Good Luck (31 page)

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:
[email protected].
But something made me click on it anyway.

TO: [email protected]

FROM: [email protected]

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 rain, 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.

Then I saw a familiar face, and another rush of nerves overtook me. My pulse jumped and skittered, my stomach twisted, my mouth went dry. I hastily stood up and tried to arrange my mouth into a smile, even though my face felt stiff. What would I say? How would this go? Would everything between us be permanently changed by the separation?

But then our eyes met.

“Lucy!” Maisie called out. She bounded toward me, looking much as she had when we were fifteen and she’d run across the lawn that joined our two houses to tell me that Jason Carlisle had kissed her, and suddenly I knew everything would be fine.

Maisie reached the table and threw her wiry arms around me.

“I can’t believe I’m finally seeing you! I’ve missed you so much!” Maisie said, her voice muffled against my shoulder.

“I’ve missed you too,” I said, and even though I couldn’t stop smiling, my throat and chest tightened, and tears flooded my eyes. “Thank you for coming!”

“Are you kidding? A free trip to London! How could I say no to that?” Maisie said.

She laughed as she spoke, but her words cut too close to the reason we hadn’t spoken for months: the lottery money. We both realized it at once and broke apart, staring at each other for a long moment.

“I’ll tell you what,” Maisie said. “Let’s catch up first, before we get into everything else.”

“Deal,” I said. “I want to hear all about the twins.”

Maisie oohed and aahed over the sumptuous surroundings of the Palm Court, and a pot of hot Darjeeling tea arrived, along with a three-tiered serving tray filled with tiny sandwiches, scones, and pastries. We ate and drank, and Maisie told me about the boys, who were resisting potty training and who had recently started swim lessons. Joe had acquired a landscaping contract for a large apartment complex. Maisie was considering returning to her law practice part-time when the twins entered pre-K next fall.

“So that’s about it for us. Now it’s your turn,” Maisie said.

I shrugged. “I told you most of it on the phone. I’ve just been traveling.”

“Oh, don’t give me that ‘I’ve just been traveling’ garbage. I spent fifteen minutes telling you about the twins’ pooping progress, and you can’t give me any details about what you’ve been up to?” Maisie exclaimed.

I laughed. “But I’d so much rather hear about the boys.”

“Start talking, Parker.”

“Okay, fine, but you asked for it. Just be glad I didn’t bring any travel slides with me,” I teased. And I told her about France, Italy, and the other places I’d been, trying for her sake to make it all sound exciting. Maisie sat in rapt attention, her eyes widening as I detailed the sites I’d seen and museums I’d toured.

“But what about men?” she finally asked. “I was hoping you’d meet some gorgeous foreigner and have a torrid love affair.”

“Torrid love affair?” I repeated, amused. “You mean like Lucy in a
A Room with a View
?”

“Did that Lucy get laid?”

“No. She was emotionally repressed.”

“Then no, that’s not what I meant,” Maisie said.

“Well.” I hesitated. “There was someone…someone I met back in Palm Beach.”

“Oooh, tell me all about him!”

But thoughts of Mal—of his pale blue eyes, the angular line of his jaw, the sweet curve of his lips, the low rumble of his laughter—just depressed me. Maisie must have seen my face cloud over, because she leaned forward, her expression etched with concern.

“What’s wrong? Don’t tell me he turned out to be another Elliott,” she said.

I laughed at this. “I don’t think there could be another Elliott.”

“Oh, there’s always another Elliott out there. The world is thick with them,” Maisie said darkly.

“How can someone so happily married be so bitter about men?”

“Who said I’m happily married?” Maisie asked. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“Aren’t you? No, don’t tell me if you’re not. I don’t think I could bear it. You and Joe are my shining example of idealized couplehood.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but there’s no such thing,” Maisie said, popping a cucumber sandwich into her mouth. “Mmm, I like this one. Watch out for the salmon ones, though. They’re a bit fishy.”

“Huh. I didn’t know that,” I said.

“Maybe it’s a cultural thing, and the English just don’t mind fishy-tasting fish,” Maisie said.

“No, I wasn’t talking about the sandwiches. I was talking about your
marriage.
”

“Oh, come on. Surely you weren’t under any delusions about how perfect Joe and I are. Remember the fight we had at his Super Bowl party, where he asked if I was PMS’ing because I was so irritable and I dumped the bowl of Doritos over his head? I really wanted to dump the bowl of queso dip on him, but it was just a bit too hot, and although I was annoyed, I didn’t want to send him to the ER,” Maisie said.

“I remember.” I started to laugh. “And you really were PMS’ing.”

“He still shouldn’t have mentioned it. We’ve been married for seven years; he should know better by now,” Maisie said.

“I know you guys have the occasional fights and problems.” I stopped; we were back to the money issue. I took a deep breath and soldiered on. “But the thing is, you’re hanging in there together. Look at the sort of guys I end up with. Elliott, who cheated on me. Drew, who, okay, wasn’t a bad guy, but he didn’t love me either.”

“Who the hell is Drew?” Maisie asked, wrinkling her brow in confusion.

“And then there’s Mal,” I continued, ignoring her question. “Who’s out of my league.”

“Of course he isn’t out of your league!”

“You don’t even know him,” I pointed out.

“That doesn’t change my opinion,” Maisie said.

We smiled at each other. “Are we going to get around to talking about the money?” I asked.