Lucky
Page 1
ADVANCE PRAISE FOR LUCKY
“A wild and deeply satisfying rollercoaster ride through the world of a con artist with a heart of gold. Propulsive and affecting, Lucky is the most fun I’ve had reading a book in quite a while.”
Taylor Jenkins Reid, New York Times bestselling author of Daisy Jones & the Six
“Stapley’s gorgeous writing cuts to the bone, and her grifter heroine, both vulnerable and fierce, is driven by a genius premise. With equally compelling alternate timelines, Stapley takes readers on a gripping, heart-wrenching journey of resilience, hope, and redemption. A stunning read!”
Samantha M. Bailey, #1 bestselling author of Woman on the Edge
“Meet Lucky Armstrong, an unconventional heroine who is on the run from her past with a winning lottery ticket that could change her future. A story of survival, redemption, and forgiveness, Lucky explores the power of second chances. A riveting caper full of heart, I loved this book!”
Karma Brown, bestselling author of Recipe for a Perfect Wife
“A grifter on the run who wins the lottery is only the opening gambit of this high-fueled twisty tale through the life of Lucky, daughter of a con artist who seemed doomed to make her father’s mistakes. Will the money save her and provide her with redemption or lead her down darker paths? You’ll want to put this on your to-read list immediately.”
Catherine McKenzie, USA Today bestselling author of I’ll Never Tell
“With an original premise, a gutsy-yet-vulnerable heroine, dodgy villains, and bad choices galore, Marissa Stapley’s highly entertaining Lucky is sure to wow readers. Fast-paced, skillfully crafted, and beautifully written, this book had me stay up late and get up early to find out what would happen to that winning lottery ticket. I loved it!”
Hannah Mary McKinnon, bestselling author of Sister Dear
“This fun romp, with deeper themes of identity, family ties, and the meaning of truth in a life built on lies, kept me greedily turning pages late into the night. Perfect for book clubs—or anyone looking for their next unputdownable read.”
Colleen Oakley, USA Today bestselling author of You Were There Too
“Stapley has created a complicated woman just as magnetic and compelling for her readers as she is for the people she fleeces—and luckily, readers will only get richer by being swept away with her story of curious fortunes.”
Kerry Clare, author of Waiting for a Star to Fall
“Stapley’s novels are always filled with strong, intriguing women and Lucky is no exception. Lucky Armstrong is the flawed, fascinating character at the heart of this gripping novel, and as we follow the twists and turns of her adventures, we’re not sure where she’s going to take us—but it’s a hell of a fun ride.”
Elizabeth Renzetti, bestselling author of Based on a True Story and Shrewed
PRAISE FOR THE LAST RESORT
“Harnesses women’s anger.… The story’s emotional core is wrapped in a taut thriller.”
Toronto Star
“Fast-paced, expertly plotted, and highly entertaining, this novel is perfect for fans of Liane Moriarty!”
Karma Brown, bestselling author of Recipe for a Perfect Wife
“An impossible-to-put-down thrill ride of a read… It will fascinate you, enlighten you, break your heart and mend it again.”
Jennifer Robson, bestselling author of The Gown
“Gripping.… Stapley shows a real knack for suspense.”
Publishers Weekly
“An exciting addition to the psych thriller world—with an emotionally complex twist.”
Roz Nay, bestselling author of Hurry Home and Our Little Secret
“Stapley pulls off a tale that’s both spine-chilling and heartwarming.”
Christina Dalcher, bestselling author of Vox
“Couples with secrets, people who tell lies—nothing is as it seems.… Fans of Agatha Christie will surely love this modern whodunit from the first to the very last page.”
Hannah Mary McKinnon, author of Sister Dear
“Stapley’s writing is fast-paced while still cutting deep.… The Last Resort is all of these things: a nail-biter, a page-turner, a thoughtful, powerful exploration into who we are in relationships and on our own.”
Laurie Petrou, author of Sister of Mine
“An excellent beach read for anyone who loves romantic suspense.”
Booklist
“Deeply addictive and simmering with tension, The Last Resort had me breathlessly turning the pages all the way through to its explosive conclusion.”
Lucy Clarke, author of The Blue
“Stapley delivers a twisty, expertly written mystery you can sink your teeth into.”
Karen Katchur, author of River Bodies
PRAISE FOR THINGS TO DO WHEN IT’S RAINING
“Commercial fiction at its best. Compelling, heartfelt and well-crafted. A gem of a page-turner.”
Toronto Star
“A charming tale with an enchanting setting.… An engaging read about keeping secrets, starting over, and loving the family you choose.”
Booklist
“The intensity of the lasting love and friendship between Gabe and Mae is emotionally powerful and finely wrought, and Stapley complements this story about the difficult choices family members make for those they love with an evocative setting.”
Publishers Weekly
“Evocative, wise, and infused with heart. A deeply moving story about family, love, and loss, the novel shows how secrets can either haunt us or set us free, depending on who we trust with them. One of my favorite books this year!”
Karma Brown, bestselling author of Recipe for a Perfect Wife
“Has heart and soul and guts, and it has achingly beautiful prose and characters so dear and real I couldn’t bear to say goodbye when I reached its final page.… Quite frankly, one of the best books I have read in a very long time.”
Jennifer Robson, bestselling author of The Gown
“Fans of Nicholas Sparks will adore Things to Do When It’s Raining, an irresistible tribute to first love, second chances, and the powerful legacy of the past. Elegant and heartfelt, Marissa Stapley’s writing is a gift.”
Pam Jenoff, New York Times bestselling author of The Orphan’s Tale
“A story worth savoring.”
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This book is for my mother, Valerie (1951–2020), who taught me to be brave and resilient. But not how to grift; that, I had to research.
The world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
—Max Ehrmann, “Desiderata”
February 1982
NEW YORK CITY
Someone had left a baby outside the nunnery. And it was Margaret Jean’s night to listen for the door. The rest of the sisters had their earplugs in and couldn’t hear the wails that pierced the air. But still, she stayed motionless in her bed, hoping someone else would wake and relieve her of the drama. Sister Francine, for example, who loved to be busy. Sister Danielle, who had a solution for everything. The baby’s cries grew louder, and still no one else woke.
Margaret Jean touched the gold crucifix around her neck. She had been at the nunnery only a few months; she was still undergoing her aspirancy. The nuns were supposed to decide the following week if she could become one of their order. This wa
s the first night she had been left in charge—a test.
She wasn’t really Catholic. She had forged a baptismal certificate. It had seemed like a brilliant con, her best one yet, to pose as a young woman seeking to pledge her life to the church. No one would ever look for her here; she would be safe. Except—she was expected to be a saint. And she wasn’t one.
The crying continued. It was freezing out there. The child could die. She forced herself to stand, pull on a cardigan, and move off down the hall, a flashlight in hand.
She pushed hard against the wind to open the front door. A little bundle rested on the middle stair. Pink blankets. A tiny fist, curled and shaking. Dear God, if only this could be someone else’s problem, Margaret Jean found herself praying. This habit was as new as the one she had borrowed to wear tonight. It felt like a costume.
There was a man walking along the sidewalk toward the cathedral. He stopped and stood at the base of the steps, listening, then walked up them while Margaret Jean stood still, watching. He knelt. He said something to the baby, but Margaret Jean couldn’t hear what because of the wind and the crying. He lifted the baby into his arms, and she stopped her wailing.
Margaret Jean remained as still as possible. The man looked up at her. He placed his hand on his heart. “Sister,” he said. The wind died down. The habit fell back around her face and shoulders. The man moved up the stairs with the baby in his arms.
“Sister,” he repeated.
She nodded. “Hello.” The man was too handsome, like Cary Grant or Rock Hudson. She had met this kind of man before, had the kind of intimate knowledge of men like this that nuns were not supposed to have. The elbows of his jacket were threadbare, but his shoes were mirror-shiny. His hair was gelled so it barely moved in the wind.
“I’m John,” he said. “I’m sorry you were awakened by my child.”
“Your child?”
“Yes. And”—here, he raised his eyes heavenward—“thank God I found her. My wife, Gloria, has been struggling with… well, you know. The baby blues.” There was a faint hint of an Irish lilt in his rounded vowels. “Tonight, I went out to work and when I returned she was beside herself. She told me she’d gone and left the baby somewhere. A church. I’ve been walking around the city all night, trying to find which. And now here she is, thank God.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“And get my own wife arrested?” He was staring into her eyes, searching for something. She knew he wouldn’t find it. “Instead, I prayed. For a miracle. And here it is! I found my child. You can go back to bed now, Sister.”
Margaret Jean looked down at the baby. “Your wife should seek help,” she said.
“Of course. I promise she will. But my wife deserves another chance. Don’t all God’s children deserve another chance, Sister?”
The way he was speaking to her, it was as if he knew her—as if he knew all about the second chances she did or did not deserve. She felt a wave of compassion for him, coming upon her as quickly as the bread delivery truck now barreling down the street, about to begin its early-morning rounds.
“I hope,” she began, trying to think of the right thing to say, “that you and your family are blessed with good fortune.”
The man was looking at the gold crucifix around her neck. “We could use a little help,” he said. “I could sell that gold. Is there any way you could spare it, Sister…?”
“Margaret Jean,” she supplied.
“So we could pay for groceries,” he continued. “And for formula, since my wife’s in such a state her milk has dried up.”
The necklace was just a prop. Real gold, but a prop nonetheless. She took it off and placed it on the baby. “It’s fourteen-karat.” It felt good to do good, she realized. To give rather than take.
She peered down at the baby.
“What’s her name?”
A brief hesitation, but “Luciana,” he said. “We named her after my mother.”
Margaret Jean chose to believe him. She placed her fingers on Luciana’s brow and made the sign of the cross, just as the priest had done to her hours before, during the Ash Wednesday service. “Your sins are forgiven,” she said, raising her eyes to the man’s.
The problem with reading the Bible too often, day after day, the way an aspiring nun was required to, was that you started to believe miracles could happen anywhere. Even in Queens. Margaret Jean imagined that she really had blessed the child, and the man. That she was protecting them and would see them both again someday. That she had done the right thing.
She bolted the door behind her and returned to her monastic cell, where she prayed for the baby and the man, prayed that they would be blessed, that they would be lucky.
CHAPTER ONE
Luciana Armstrong stood in the bathroom of a gas station in Idaho, close to the Nevada border. She was wearing a white blouse, navy blazer, matching skirt, and low heels. Her hair was tied back in a neat bun. “Goodbye, Alaina,” she said to her reflection—and tried to ignore the sadness. She had been sure Alaina was going to stick around.
She took off her clothes and shoved them in her handbag. Then she pulled out a minidress and a pair of stilettos. She snaked the dress over her body, smoothed down the gold-beaded material, felt a twinge of sadness as her hands passed over her flat stomach, shook out her hair. A stranger was reflected back at her now.
“Hello, Lucky,” she said.
In the gas station convenience store, she roamed the aisles. A man buying cigarettes whistled at her as she tried to decide between cheese puffs or pretzels. She grabbed both and approached the register, skimming the newspaper headlines as she waited: DAY OF RECKONING ON WALL STREET; ANALYSTS PREDICT 2008 MARKET CRASH WILL BE WORST OF ALL TIME. Then a cardboard stand on the counter caught her attention: MULTI MILLIONS LOTTERY, it said. Reading it, she was ten years old again, hurtling down the I-90 to who-knows-where-next with her father. “You’re the luckiest girl in the world,” he had always told her. And he had always bought a lottery ticket when they stopped at a gas station rest stop like this one. “We’ll never win, but we can hope,” he often said. “The lottery is the greatest con of all time, kiddo. Proves our government is just like us, tricking people into thinking any dream can come true.” When he said things like that it made Lucky feel better about who they were, and the things they did.
She reached the cash register. Impulsively, Lucky grabbed a lottery playslip from the stand and filled out her numbers, the same ones she had used just for fun when she was a kid: Eleven, because that was how old she had been when she had thought to have lucky numbers. Eighteen, because that was the age she couldn’t wait to be at the time, thinking adulthood was going to unleash some sort of magic into her life. Forty-two, because that was how old her dad had been when she had come up with the numbers. Ninety-five, because that was the highway they were driving on that day. And seventy-seven, just because.
She handed the paper to the cashier. He printed off her lottery ticket and handed it back. “You should sign your name on that,” he said. “People forget, and then their ticket gets stolen or lost. It’s a big jackpot this time, three hundred and ninety million.”
“I have a higher chance of being struck by lightning, twice, than I do of winning that jackpot,” Lucky said. “It’s just a dream, that’s all.” Then she turned, ducked her head as she walked past the security cameras and out into the parking lot. She put the ticket in her wallet and imagined herself in a beach house in Dominica, taking the ticket out once in a while and remembering her dad—before he had landed in prison.
Outside, her boyfriend, Cary, had finished filling their silver Audi’s gas tank. He saw her, grinned, and mouthed the word Damn. She blew a kiss at him and walked toward the car, letting her hips sway. But a voice made her turn.
“Could you spare any change?”
A woman was sitting with her back against the concrete wall of the station, holding a sign that said UNEMPLOYED, BROKE, ANYTHING HELPS. Lucky took out her walle
t. She emptied it of several hundred—then paused and pulled the blouse, skirt, blazer, and shoes from her bag.
“Take these,” Lucky said.
“Where would I ever wear them?”
“Sell them on consignment. Or…” Lucky leaned down. “Use them to pretend to be someone else.”
The woman blinked at her, confused. “What?”
“Never mind. Just… take care, okay?”
Cary was grinning as she walked toward him again. She got in the car and he grabbed her chin, turned her face to his, kissed her mouth. “You’re looking damn hot, Mrs.… what did we register at the hotel as, Anderson? I think it’s great that you went in there looking like an investment banker and came out looking like the girl I used to know. You never dress like this anymore. I like. And now I see why you wanted to go to Vegas so badly.” He let go and she felt something shift between them. “But it’s funny that you’re always thinking you can, I don’t know, redeem yourself or something by giving money out to people like her. Soon you won’t feel that need anymore. Soon you’ll forget all about it.”
She felt suddenly irritated. “People ‘like her’? And I’m not trying to redeem myself. I’m trying to help people who need help.”
“Why?”
Out the window, the woman had her hand lifted in a wave, but Lucky looked away.
“Make up for the money we’ve stolen by acting like Robin Hood?” Cary went on. “Steal from the rich, give to the poor? It’s cute, I guess.” He started the car and pulled out. “But it’s never going to work. We are who we are, Lucky.” He had a way of digging straight down to the painful secret spots in a person’s psyche. And, not for the first time recently, she felt a niggling sense of worry about this. They were moving to a remote island together. It was just going to be the two of them. They would never be able to leave.
Cary merged with the traffic on the highway and turned up the stereo. A thumping techno beat filled the car. He glanced at her and smiled, and she smiled back.