The Night I Got Lucky

Praise for the novels of Laura Caldwell

The Year of Living Famously

“Sharply observed, fresh and compel ing,
The Year of Living Famously
is a captivating look into the cult of celebrity.”

—Leslie Stel a, author of
The Easy Hour
and
Fat Bald Jeff

“A stylish, sassy novel that shows the dark side that haunts the world of glamour and glitz. Laura Caldwel paints a sensitive picture of two ordinary lives thrown into turmoil by the pressures of fame.”

—
USA TODAY
bestsel ing author Carole Matthews

A Clean Slate

“Told with great energy and charm,
A Clean Slate is for anyone who has ever fantasized about
starting over—in other words, this book is for everyone!”

—Jil A. Davis, author of
Girls’ Poker Night

“Weightier than the usual fare, Caldwel ’s winning second novel puts an appealing heroine in a tough situation and relays her struggles with empathy.”

—
Booklist (starred review)

Burning the Map

“This debut novel won us over with its exotic locales (Rome and Greece); strong portrayal of the bonds between girlfriends; cast of sexy foreign guys; and, most of al , its touching story of a young woman at a crossroads in her life.”

—
Barnes&Noble.com

(Selected as one of “The Best of 2002”)

“The author produces excel ent settings and characters. It is easy to identify with her protagonist, Casey. We learn that maybe the rat race isn’t al it’s cracked up to be. This is a very thought provoking book.”

—
Heartland Reviews

Laura Caldwell

The Night I got Lucky

THE NIGHT I GOT LUCKY

A Red Dress Ink novel

ISBN 1-55254-359-5

© 2005 by Laura Caldwel .

Al rights reserved. The reproduction, transmission or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission. For permission please contact Red Dress Ink, Editorial Office, 225 Duncan Mil Road, Don Mil s, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real. While the author was inspired in part by actual events, none of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.

® and TM are trademarks. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and/or other countries.

www.RedDressInk.com

Acknowledgments

Thank you so very much to my editor, Margaret O’Neil Marbury, my agent, Maureen Walters, and the crew at Red Dress Ink—Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Laura Morris, Craig Swinwood, Katherine Orr, Marleah Stout, Steph Campbel , Sarah Rundle, Margie Mil er and Tara Kel y. Thanks also to the amazing friends who read my work and help me shape it—

Kris Verdeck, Kel y Harden, Ginger Heyman, Ted MacNabola, Clare Toohey, Mary Jennings Dean, Pam Carol , Karen Uhlman, Jane Jacobi, Trisha Woodson and Joan Posch.

Most of al , thank you to Jason Bil ups.

About the Author

Laura Caldwel , who lives in Chicago with her husband, left a successful career as a medical malpractice trial attorney and a partner at a successful firm to fol ow her dreams of becoming a novelist. In the span of 18 months, she sold four chick-lit novels to the Red Dress Ink imprint and three suspense novels to the MIRA Books imprint, the first of which is Look Closely.

But in addition to her now-successful writing career Laura does have two other jobs. She’s an adjunct professor of law at her alma mater, Loyola University Chicago School of Law, where she teaches Advanced Legal Writing. Laura is also a writer and contributing editor for Lake Magazine, a lifestyles publication based in the Indiana/Michigan area where Laura has a second home. Her freelance magazine work has been published in Woman’s Own, The Young Lawyer, Australia Woman’s Weekly and many other magazines.

Contents

About the Author

prologue

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

T
here was so much more security at the Sears Tower than there used to be. Of course, the last time she’d been to the indoor observation deck on the highest floor, she was a freshman in high school. She and her girlfriend had locked arms and whispered about the upcoming dance, more concerned with scoring some Boone’s Farm wine than the panorama.

She was distracted today, too. She had a purpose.

She filed out of the elevator behind a group of gum-cracking, giggling kids, a few backpackers from Australia and two Japanese tourists gripping guide books like life preservers. She held the tiny object in her right hand, not wanting to lose it in her purse. If she could just get a second, just one second alone, hopeful y she would be done with it.

A guide stood outside the elevator. She was a young black woman, wearing braided chains around her neck and skintight hot pants below her Sears Tower uniform shirt. She looked as if any minute she might grab a microphone and audition for
American Idol.
“This way,” the guide tril ed, drawing out the last word.

The observation deck took up the entire top level of the Sears Tower, and was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. In the center were giant exhibits, touting the history of Chicago.

The groups scattered. She glanced over her shoulder at the guide and fol owed the Japanese tourists to the right. It was nearly the end of the workday, but because it was summer, the sunlight blazed inside from the west windows.

She wandered around the deck, from window to window. She pretended to be absorbed by the view of the Loop from the east, sight of Soldier Field from the south. But as she looped around again, she looked more closely this time, not at the vista of the city laid out before her, but at the center of the room. She hoped there was some access away from the observation deck other than just the elevator.

Final y, she saw what she was looking for—next to a display featuring Chicago architecture was a tal silver door with the sign reading Stairs. Emergency Use Only. But there was an alarm on the door that would sound if she opened it. She chewed at her bottom lip. She didn’t want to scare anyone. She just had to get rid of it.

The door was behind a rope, but that barrier would be easy to get around. She leaned against a nearby window and waited.

The pop star guide passed by at one point. “Enjoying yourself ?” the guide asked.

“Oh. Yes.” She swung around and slipped a quarter in a telescope. She focused it in the direction of her Gold Coast apartment, wondering idly if she’d turned off her straightening iron this morning. The guide moved away.

She kept checking her watch. The observation deck would soon close. She tried not to tap her foot nervously. Now that she was here, she wanted desperately to do this. But would she get the chance? A better question—could she pul it off ?

Final y, about fifteen minutes later, two workers clad in navy blue coveral s and carrying toolboxes undid the rope that stood in front of the stairwel door. One selected a key from his tool belt and put it in the alarm box. The other re-hooked the rope behind him. The door swung open, and they moved through it. As soon as it started to shut, she leaped over the rope and caught the door with her hand. She stood there a moment, frozen, hoping the guide wouldn’t come back. When she was sure the workers were gone, she slipped inside.

The door closed, and she blinked to let her eyes adjust. The stairway was dimly lit except for red exit signs, al pointing downward. But she went the other way. She went up.

As she stepped through the doorway and onto the roof of the Sears Tower, the wind whipped violently, nearly knocking her over. She caught the door before it slammed and wedged her purse in the frame so it wouldn’t lock behind her. Her hair was whisked straight back from her face. Her black skirt, newly purchased from a boutique on Damen Avenue, flapped against her legs. It was adorable and expensive and whol y inappropriate for the task at hand.

She was now in the middle of the flat roof, flanked by two giant antennas. She avoided them and cautiously made her way toward the edge. She clenched her fist tighter around the object in her right hand. She felt as if any minute the wind might whip her off the building.

The roof was gravel y and painted white. It made her feel even less sure of her footing. Stil clasping the little object, she inched closer to the side.

Over the rooftop, she could see Lake Michigan glittering blue. She could see the cars on Lake Shore Drive whizzing past that blue. Her breathing became more shal ow as she neared the edge. Only a few feet now. A gust swooped around her, seemed to push her sideways.

“Oh, God. Oh, God,” she said, but the wind was too loud to hear herself.

She froze then.
Do it,
she told herself.
You’re so close.

But she couldn’t make herself walk any farther. She stood for a few moments until a burst of wind nearly picked her off her feet. Shaking, she hitched up her new skirt slightly, dropped to her knees and began to crawl. The graveled surface cut into her skin, made her knees sting with pain. The skin on her right knuckles scratched as she crawled on her fist.

The rim of the roof came nearer until at last she was there. Her body trembled as she peered over the edge. The cars on Franklin Avenue looked like shiny colored beetles, the people as teeny as gnats.

Balancing on her left hand, she lifted her right hand and, slowly unclenching her fist, dropped it.

M
y name is Bil y. Not
B-I-L-L-I-E,
like Bil ie Holiday—which would be a smooth-voiced, sensuous woman’s name—but
B-I-L-L-Y,
like a chubby little boy in a basebal uniform. Fact is my father wanted the boy in the uniform. He wanted boxers and brawlers and hunters. What he got was three daughters.

He gave us male names. (My mother claims to have been nearly comatose from the kind of potent childbirth drugs they don’t use anymore.) He named us Dustin, Hadley and Bil y. What he thought this would accomplish, I’m not certain. Possibly he hoped for some genetic, postpartum miracle, brought on by the names, which would produce male offspring overnight. It almost worked with my sisters. Dustin and Hadley are tal , lean women who run corporations during the week and marathons on the weekend. They drink scotch, and they own at least two sets of golf clubs each. They’re the type to say to their respective husbands, “I don’t care what the drapes look like, just don’t spend more than ten thousand dol ars.”