“I know it well,” he says. “The sacred lucky horseshoe.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You know what it means to me.”
“I do.”
“And you know what you mean to me?” I ask, eyebrows raised, hoping for a yes.
“You know, I think I do,” he says. “Actually, yes, now I know I do. I’m saying a lot of ‘I do’s’ here.”
“Good thing there are no witnesses,” I tease.
“No kidding,” he says, but he’s smiling wide, and it feels like he’s warming up to me.
“Witness this!” I say, and I take off into the water, my shoes sloshing into the shallow tide, the cold water shocking my ankles.
“What are you doing, you nut?” Ryan shouts as he runs after me.
“Making sure I do it right,” I say. “Making sure it gets a proper send-off.”
Before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I reach my hand up and cock my arm back, holding it behind me for a brief moment before I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can and thrust the necklace forward, out of my grasp, into the now escaping tide.
“Berry, don’t!” he says, too late. “You love that thing.”
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there was a gigantic gravitational pull urging me to run into the water after my necklace and dive around in a desperate attempt to find it. But the pull to Ryan is just that much stronger. I swallow hard, my eyes stinging with sudden tears as the horseshoe disappears beneath the waves. My heart races, and I have a million and one thoughts in about a moment’s time. I open my eyes and turn to him.
“I love this thing,” I say, motioning between the two of us. “I love what we have … or had before I screwed it up. I wish I could say, ‘I wasn’t always this way,’ but this is exactly how I’ve always been.”
“And I was a fan,” he says.
“You’re talking in past tense,” I point out.
“So were you. I’m saying, the way you have always been … that’s what drew me in. It was just the whole ‘having to walk on eggshells or else the sky would fall’ was a bit much. And even then, I was sticking it out. Look, I know I made fun of your silly habits, largely because … well, because they were silly. And I could have been more sensitive, I know. But you were the one who cut the cord.”
“I know. I was afraid. I’m done with that.”
And the beauty of the moment is I’m standing around a veritable potpourri of forbidden curses and danger zones. But where I once saw trip hazards, driftwood that might wash up at any moment and impale you, beach-buggy tread tracks that could swallow a person whole or at the very least cause a nasty ankle twist when navigating the beach in the dark, water teeming with stinging nettle seaweed that could entangle and drown an Olympic champion, runners and Rollerbladers whose crack-stepping qualified them for ten lifetimes of bad luck, I now see giant pillows of forgiving sand, a gentle ocean that washes over the tiny toes of intrepid little girls in frilly bathing suits, the crisscrossing of happy people out soaking it all in, like Ryan and me, right now.
The ball’s in his court, of course. I’ve got the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” in my head. “If you say that you are mine, I’ll be here ’til the end of time.”
We walk back to dry sand, and I plunk myself down where our stuff is. Ryan sits beside me, and neither of us speaks. I reach into the doughnut bag and pull out a napkin, tearing it up out of nervousness. Before I know it, I’ve made a triangle. Then I take the straw from my iced coffee and stick it through the little makeshift fabric shape I’ve torn. Once in and then out so it looks like a tiny flag. I wave it before him.
“Is that your white flag?” he says, charmed by my pathetic impromptu arts and crafts.
I smile, guilty as charged.
“So you surrender?” he asks pointedly.
“I do,” I say.
We were only just beginning when I screwed everything up, but I know I’m not living in fear anymore, and I want us to give this thing another chance. He takes the flag from my hand.
“What if I want to get a black cat?”
“We’ll name him Lionel,” I reply.
“Why Lionel?”
“You don’t find many Lionels these days.”
“True, true,” he says.
“I’m cured,” I insist. “I’m a new woman.”
“I’m not so sure,” Ryan says. “Perhaps we need a baptism.”
“That water was cold,” I say, dreading what’s coming next.
Ryan stands up and reaches out for me.
“Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. “No way.” But Ryan leans down and scoops me up.
“It’ll be fun,” he says as I squirm and squeal. “Refreshing.”
“Ryan,” I say. “So help me, if you throw me in that water …”
“Then what?” he asks.
“On second thought,” I say, “what are the odds we find my damn necklace? Because if you throw me in there, we are not getting out of that water until we find it.”
“Oh, man,” Ryan says as he surprisingly puts me back down.
But my smile tells him I’m kidding. I’m happy to let the necklace go, along with everything it stood for. And who knows? Maybe it’ll wash ashore and bring someone else some comfort.
As for me, I’m looking forward to the unknown. Maybe knowing isn’t what it’s all about. Being “safe” sure hasn’t kept me or my heart out of harm’s way.
“Race ya,” I say, and Ryan’s eyes widen.
We take off toward the water, but at the last moment I stop short. He dives in, fully clothed, and comes up sputtering.
“You tease!” he shouts. “Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t want to get your lucky camisole wet!”
I smile, not cured maybe, but better. Far better than I have been in a long time.
“These are two-hundred-dollar jeans,” I say. “And not to bring attention to something that might seriously bum you out right now … but would your cellphone happen to be in your pocket? Immersed in water?”
Without a word, he reaches into the water, retrieves his phone, shakes it, and looks for signs of life. Nothin’ doin’. He looks back up to me and shrugs. No matter. He doesn’t need it. The only person he wants to talk to right now is already here, shaking her head at the impetuous fool she loves.
Acknowledgments
Once you have three books under your belt, you also have three sets of acknowledgments under your belt. That means the obligatory “I’d better mention them” thing has been done. Probably all three times.
My fourth time around, I’m going to use these pages to give credit to the people who have really been my support system—my rocks—because without these people, this book wouldn’t be in your hands.
My mom. First and always. Your unwavering support keeps me going when I’m running out of steam. I think back to you reading me The Little Engine That Could, and while it’s no Poky Little Puppy … it’s certainly been inspirational when it comes to me finishing every project I start. I love and adore you.
My grandma. You feisty vixen, you. Thank you for the intentional and unintentional laughs you provide. Thank you for your love. I know it doesn’t come easy. Especially when I hang around with no-good, filthy louses and crooks. I love you dearly.
My stepmom. Thank you for loving my dad until he had had enough of this shithole. You made him happy, and that is everything. Thank you for always being proud of me and for flying in from San Francisco for my Los Angeles readings. Having my family at important events means the world to me. Sometimes it’s the only time I get to see you, so … I guess I’ll have to keep writing books.
My dog, Max. So handsome. So wise. So loyal. I could write a whole book on how much I love this dog. And perhaps when I run out of material I will, but for now I’ll just say he’s the best little guy in the world.
David Vanker. My dear, dear friend, happily married with a baby, always frenzied with work, yet still takes the time to listen to my occasional rant and
does his damnedest to help me when I’m in need. David, you’ve been my hero countless times, and even if you follow through on your threat to move to Pakistan to avoid my calls, I know you’d still be there, and I cherish you for it.
Missy Peregrym. The exception to the rule. Real in a town full of fakes, more beautiful inside than out, although I’m not sure that’s possible, because—just look at her. A true best friend. Someone I can count on to laugh with and cry with (and often both at once). Thank you for always pushing me to be better and stronger.
My Chicago writer girls: Jen Lancaster and Stacey Ballis. How many times did I freak out and say I wouldn’t be able to finish this book? Before I’d even started writing it, no less? Don’t answer that. Your talking me off a ledge each time made me believe I could do it. And I guess I did. I love you guys.
My New York writer girls: Karyn Bosnak, Gitty Daneshvari, and Sarah Grace McCandless. I always wondered what it would be like to have a cool group of girls to have regular dinners with and talk shop and talk boys and be silly with and to be surrounded by people who “get it.” Girls who aren’t backstabbing hos. Or at least not backstabbing ones. Ha!
My Los Angeles writer girl: Allison Schroeder. We’ve been through wars together and both came out relatively unscathed … or at least alive. I think. Unless M. Night is pulling a fast one on us. Thank you for always brainstorming when needed and listening when needed and going house-hunting when needed and being awesome pretty much always. I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve done this year.
My Los Angeles writer boy: Neal Brennan. I can’t believe how long we’ve known each other. I know we’re not that old, so someone has made a mathematical error. Just go with it. You are brilliant and hilarious, and I’m glad people recognize that. Thank you for being able to make me laugh when I’m pretty sure it would otherwise be impossible. I couldn’t be happier to run into an ex every day at my local coffee shop. Seeing you is always a bright spot.
My bicoastal brother and sister in the fight for animal rights: Glen E. Friedman and Simone Reyes. Our time together, on whichever coast, is always comforting. Even if we get busy starring in reality shows (Simone) or balancing a great family with an already legendary photography career (Glen), just knowing that you are in the same city with me makes me feel better.
My L.A. homegirls: Jacqueline Lord, Christina Mcnown, and Abigail Spencer. Love, love, and love. Thank you, girls, for always being there when it counts.
My Breakfast Club: Stephen Hanks and Leslie Jordan. I love you both even more than I love my oatmeal, and that says everything.
The Gores. My family away from my family. You guys are simply the best. And the craziest. Which, I guess, is why I fit right in.
My two best Internet buddies, Peter DeWolf and Jason Logue, who absolutely make my life better. You’re the best friends I’ve never met.
Additionally, this bunch of amazing friends who are too tricky to even classify: Jeremy Armstrong, Rick Biolsi, Adam Carl, Kim Falconnet, Gilly Garrett, U-Jung Jung, Devon Kellgren, Nez Mandel, Makyla Oakley, Jeff Schneider, Amanda Voelker, Fran Warner, and Harley Zinker. Man, I’m lucky.
You all make this world livable.
Never forget to thank your agent: thank you, Alanna Ramirez, and everyone at Trident. Thank you for working so hard on my behalf. Rob Goldman and Jeff Frankel should get in here, too, because they’re the best lawyers on the planet.
And to my patient editor Kerri Buckley, who took my hysterical call in which I declared, “Guess what, I’m not gonna write this book!” And then the very next day took the call where I said, “Disregard everything I said yesterday.” Kerri, you are the best and the coolest, and I’m so grateful to you for all your hard work, and thank you, too, Margaret Benton, production editor extraordinaire. Last but not least, a huge thank-you to Jane von Mehren, for giving me a home at Random House Trade Paperbacks.
Read on for an excerpt from Caprice Crane’s
Family Affair
layla
Eric Clapton stole Pattie Boyd from George Harrison. This is common knowledge by now. What’s less well known is that Eric Clapton stole my father from my mother. Our nuclear family was another casualty of the undying allure of sex, drugs, and platinum-selling vinyl. I used to wonder what would steal my own marital happiness.
Being named after a Clapton song is a mixed blessing. There’s the instant recognition factor, sure, but it also provides every would-be suitor a ready-made pickup line: “Layla—like the song? Were your parents listening to that song when your mom got knocked up?”
“No,” I always reply, “but wouldn’t it be cool if my name were Bruiser, ’cause then our names would rhyme!”
In seventh grade, Garret Paulson ventured a little lyrical perversion and taunted me with “Layla, you’ve got me on my knees; Layla, I’m begging, darlin’, please.” I got the last laugh, or rather, twenty or so seventh-graders at Presley Middle School did, when I swung my field-hockey stick into his groin. Talk about being on your knees … Live and learn, I guess.
The name choice was my father’s doing. “Layla” was his favorite song, and my mom didn’t argue—she liked the idea of me not having a popular name. Hers is Sue, and she was surrounded by Sues all her life, constantly answering when she wasn’t called and feeling like just one among many. From the start, she wanted me to stand out—thought it was my destiny—so she went along with Layla. And dressed me in a tie-dyed Onesie.
After all the years of having my name, for some reason I still get a kick out of hearing it—almost every time. The exception is the case of its being barked at me as if I wasn’t only nine feet away from the person shouting it. This time, it’s Brett, my husband.
“Layla!” he yells, again.
I’ll tell you why I haven’t answered: because I know the acoustics of this house. I know when someone can hear you and when they can’t. I know because I live here. And because I’m not an idiot. Yet he thinks that when I call his name and he’s in the very next room—looking at a game on the TV or screwing around on his computer or whatever the case may be—I don’t know he can totally hear me. He’ll ignore me and then act all innocent. It insults my intelligence at its very core.
So I’m returning the favor. He knows damn well I can hear him. Just like he heard me this morning when I was trying to get his attention. Of course, his boy Troy Aikman was talking on the TV at the time, and I knew he’d want to watch.
My ignoring him seems petty, I realize, but he’s driven me to it. We weren’t always like this—just lately. And I know I’m the one who sounds like the jerk in this situation, but I’m only reacting to the way he’s been treating me. Which doesn’t make it better, I suppose, but it at least puts things into context.
“Could you not hear me?” Brett asks, as he storms around our place looking for something.
“What?” I say. “Did you say something?”
“I was calling you from the other room.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I reply, genuine as can be. “I didn’t hear you.” Just like you never seem to hear me anymore unless it’s convenient.
“Have you seen my keys?” he asks.
“I think so. In the kitchen. Or maybe on top of the hamper. Yeah, the hamper. Definitely on top of the hamper.”
He walks toward the bathroom without uttering anything resembling a thank-you, and I hear the keys jingle as he grabs them. Then I hear the front door open.
“See you at the game?” he calls out.
“Um …” For a split second I debate whether or not I should go. Then I consider the fact that I’ve been rather lax in my game attendance of late. And I also remember that at least I’ll have Brooke, my best friend from grade school, there to keep me company. “You bet.”
• • •
Brooke and I sit together at the fifty-yard line, and I chomp on stale popcorn as she rates the asses of the guys on the opposing team.
“I’m gonna give him a seven,” she says. “I think it’s hairy.”<
br />
“Gross. Why would you think that?”
“Because he’s already going bald, and hair tends to migrate. When they don’t have hair on their head, they seem to have it everywhere they don’t want it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Which begs the question, why, if it’s hairy, does he still get a seven? That’s a fairly decent score.”
“I take it back. Make it a five.” Then she points to another guy. “He gets a two. Too big. The bigger the butt, the more chances of skid marks. I’ve found they don’t wipe well when they have big butts. Too much land to cover.”
“I’m kind of horrified right now.”
“Try doing the laundry. That’s what’s horrifying.”
“Whose imaginary big-butted laundry are you doing?” I ask, because Brooke hasn’t been in a relationship for at least a year.
“Nobody’s. By choice.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” I say, as I watch Brett run along the sideline, his shock of dark hair flopping every which way. At six-two, one hundred ninety pounds, with shoulders out to here and a body in perfect fighting condition, you’d think he might be running onto the field himself to take the next handoff. And I know that nearly every female in the stadium is wondering what he looks like in those spandex shorts and compression shirts they wear at practice—I’ve heard them talking in the ladies’ room.
“How’s the coach lately?”
“He’s good,” I say, as I shove a handful of popcorn into my mouth.
“Has he even once looked up to see you in the stands?”
“He’s trying to win a game, Brooke,” I defend. “He knows I’m here.”
“He used to always look up. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Well, thank you for pointing that out to me,” I answer, as if I hadn’t noticed. I sure as hell had noticed. I don’t know if he appreciates my even coming to the games anymore. Hence my aforementioned recent lack of attendance.
With a Little Luck Page 27
