Good Luck (32 page)

“Do we have to? We’re having so much fun. This is just like old times. Except for the part where we’re in London and having tea at the Ritz,” Maisie said, gesturing at the picturesque scene around her. As if on cue, a man in a tuxedo sat at the piano and began to play.

“Why didn’t you take the money? I wanted you to have it,” I said, my grin fading.

Maisie studied her teacup. “I felt like it would ruin our friendship if I accepted it,” she finally said.

“But how would it do that?”

She looked up at me, her pixie face more serious than I had ever seen it. “Because from then on, we’d always be indebted to you. Every time I bought something stupid—a silk blouse I’d never wear because it was dry clean only, or a book I had no intention of reading—I couldn’t tell you about it, because you’d think,
There she goes again, wasting my money,
” Maisie said.

“No, I wouldn’t!” I protested. And I was just about to get angry when I remembered my last conversation with Emma and how, right before she attempted to wrangle more money from me, I had been critical of how she’d spent the money I’d already given her.

“Damn,” I said softly.

“I’m sorry,” Maisie said quickly. “I know it upsets you that I couldn’t take it, and I know that not being able to accept it is a personal flaw of mine. How I always have to control everything, et cetera, et cetera.”

“No, you’re right,” I said. I sighed deeply. “I am judgmental about how people spend money. I do it all the time.”

“Everyone’s judgmental,” Maisie said.

“Not everyone. And even so, it doesn’t excuse my doing it,” I said. I glanced up at her. “How come you didn’t mind accepting the plane ticket to London I sent you?”

“You said you needed me,” Maisie said simply. “Of course I’d come.”

I swallowed back the knot forming in my throat. “Thanks,” I said hoarsely.

Maisie’s grin turned impish. “And how could I say no to a first-class trip to London? Oh, and by the way? Flying first class has permanently spoiled me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fly coach again.”

I laughed. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Liked it? My seat reclined into a bed! It was nicer than sitting in my living room. Although, considering my living room, that probably isn’t saying much.” Maisie beamed at me, and then her smile faltered. “Are we okay, then?” she asked tentatively.

I nodded. “We’re great.”

“Good. Because I just remembered I have some gossip to tell you,” she said portentously.

“What?”

“Well…there’s a rumor going around about Matt Forrester.”

I stiffened. “What about him?”

“He’s in
rehab
,” Maisie said triumphantly. “His parents are trying to hush it up, but of course it’s gotten out. That’s one of the beautiful things about living in a small town—nothing stays secret for long.”

“Rehab, huh?” I considered this. “I have to say, I’m not surprised.”

“But don’t you see? This totally vindicates you!”

“How so?”

“Who’s going to believe the allegations he made against you now?” Maisie said.

I shrugged. “Everyone. People always want to believe in the scandal. And a teacher seducing her student is a much juicier story than a troubled kid telling a lie.”

Maisie frowned. “When I was still at the prosecutor’s office, this was the sort of news we’d love to get about an adverse witness. Evidence of drug or alcohol abuse always destroys credibility with the jury.”

“Maybe. But this isn’t a court.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of the court of public opinion?”

“Yes. And in that court, I’ve already been tried, convicted, and the angry mob is just waiting for me to be drawn and quartered in the public square,” I said.

Maisie looked stricken. “Does that mean you’re not coming home?”

I sighed, feeling weary again. “I don’t know, Maisie. I don’t see how I can. Could you live somewhere where everyone thought you were into seducing teenage boys?”

“No. But I can’t imagine not living near you. You’re the sister I never had,” Maisie said earnestly, reaching across the table to rest her hand on my arm.

I looked at her. “Do you really think that?”

“Of course! You know that, don’t you?”

“Well, to be honest, when you sent that money back…I thought maybe it meant…that you didn’t want me to be too close to your family,” I said, stumbling over the words.

Maisie frowned, and then her face transformed into an expression of fierce intensity. “Lucy, you
are
a part of our family. I know Joe and the boys feel the same way. We all love you.”

“Thanks,” I said. But this time I couldn’t keep back the tears. They spilled from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks, salty and hot. Maisie quickly handed me the white linen napkin, which I used to mop up the tears. I tried to smile at her. “Sorry. I’m just so glad you’re here. I’ve been really lonely.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Maisie said. And then, both of us watery-eyed and sniffling, we hugged again.

Maisie stayed for a week, and for the first time since I’d arrived in Europe, I started to enjoy myself. We went to museums and churches and even took some day trips out into the countryside to see Bath and Cambridge. I’d booked Maisie a suite at the Ritz, thinking she could do with the time alone after three years of wrangling the twins, but she insisted on staying with me at my rented flat instead. I was glad. It took me back to our girlhood, when we spent nearly every weekend sleeping over at each other’s house.

We enjoyed ourselves so much that, the day Maisie was leaving, I woke up feeling a sense of desolation that I couldn’t shake.

“You should come home with me,” Maisie urged, as she stuffed clothes into her battered suitcase.

Reluctantly, I shook my head. “I can’t. Not just yet.”

Maisie looked up from the sweater she was folding and shot me a shrewd look. “Because of the Lottery Seductress crap or because of the tennis pro?” she asked.

Caught up in the spirit of reconciliation, I’d told Maisie all about Mal, not bothering to sugarcoat the story to make myself sound better. Now I was starting to regret it. She was, of course, disapproving of how I’d run out on him without explanation. But, even worse, Maisie had—without ever having met Mal, as I kept pointing out to her—decided he was The One. I told her over and over that he was way out of my league, the sort of guy who dated thin girls with perky breasts. Men like that, I said over and over, don’t end up with dowdy schoolteachers. Since it hadn’t yet sunk in to Maisie’s rocklike skull, I repeated it yet again.

“But you’re not dowdy,” Maisie exclaimed, tossing the sweater into her suitcase.

“That’s only because of the hair,” I said.

“No, it’s not. Although, honestly, I think I liked you better with your curls,” Maisie said. “You don’t look like you with your hair blond.”

“Dowdy, you mean.”

“No. Honestly, Lucy, you are so hard on yourself. You never looked dowdy.”

I snorted.

“Okay,” Maisie said. “The new clothes are definitely an improvement, I’ll give you that.”

“Hayden gets credit for the wardrobe. She picked everything out for me.”

Maisie scowled. “Don’t even say her name. I still can’t believe she was stealing from you.”

I shrugged. “Hayden just got in over her head. She didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Maisie, not ready to forgive and forget, just rolled her eyes. “Have you heard from her?”

“Yeah, I got an e-mail from her yesterday. She said she’s hoping to get engaged soon.”

Maisie’s eyebrows arched up and her eyes went round with surprise. “
Engaged?
To that old guy?”

I nodded.

“But didn’t they just start dating?”

“I suppose it’s been a few months now. And they were both spouse-shopping, so it’s not that surprising it would happen quickly. He wants a trophy wife, she wants a fat bank account. Really, if you think about it, it’s a perfect match.”

“Please. I give it a year, tops.”

“Don’t you always say that all of the most successful marriages are based on shared goals?” I teased her.

“I don’t think one spouse having money and the other spouse wanting money counts as a shared goal.”

“Believe it or not, I hope she’s happy,” I said, shrugging.

“Why wouldn’t I believe that? You’re a nice person. Much nicer than I am. I hope she’s miserable, the conniving little snake.”

“She’s not a snake. Not really. She just has a lot of problems,” I said, thinking of the gambling debts and the fact that she’d traded in Ian, whom I thought she might truly have loved, for a man I knew she didn’t. Life would not be easy for Hayden, even if she did marry Trip and his oil money. I wondered if, ten years from now, she’d still think it had been worth it.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you changed the subject away from Mal,” Maisie said, zipping up her suitcase and tipping it upright.

“You’re the one who asked if I’d heard from Hayden.”

“Seriously, Lucy, don’t you think you should at least call and talk to him?”

The truth was, I
did
want to talk to Mal. But every time I worked up the courage to call him—sometimes even going so far as to pick up the phone, my fingers poised over the numbers, ready to dial—my pulse would start to pound and my stomach would twist up, and I’d lose my nerve.

“The thing is, you don’t know how he feels about you,” Maisie continued. “You keep assuming that he was never interested in you—”

“I wouldn’t say that. I fully acknowledge that there was chemistry there,” I interrupted her.

“I think it sounds like more than chemistry. I think it sounds like the two of you fell in love,” Maisie said, fixing me with a prosecutorial stare.

“Don’t be stupid,” I said irritably, my eyes dropping. “Sexual attraction is not the same thing as love.”

“I didn’t say it was. But I know you, and I can tell you thought of this guy as more than just a one-night stand.”

“One-afternoon stand,” I corrected her, my mouth twisting up into a humorless smile. “And even if I have feelings for him, that doesn’t mean that he returns them.”

“But you haven’t given him a chance to tell you that he does!” Maisie exclaimed. “Or is that it? If you don’t tell him how you feel, he won’t have the chance to reject you?”

“I don’t have such a great track record when it comes to relationships,” I said, feeling anger corkscrewing up inside of me.

“You can’t judge other guys by the Elliott standard,” Maisie said flatly.

“That’s the only standard I have to go by!” I said, flaring back at her.

We stood there, staring at each other—my arms folded protectively across my chest, Maisie’s hands planted aggressively on her hips. Finally I shook my head and turned away from her.

“I don’t want to fight. Your taxi will be here in a half hour,” I said.

Maisie hesitated but finally relented. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll drop it—for now.”

I decided it was time to change the subject. “Do you think the twins will like the toy rockets?”

“God, yes. They’ll love them,” Maisie said. “Is it terrible that I don’t want to go back yet? I miss them terribly, Joe too, but it’s been a dream being able to sleep in and eat out and swan around London with you.”

“Then stay longer! Yay! We’ll change your ticket!”

“I can’t.” Maisie sighed. “I have to get back to real life. And the boys have been staying with my mom while Joe’s at work. I could tell when I talked to her yesterday that she’s at the end of her rope. She started pushing potty training on them too hard, and the twins revolted and flushed their training pants down the upstairs toilet. They flooded her bathroom.”

I laughed at the mental image, which, knowing the Wonder Twins, was all too easy to picture. “I understand. But I’ll miss you.”

Maisie hugged me. “Me too.” She pulled back and looked up at me. “Come home soon, Lucy. Please.”

“I’ll think about it,” I promised.

And long after Maisie left, carried off to Heathrow in a large black taxicab, I did think about it. I couldn’t run forever. Sooner or later I would have to go home, wherever home ended up being.

I also hadn’t told Maisie that when I checked my e-mail the day before, I’d finally gotten a response from Mal. He’d written simply:
Let me know when you figure it out.

I’d stared at the e-mail for a long time before closing my in box without replying. Before I decided whether or not I should go back to Florida, and if I should call Mal, I had to figure out what I was going to do about the lottery money. My father’s words back at the very beginning, when he’d first found out I’d won, kept echoing in my thoughts:

You’ve been given a rare opportunity. The chance to make your life whatever you want it to be. Please don’t squander it.

That’s exactly what I had done. From practically the first moment I’d arrived in Palm Beach, all I’d done was shop and party, party and shop. I’d never even asked Peter Graham about putting aside part of the money for philanthropy, as I’d meant to. Instead, I’d used my winnings to fund the sort of glamorous lifestyle that I’d never aspired to in the first place. But now I knew: That lifestyle wasn’t me. I wanted more from life. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that I wanted less.

Twenty-Four

         
IT WAS A FEW DAYS BEFORE EMMA AND CHRISTIAN’S
wedding, and I still hadn’t decided if I would be attending. True, Emma had uninvited me. But then a creamy linen wedding invitation printed in an elegant engraver’s font arrived at my London flat.

I spoke to my mother on the phone a few days after I received the invitation, and she urged me to come home for the wedding, but I’d been deliberately vague about my plans. The truth was, I didn’t know if I wanted to go. Worry about the reaction I’d receive from the wedding guests and anger at Emma fought with my bone-deep desire to see my home and family. And, even if I was still upset with Emma, I didn’t want to miss my little sister’s wedding.

It was the letter that finally made the decision for me. I knew my parents had hoped it would; after all, they had sent it by overnight courier so that it arrived at my London flat on a cold, dreary February morning two days before the wedding, with a yellow sticky note attached: R
EAD THIS
. L
OVE
, M
OM AND
D
AD
.

I unfolded the single sheet of lined notebook paper and began to read the unkempt handwriting that I recognized from a former life.

Dear Ms. Parker,

As part of the program I’m in, I’m supposed to make amends by apologizing to the people I’ve hurt. And the way I figure it, you’re pretty much at the top of the list.

I’m so sorry. More sorry than I can say.

When I told my parents and Dr. Johnson that lie about you hitting on me, I was just hoping I’d be able to get back on the soccer team. But then it all got so crazy. First you got fired, and then suddenly it became a huge news story. I didn’t know how to stop it. I should have said that I lied, but I guess I was scared everyone would be mad at me. Which isn’t an excuse, I know.

I talked to my counselor about it, and he said that I had to set things right, so I’ve told everyone the truth—my parents, the school, even that reporter who kept calling to interview me. I told them all that I made the whole thing up. I was right—everyone is pretty pissed off at me. I was even expelled from school. I don’t care. I figure I pretty much deserve it. The reporter said he’d write a story for the newspaper to set everything straight.

I wanted to apologize to you in person, but when I called your family to find out where you were, your dad wouldn’t tell me. I guess I understand. I think he was afraid my parents’ lawyer wanted to know so they could sue you. To be honest—and that’s what I intend to be from now on, honest—my parents were planning to sue you, even after I told them that I made up the story about you hitting on me. They’re not bad people. I think they thought I was lying about having lied because I was embarrassed and just wanted to get them to drop the whole thing. But I told them that if they sued you, I’d tell the judge and the lawyers and everyone else that I lied, and they wouldn’t have a case. So they finally agreed to let it go.

I hope that I get the chance to apologize to you in person someday.

Yours truly,
Matt Forrester

I read the letter three times before the words sank in, before I let myself hope that it could possibly be true. And then I noticed that there was something else in the envelope—a newspaper clipping. My heart hammering, I pulled it out and read it. The article was written under Mitch Hannigan’s byline.

L
OTTERY
T
EACHER
V
INDICATED
; S
TUDENT
A
DMITS
H
E
L
IED

In a startling reversal, Matt Forrester, the Andrews Prep School student who claimed that multimillion-dollar lottery winner and former English teacher Lucy Parker made inappropriate sexual advances toward him, has come forward to admit he lied.

“
Ms. Parker never hit on me. I made up the story in order to get back at her for giving me a low grade,” Forrester said. “I apologize for all of the trouble I caused Ms. Parker and hope that someday she’ll be able to forgive me.”

The article went on to give a recap of the story—how I was fired and went on to win the lottery, the media circus that followed, how I had stayed undetected in Palm Beach for several weeks. It concluded by stating that I was unavailable for comment and was believed to be traveling out of the country.

I read it over several times too, wondering if it could really be true. But the words remained the same. Matt had admitted he lied. Mitch Hannigan had published the story. It was finally over.

I picked up the phone and called British Airways. Once the cool English voice of the customer-service representative answered, I said, “Hello, I’d like to book a one-way ticket from London to West Palm Beach. Departing as soon as possible, please.”

My house had an empty, neglected feel to it. The air was stale, and dust motes danced in the sunshine. I walked around, opening the windows to let in the cool late-winter breeze. I just missed tripping over two big boxes in the living room. When I bent down to look more closely at the boxes, I recognized Hayden’s handwriting on the address labels and realized they must contain the books I’d bought in Palm Beach. My dad, who had been taking care of my house while I was away, had brought the boxes inside for me.

I stood back up and looked around. Everything was so familiar. There was the comfy chenille chair I had saved up for four months to buy, the beach-scene painting I’d discovered at a local thrift store, the silver candlesticks that had belonged to my grandmother. Everything had been picked out and bought by me, one piece at a time. When you don’t have any money, every purchase takes on a new importance.

I finally wheeled my suitcase into my bedroom, where I looked longingly at my bed—it had been a long flight, and I hadn’t slept at all on board—but I only had an hour to get ready for the rehearsal dinner. So I showered and changed into a simple silk midnight-blue dress with flutter sleeves and sequins glittering along the hemline. When I was finally ready, I headed to the garage. My Porsche and Volvo were both parked there; Dad had taken care of getting them home to me. I started to pick up the Porsche keys—I really did love that car—but then a wave of nostalgia for my beat-up yellow Volvo washed over me, and I instead grabbed for the familiar
I need coffee
key ring and square Volvo key with the rubber-encased head.

I slid behind the wheel of my old car and turned the key, wondering if the car would even start after so many months of inactivity. The engine had always been temperamental. But it roared to life, albeit vibrating so much it made my teeth rattle, and a moment later I was backing out of the driveway.

It was only a five-minute drive to the waterfront restaurant where the wedding-rehearsal dinner was being held, but as I turned down the familiar streets, I already noticed changes that had taken place in my absence. The house on the corner of Beach Street had been painted a pretty hydrangea blue, and the chiropractor’s office on Porpoise Drive had closed, a sign in front announcing that a Montessori nursery school would be opening in the space. As I drove, my nerves felt as though they were stretching, growing more and more taut with each passing moment.

I knew my family would be happy to see me—well, perhaps with the exception of Emma—but what about the other guests? Which would they believe—the national story of the Lottery Seductress, or the much smaller, less publicized story that Matt Forrester had recanted his accusation? There was no way of knowing ahead of time.

I pulled into a parking spot in front of the restaurant and climbed out of the Volvo.

“Here goes nothing,” I muttered to myself.

I saw a few people up ahead walking into the restaurant—Christian’s mother, Judith, whom I’d met at various family functions, and two of Emma’s best friends from high school. My pulse began to race, so I took a deep breath to steady myself and followed them inside. The hostess—a young girl wearing a black sundress—smiled at me in welcome.

“Hi, can I help you?” she asked. She didn’t seem to recognize me, which I thought was a good sign.

“I’m here for the rehearsal dinner,” I said.

“Oh, sure, it’s right back here. I’ll show you.” She led me to a banquet room off to the side of the dining room.

The room was set up with round tables, dressed in crisp white linens. Most of the guests were already there milling around, drinking champagne from flutes and munching on the hors d’oeuvres being circulated on round silver trays by the waitstaff.

I saw Emma first. She was in the middle of the room, basking in the attention her bride-to-be status allotted her. She certainly looked the part. She was wearing a fitted gold sleeveless sheath that showed off her well-toned arms. Her blond hair was twisted up in a chignon, and she wore a gold bangle on each wrist. Christian stood behind her, looking as blandly handsome as ever in his blue suit. I’d personally never found him very attractive—his eyes were too close together—but he was an okay guy. Emma’s friends certainly seemed to like him, laughing up at Christian flirtatiously and throwing their heads back to expose long creamy throats, like birds in the middle of a mating ritual. I knew that their obvious interest in Christian and jealousy that Emma had snagged him would please my little sister.

“Lucy!” my mother’s voice called out, rising sharply over the din. I was still staring at Emma, and at the sound of my name my sister looked up. When our gazes met, her eyes narrowed slightly. Was Emma angry that I’d come? Worried that I’d cause a scene? There was no way of knowing. A moment later I was engulfed in my mother’s embrace.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, suddenly fighting back tears I hadn’t known were coming.

“I can’t believe you’re really here!” she said, sounding close to tears herself.

“Kay, I don’t think she can breathe,” Dad said mildly. “Hello, Lucy. Welcome home.”

My mom let go of me just long enough for my dad to hug me, and then she wrapped her arms around me again. “I knew you wouldn’t miss the wedding!”

“When did you get in?” Dad asked.

“Just a few hours ago. I stopped by my house before I came here. Thanks for watering my plants and taking care of everything.”

“Happy to help,” Dad said, smiling down at me. “Harper Lee will be thrilled you’re back.”

“I can’t wait to see her.”

My mom, now clutching at my hand, peered at me. “You look so different.”

“It’s the hair. I wanted to find out if blondes really do have more fun,” I joked.

“Hi, Lucy.”

I turned and saw my little sister standing there, viewing me with obvious suspicion.

“Hello, Emma.”

“I didn’t know that you were coming,” she said.

“I didn’t either. It was a last-minute decision.”

Emma bit her lip and looked down, not meeting my eyes. Although she looked glamorous in her sparkling dress and razor-sharp high heels, I could see the little girl with the missing front teeth and scabbed knees she’d once been.

I smiled at Emma, and to my surprise she smiled back, tentatively at first, but then her face relaxed and her smile widened.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she said softly, and reached out to squeeze my hand. “Lucy, I’m sorry. I acted like a spoiled brat. You must hate me. I would if I were you.”

I looked at Emma for a long moment, wondering if I could believe her apology. Sometimes it felt as if I’d never be able to trust anyone again. And yet I didn’t want to go through my life twisted and bitter with suspicion.

I finally said, “No, I don’t hate you. How could I? You’re my little sister.”

Emma sniffed and pressed manicured fingers into the corners of her eyes. “Don’t make me cry,” she warned. “I don’t want my mascara to run. Wait! I have the most amazing idea: Now that you’re here, you have to be my maid of honor!”

“Really?” I asked.

Emma nodded enthusiastically.

“Ashley can be a regular bridesmaid. I’m sure she won’t mind,” Emma said. “And all of the bridesmaids are wearing red, so as long as you wear red too, it won’t matter if your gown is slightly different. We can go to the mall after this is over. I’m sure we’ll be able to find something at Macy’s.”

“I have a red dress,” I said, thinking of the red Carolina Herrera gown I’d worn to the fund-raiser at Mar-a-Lago.

“You do?” Emma asked.

I nodded. “Yes. And it will be perfect.”

And it was. The whole wedding was pretty spectacular. Emma really was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen, radiant in her Vera Wang gown. Christian’s eyes actually teared up when she started down the aisle on our father’s arm, and I found myself warming to my new brother-in-law. So what if his eyes were too close together? There were certainly worse flaws for a man to have. And Christian seemed to truly love my little sister.

The reception was held at a country club—not the Forresters’ club, which was probably just as well—and it was lovely. Twinkle lights had been entwined around posts and potted plants, hundreds of candles lit the room, and tall vases filled with calla lilies were on every table. There was a band with a singer who sounded like Patsy Cline, her voice deep and molasses rich. The champagne flowed freely, and couples filled the dance floor, even during the dinner service.