Good Luck (24 page)

“Something like that.”

“And who’s the lucky lady?” I pressed on.

“You don’t think it’s a bit ironic for someone leading a secret life to pry into someone else’s private business?”

I flushed. “I’m not leading a secret life.”

“What’s your last name again?”

“Well…it’s not a secret to you.”

“If I hadn’t recognized you, would you have told me?” Mal countered.

“No,” I conceded.

Mal nodded, as though he’d proven his point.

“But, wait, why won’t you tell me what you’re up to?”

“Because it’s none of your business.”

“Are you afraid I’ll disapprove?” I asked.

Mal frowned. “What?”

“I’m not a prude, you know. It’s not something I would do personally, but I’m sure you have your reasons,” I said.

This was an outright lie. It horrified me that Mal was sleeping around with the married ladies of the Rushes Country Club, especially if he was doing so for financial gain. But for some reason that I couldn’t put my finger on, I wanted him to admit it to me.

But Mal continued to look puzzled. “What? No, never mind, don’t tell me.” He crumpled up his paper cup and tossed it into the wastebasket. “I don’t have time.”

“So, fine, don’t tell me,” I said, irritation rising. “But you don’t have to pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Maybe you should get out of the heat. Have some water. Rehydrate. Regain your sanity,” Mal suggested. His lips twitched up in a half smile. “Bye, Lucy.” And then he turned and walked off.

I glowered at his departing back. Matters did not improve when a curvy redhead—whose very long and very shapely legs were shown off to great advantage by a short white pleated tennis skirt—stopped Mal by practically throwing herself in his path. She looked like she was in her early thirties, which probably meant she was really a decade older. The money that flowed around this club went a long way toward buying the services of dermatologists, nutritionists, personal trainers, and plastic surgeons.

“Ma-al,” I heard her squeal. “I’ve been looking
every
where for you. I want you to look at my swing.”

She twirled her tennis racquet in one hand, but from her flirty tone and the slight tilt of her head, it was clear that she was interested in Mal for something other than his tennis expertise. My eyes narrowed with dislike. The rich thought they could buy anything and anyone. Then I remembered: I was rich. Maybe even more so than the redhead, although in a town like Palm Beach, where most of the residents were millionaires, it was impossible to know for sure.

But I’m not like her,
I reassured myself.
I don’t use my money to buy people.

Although wasn’t that exactly what Maisie seemed to think I was doing when I sent her that check? No, I thought, pushing away this unwanted thought. If she did think that, she was wrong. That money was meant as a gift, no strings attached. And if Maisie couldn’t accept it in the spirit with which it was given, that wasn’t my fault.

The redhead was now wantonly stroking Mal’s arm. She’d lowered her voice, so I couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying, but it wasn’t hard to figure out the meaning. I found myself wishing I was a better tennis player so I could launch a few balls in their direction, hopefully beaning each of them on the head.

“I’m sorry, Liza, I can’t work with you right now,” Mal said, extricating himself from her clutches. “There’s somewhere I have to be. Why don’t you check my schedule in the pro shop? They’ll set up a lesson for you.”

If I hadn’t known what he was up to, I would have enjoyed the look, first of surprise, then anger, that flashed across the redhead’s pretty face as Mal moved on down the path. But then her gaze shifted to me and I started, realizing she had just caught me staring at her.

“Oops,” I said under my breath, as the redhead shot me a filthy look and stalked off toward the back courts. I shook my head ruefully. Mal certainly seemed to be leaving a string of broken hearts behind him.

“How was your lesson?” Hayden asked when I got home. She was in the kitchen, eating Cheez-Its straight from the box. Marta, our new housekeeper, was there too, wiping down the counters. She was short and comfortably plump and didn’t seem to speak a word of English. She smiled her greeting, and I smiled back.

“Why do you look so grumpy?” Hayden asked.

“I’m not. I’m smiling.”

“You’re smiling in a grumpy way.”

“It’s nothing, really.” I opened the refrigerator door and rummaged around for a bottle of water. Water bottle in hand, I closed the door with unnecessary force. “It’s just Mal—well, it’s more something Drew said about Mal.”

“What’s that?”

I told her what Drew said about the rumors swirling around Mal. “And that fits with my original gigolo theory. Remember that woman I saw him out to dinner with weeks ago? She was older, very attractive…” I trailed off and circled a hand in the air.

Hayden shook her head. “I asked Ian about that. He thought it was hilarious. He said that Mal’s not at all the type to run around after married women, rich or otherwise.”

“Really? Hmmm,” I said, considering this. Ian and Mal were close friends. Surely Ian would know if Mal was sleeping his way through the Rushes. “Unless Mal doesn’t want Ian to know about it.”

“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 added, “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, L
EEANDER
H
IGH
S
CHOOL
. 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, T
HE
L
EEANDER
L
IONS
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.”