

“Bastard? That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“No, I do not!”

I splashed toward Drew, intent on pulling him in after me. But before I came within grabbing distance, he jumped into the pool, pulling his legs up in a cannonball. When Drew resurfaced he was still laughing, and he ducked my attempts to whack him. Instead, he grabbed my wrists in his hands and pulled me toward him, planting a kiss on my lips.

“Mmmm. You look sexy when you’re all wet and your hair is plastered to the side of your face,” he murmured.

“Hey!” I said, and was about to recommence my attempts to hit him, but then Drew kissed me again, this time with a surprising amount of heat. I could feel my insides melting as he wrapped his arms around me, and I stopped struggling against him.

“I think we have some unfinished business to take care of,” Drew said in between soft, lingering kisses.

He ran his hands over my body, and everywhere he touched felt warm for just a moment, until his hands moved on and the cold water lapped back against me. I was half anticipating where the delicious warmth would come next and half worrying that Hayden would return home and find us naked and entwined around each other in the pool.

And then Drew’s fingers were sliding down and inside me, and I stopped thinking altogether.

Fourteen

         “
I TAKE IT YOUR DATE LAST NIGHT WENT WELL
,” Hayden said the next morning, as she came out on the lanai, mail in hand. She’d arranged to have her mail forwarded from her New York apartment. I was sitting poolside in my Breakers bathrobe—a bargain at only ninety dollars—with a mug of coffee. I was taking in the view of the morning sky, still pink and hazy where it hung over the ocean. Harper Lee was milling around, sniffing at the ground, as though she expected a croissant would suddenly appear there.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“One, you’re grinning like an idiot. Two, I just saw Drew on his way out,” Hayden said, dropping the mail on a short teak table beside the lounger. And then she smiled wickedly. “And three, I glimpsed a bit of the action last night. Way to go, Lulu. In the pool. I didn’t know you had such a wild side.”

The smile slid from my face, and I could feel my cheeks burning with mortification.

“You saw us?” I bleated. “Just you…?”

“Nope,” Hayden said cheerfully. “Ian too. In fact, I have to thank you. It turns out Ian really gets turned on by voyeurism.”

I covered my face with my hands. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Of course I’m kidding,” Hayden said, smirking. “Like we’d watch you have sex. I just heard you splashing around out there and thought we’d best stay inside and leave you to your privacy. But you should see your face. I didn’t know anyone could turn that shade of red.”

“Harper Lee, please bite your Aunt Hayden,” I ordered. Harper Lee ignored me, choosing instead to lean against Hayden’s leg and stare worshipfully up at her.

“You wouldn’t bite me, would you, sweetie girl,” Hayden crooned, stroking Harper Lee’s head. “What if I hadn’t been joking? Would you be totally freaked?”

“Yes, I would. And I’d never have been able to look Ian in the eye again. Or you either.”

“That would be awkward, considering we live together,” Hayden pointed out. “Speaking of which, I got an e-mail from my parents this morning. Turns out they’re not coming down here at all this winter. They’re staying in Connecticut for Christmas, and then they’re going to Hawaii in January. So we can stay indefinitely.”

“Is that because we’re here?” I asked worriedly. “I hope we’re not putting them out.”

Hayden snorted. “They have no idea I’m even here. It was a mass e-mail they sent to all interested parties—daughters, relatives, business associates, society reporters.”

“Don’t you think we should tell them?”

“No, I do not,” Hayden said firmly. “I have always lived by one rule: When it comes to my parents, the less they know about my life the better. Anyway, now we have the whole Season to hang out here in Palm Beach. Soaking in the sun, partying, living it up. It’ll be great.”

I smiled fondly at my friend. This was exactly what I needed—an indefinite break from my old life.
Who knows?
I thought, recalling the feel of Drew’s hands roaming over my body the night before. Maybe it would turn into a permanent break. Maybe I could stay here forever, living in a big house by the ocean as the glamorous Lucy Landon. She was certainly having more fun than Lucy Parker ever had.

“At least let me pay rent,” I offered.

But Hayden waved me off. “Please,” she scoffed. “The house would just be sitting here empty. But I wouldn’t say no if you offered to hire a cleaning service.”

“You’ve got it,” I said immediately. “A weekly service?”

“The house is so big, we really should have someone come in a few times a week, don’t you think? I’ll arrange it, don’t worry. So? How was last night?”

“Well, I’m not giving you details—” I began.

“Not that I need them. You weren’t exactly quiet,” Hayden interjected.

“—but,”
I continued, choosing to ignore her, even though my cheeks were flaming red again, “it was really amazing.”

“I’m so glad,” Hayden said warmly. “Drew seems really cool. Very charming.”

“He is. Nice, and charming, and really funny. He makes me laugh. I haven’t had so much fun with a guy in a long time.”

“Just be careful,” Hayden advised. “Flings are great, and sometimes they develop into something more. But sometimes they’re just flings, and once the fling has…”

“Flung?” I suggested.

Hayden smiled, as I knew she would. “Right. Once the fling has flung, that’s it. And that’s okay too.”

“You’re absolutely right. Don’t worry, I’m a big girl. I’m just enjoying this for what it is,” I said.

“I hope so,” Hayden said, although she didn’t look convinced. She picked up the mail and riffled through it. Most of it she discarded to one side, unopened, but she did tear into a large bulky-looking manila envelope. Inside, there was a stack of letters, which Hayden flicked through. “Looks like this is for you,” she said, handing it to me as she stood. “I’m going to shower. Do you want to go shopping later?”

“Sure,” I said distractedly. Hayden disappeared back into the house as I examined the manila envelope. It was addressed in my father’s handwriting. He’d sent it to Hayden, obviously not wanting to tip off even the mailman to where I was. Inside, there were mostly just bills, which had gone to my Ocean Falls house and my dad had collected for me—power, cable, Visa. I put those to one side. Peter Graham had told me he could arrange for an accountant to pay my bills; I would take him up on his offer. But besides the pile of bills and junk mail, there was a smaller envelope with a handwritten address.

I tore open the envelope. Inside was a note card with a watercolor of hydrangeas on the outside. A check fluttered out, spiraling down until it landed in a potted hibiscus. I plucked it out and saw that it was my check—the one I’d sent to Maisie. I stared at it for a moment. Then I looked down at the familiar slanting handwriting and began to read.

Dear Lucy,

Hallmark doesn’t make a card for this occasion. I know, I looked. They actually have an I’m Breaking Up with You card (nice, huh?) and an Even Though You Gave Me Up for Adoption, You’ll Always Be Like a Mother to Me card but, sadly, not a Thank You for the Ginormous Check but I Can’t Accept It card. I guess it wouldn’t be a big seller.

As you’ve no doubt figured out by now, I’m returning your check. And, knowing you as I do, I’m pretty sure this is going to royally piss you off.

First of all, thank you. It was a lovely thing to do, especially in light of how badly I behaved the last time we spoke. I was just so damned jealous that you won that money instead of me. And the worst of it is that I know if it had been the other way around, and I’d been the one to win, you would have been happy for me. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you would have boiled over with jealousy too. Somehow I doubt it, though.

But, putting our argument aside, I just can’t accept this money. I don’t know why exactly, but it feels wrong. It’s not money I’m owed, or money I earned, or money I have any rightful claim to. And I know—and I know you know, even if you won’t admit it—that it’s pity money. You feel sorry for Joe and me. I get that, I do; we’re up to our necks in debt. I’m on a first-name basis with the asshole who calls every day from the credit-card company to harass me for the minimum monthly payment. And it would be so easy to cash this check and wipe out all of that debt once and for all.

But here’s the thing: I can’t let you make this go away. It’s our debt, and we took it on—and took it on gladly—in order to get the twins. And they’re worth it. If I had it to do all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. (Except for the birth. If I’m ever again pregnant with six-pound twins, I promise I will listen to my doctor and opt for the cesarean rather than insisting on a natural birth. Madness.) This is our burden, Lucy. If I let you step in and erase it for us, I would always feel uncomfortable about it. More than that, I would feel uncomfortable around you. You’d no longer be Lucy, my best friend; you’d be Lucy, my benefactor. And I think that would change our relationship permanently.

So I’m sending this back to you. I hope you’re not too angry at me.

Love,

Maisie

P.S. Call me.

I read the note twice more, and each time my feelings turned and shifted like a kaleidoscope of changing colors. Maisie’s letter had made me laugh, and tear up, and want to throttle her, and—finally—made me feel lonelier than ever before.

This is our burden,
she wrote. And I knew what she meant by that. She meant,
This is our marriage. Our twins. Our life.
Ours…not yours.

It was one thing to call me the twins’ aunt, to pretend that I was a member of the family, to include me in birthday celebrations and give me the bright watercolors the boys painted just for me. But when it came down to the nitty-gritty of it, no matter how close I was to Maisie, to Joe, to their boys, I would always be on the outside looking in. I wasn’t a part of their family, not really. And Maisie worried that, by taking my money, this barrier would be forever breached.

Would I ever again have a relationship with anyone that wasn’t influenced by this money I’d won? Would everyone I loved in my life always be wary that I was trying to buy them? Or, even worse, would I always have to worry that the people getting close to me were just doing so because of the money?

I picked up the French bulldog check and stared at it, wondering how some numbers on a piece of paper could have such power. And then I ripped it into tiny pieces.

“I don’t think I like the way these Chip and Pepper jeans fit me,” I said, staring at my reflection in a three-way mirror. “The 7 For All Mankind ones suit me more, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but I like the Paige ones on you too,” Hayden said, coming out of her dressing room. She was wearing an apple-green halter gown with a long flowing skirt that fit her like a dream. I nodded approvingly.

“That’s gorgeous. What is it? Gucci?”

“No,” Hayden said, adjusting the bodice. “Rebecca Taylor. But still, very impressive. A few weeks ago you wouldn’t have known a Gucci from a Gap.”

“I have a good teacher,” I said.

“Yes, I’ve taught you well. For the first time you didn’t immediately head back to the sales racks when we walked in the store,” Hayden said. “And you haven’t hyperventilated over the price tags once. I call that definite progress.”

I shrugged, again checking out how my bottom looked in the jeans. No, these definitely weren’t as flattering as the 7 For All Mankind jeans I had tried on earlier, I decided. I headed into my dressing room—which had walls draped in pink silk and a mirrored stool upholstered in cowhide—to take them off.

“The last pair of jeans I bought came from Old Navy,” I called to Hayden through my door. “It takes a little while to get out of that mind-set.”

“What do you think about this dress?” Hayden called back. “Yes or no?”

I opened my door a crack, while I stepped out of the jeans, and looked her over appraisingly. “Definitely yes.”

“How does it compare with the yellow Chaiken dress?” she asked.

“I liked that one too. Why don’t you get them both? It’d be a fun way to spend your blackjack winnings.”

Hayden made a face at herself in the three-way mirror. “No. I can’t afford them both. Hell, I can’t even really afford one. We’re not all billionaires, you know,” she said. She pulled her hair back and used one hand to pile it up on top of her head, then examined the effect in her reflection.

“I’m not a billionaire,” I said, laughing, as I stepped back into my skirt.

“Okay, Miss Literal, then we’re not all multimillionaires,” Hayden said.

Now that I was fully dressed, I opened the door to the fitting room all the way. I looked at Hayden, wondering if I could ask her what I wanted to without offending her. Because while it certainly wasn’t any of my business how much money she had, I was in the position to help Hayden—if she needed my help.

But Hayden seemed to know what I was working up the nerve to ask her. She sighed and let her hair go. It fell back down to her shoulders with a silky, glossy swish.

“I’m a bit strapped at the moment,” she admitted. “I lost some money—well, a lot of money—on that Web site deal Craig and I were putting together. And, even worse, I borrowed some money from my dad to finance it and now I can’t pay him back.”