Chasing Lucky

by Jenn Bennett

  The door creaks open. Scents of must and mothballs float out.

  I turn on the overhead light by pulling a string. The closet is packed to the gills. A fur coat that nearly gives me a heart attack because it looks like an animal cowering in the corner. A couple of dresses zipped up in plastic. Stacks of boxes that are all labeled in my grandmother’s cursive handwriting. Documents. Paystubs. Nothing interesting, really … A lockbox certainly doesn’t seem boring, but I don’t have the combination. I put it aside and look through the boxes on the top shelf until I find what I’m looking for.

  A box labeled Winnie.

  No one calls my mom that. No one but Grandma.

  I dig out the box, sit on the floor with it between my knees, and open up the flaps that are folded over one another. There’s not much inside. A baby blanket and a silver rattle with my mother’s initials engraved on it. A tiny photo album—baby pictures, mostly. A few of my mom as an adorable toddler, laughing at the camera on a strange man’s shoulders—my grandfather. So weird to see a man I never met.

  At the bottom of the box, under a pile of birthday cards and school records, I find some things from my mom’s teen years. A worn felt high school pennant with a big Breakers wave design on it. A photo of my mother when she was voted Best Dressed. And there. The coveted prize.

  Beauty High School Yearbook.

  My mom’s senior year.

  Pulse racing, I crack it open and have to pry the endpapers apart—there’s an old strawberry candy wrapper here, one that still faintly holds the sweet scent, and its sugar has crystalized on the paper.

  My eyes scan over the signatures and scribbled notes from classmates. Rainbows and hearts. Love yous. Go Breakers! Have a great summer. It’s finally over! And sillier things—Party hard ? People said that? So weird.

  I look through the pages of the yearbook and find my mom’s class photo. God, she was pretty. So strange to see her without her glasses. Stranger still to see her in casual shots around campus. But when I flip to the endpapers at the back of the book, I find a couple more handwritten notes that catch my attention.

  Note one: We’ve been through it all together, Winn. From the top of the pyramid to the boys next door. Here’s to getting out of this place. —Chloe

  Top of the pyramid: a cheerleading reference, perhaps. My mom is no cheerleader, that’s for sure. Who are the “boys next door,” though? Is that a metaphor, or the actual boys next door?

  Note two: It’s finally over. Only palm trees and white, sandy beaches on the horizon now. Our future is bright and sunny, and I can’t wait for the two of us to start it together. —Drew

  I sit with the yearbook open on my lap, stunned.

  Palm trees and white, sandy beaches? I’ve heard this exact phrase a hundred times out of my mother’s mouth. It’s her dream. Florida. The reason she agreed to come back to Beauty and save up money—so we could finally get out of New England and move where it’s warm and sunny.

  Now I’m convinced this “Drew” is the mystery man I’ve been looking for.

  The navy man that Evie’s mom said came back into town.

  In the yearbook, he’s talking about starting a future together with my mom. I wonder if that’s just another saccharine yearbook salutation, or if he meant it literally. If he did mean it, obviously it didn’t happen. She didn’t start any kind of future with someone named Drew from high school.

  She went to art school. Met my dad. Got pregnant. Dropped out of college. Moved back in with my grandma and had me. Lived here until I was twelve, then the time bomb exploded with Mom and Grandma.

  End of story. At least, that’s what I always thought.

  What really happened to my mom in Beauty?

  PREVENT BOAT THEFT—LOCK YOUR CABIN: Sign posted on an unnamed boating pier between historic district and South Harbor. Though Beauty prides itself on a low crime rate, boat theft remains a problem. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)

  Chapter 17

  “Air. I need … fresh air,” Lucky says as we exit my apartment and step onto the rickety back stairs, closing the door behind us. Moths flutter around a bulb that shines a spotlight of yellow on the steps leading down into the dark alley behind the Nook. “I mean, is it just me, or was that the most awkward, tensest movie night of your entire life?”

  “I thought Parasite was amazing,” I say, feigning innocence. “Bong Joon Ho is a brilliant director and the cinematography was excellent.”

  He gives me a pointed look.

  Yeah, that. Not a great movie night in la Maison de Saint-Martin.

  Pizza: not good.

  Evie: not good.

  Mom and Lucky … well, remarkably okay, actually.

  But everything else was tense. Very tense. “There is a reason for Evie’s mood, and it had nothing to do with a fast-paced plot of revenge,” I tell Lucky. “I’m sorry, but there was no good point to tell you this, because Mom kept hogging the conversation, so I could never get you alone—”

  “She’s warming up to my dark charms,” he says, one side of his mouth curling.

  “This is serious.”

  “Clearly. Got a serious vibe between you and Evie, for sure.”

  “That’s because before you showed up,” I say in a low voice, just in case Mom is listening in the kitchen, “I caught Adrian Summers in Evie’s bed.”

  Black lashes slowly blink at me. “Um … as in—”

  “Yeah,” I say, hugging myself. “Like, half naked. And we had a short argument, during which he basically denied throwing the crowbar at the boatyard window, but in one of those wink-wink kinds of ways? And Evie was completely embarrassed. And I nearly told him that I’m the one who threw the rock at the department store window—”

  “You better be joking right now,” he says, brow lowering.

  “But I caught myself in time! It’s okay. I covered it up.” I think.

  “Josie.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He swears under his breath and shakes his head. “What is she doing with drunky dipshit, anyway? Is it not enough that he nearly killed both of them in a car accident?”

  “On top of everything else. What should I do? Does she need an intervention? Am I the messenger that’s got to deliver the bad news that she’s in a toxic relationship? Or is this none of my business?”

  He blows out a hard breath. “Wow, I don’t know. On one hand, I’ve known him awhile. On the other hand, I am the last person to ask, because when it comes to Adrian Summers, I do not have any goodwill. I fantasize about building one of those pagan wicker-type effigies out of his rowing boats and oars, a la Burning Man, and setting it ablaze with him inside it, begging for his life.”

  He’s joking. I think.

  “If you end up in actual jail, I will never forgive you, Lucky Karras,” I warn him.

  “Just a harmless fantasy,” he says, holding up both hands innocently. “And as far as what to do about Evie … I honestly don’t know. She’s nineteen. In college. An adult. And I don’t know if Adrian is seriously dangerous, or just an entitled asshole who makes terrible decisions when he drinks too much.”

  Me neither. But I’m a little weary of my family right now. Sometimes having to solve everyone else’s problems feels as if it’s a load I’m not built to carry. Like, I’m just a tiny elevator made for transporting one or two people, max—but every floor, someone’s dinging my buttons, and suddenly I’m crammed with people and now my doors won’t shut.

  “Maybe I’ll talk to her over the next couple days. Once things have stopped being weird between us.” I squint at Lucky under the porch light. “Got any plans for this weekend?”

  He cracks his knuckles over his black cat tattoo. “Perhaps plans for both of us, if you’re interested. Two words—Rapture Island. Know it?”

  “Afraid I do not.”

  “Few miles outside of the harbor mouth. Used to be a colony, now it’s a bird sanctuary.”

  “Bird sanctuary, eh? That sounds … positively rive
ting.”

  “Now, hold on. I wasn’t finished.”

  “Is there golfing, too? Because bird watching and golfing are the two things I definitely do not want to do with my weekend. Top two things.”

  He holds up a finger. “First, birds are cool, so screw you.”

  I laugh. “Wow. Didn’t know you were such a bird-o-phile.”

  “Or maybe even ornithophile.”

  “Potato, tomato.”

  He ignores that. “And second, the island is only accessible by boat, and I’m not sure if anyone lives out there besides the lighthouse keeper and a handful of scientists during certain times of the year, but it’s got”—he leans closer and says in a spooky voice—“the ruins of an entire colonial ghost town.”

  “Okay, sounding better and better. I didn’t know we had a colonial ghost town.”

  “Ha! Taught you something new,” he says, smiling at me with tired eyes.

  “Look, I just learned that there are now two clam shacks in our neighborhood, not one.”

  “Manny’s and Clam No. 5. Manny’s is still better.”

  “Good to know. So, you think we should visit Rapture Island for the ghost town?”

  “And because there’s a really cool sign there. You would love it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Very unique. Your portfolio would thank you. And you’d thank me.”

  “Okay. Liking this …”

  “And you’ve been seasick-free for a couple weeks now, so I was thinking, you know. It’s not that far. We could take the Narwhal out there. Get you some good practice out on the water.” He runs the back of his index finger over the inside of my wrist. Barely a touch at all. I hold my breath as waves of shivers cascade over my skin.

  “That’s true,” I say.

  “Just a minute ago, your mom was joking about letting you off at noon on Sunday, saying you’d better be good while she was working her ass off for the rest of the day, but I was thinking, I don’t know … maybe we don’t be good. Maybe we sneak away on the Narwhal.”

  My heart skips a couple of beats and then stumbles all over itself, trying to catch back up.

  “What about Sunday dinner with your family?” I remind him.

  He waggles his brows at me. “Maybe we skip Sunday dinner.”

  “Lucky,” I say, feigning shock.

  “We could have our own Sunday dinner on Rapture Island. Just the two of us. Picnic lunch. Picnic dinner. What’s between lunch and dinner? Linner? Picnic linner?”

  “I think it’s called ‘your mom getting mad at us for skipping a family function just so I can take a photograph of a cool sign’?”

  “The things I do for art,” he says, stealing a quick kiss before my mother spies us through the kitchen window. “It will be our little secret,” he says, heading backwards down the steps and speaking in a low voice. “We’ll be back before anyone misses us. Before the Nook closes. And before my mom gets too mad about Sunday dinner. Run away with me?”

  “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll run away with you.”

  Feeling giddy, I watch him race down the steps and head off to the Superhawk. It’s not until he’s speeding off down the road that I realize I never had the chance to tell him about what I found in my mother’s closet. I’m definitely not telling her. I’d have to tell her how I came by the information, and that wouldn’t go over well.

  And as I catch Evie’s silhouette moving across the kitchen window, I remember that there are more pressing relationship matters in the Saint-Martin family that probably need more attention than ones buried in literal closets. Maybe I should try to talk to her now. Not tomorrow.

  I slip back inside the apartment and have no problem avoiding Mom, who is buried deep in her phone, a TV commercial on in the background, and I head straight for Evie’s room. But when I rap on her door with my knuckles, she doesn’t answer. Not verbally. She just sends me a text.

  Evie: Tired. Don’t want to talk. Please leave me alone.

  Well. Classic Saint-Martin move. Communication severed. Can’t help people who won’t listen. Can’t talk to people who isolate themselves.

  But who’s responsible for getting things back online, me or her?

  * * *

  Lucky stands on the dock behind the deserted boatyard in shorts and a lightweight navy hoodie, a cooler sitting at his feet.

  “Ready to set sail for the high seas?” he asks, smiling at me.

  “Took my antihistamine pill half an hour ago,” I say, and then flash him my wristbands. “Got these babies on and a pocket full of ginger. Ready as I’ll ever be. I come seekin’ adventure and salty old pirates.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re not doing a Disney pirate voice the entire trip.”

  “Can I at least shout ‘anchors away’ when we set sail?”

  “It’s actually ‘anchor is aweigh,’ as in, off the sea floor. Never mind. You can shout whatever you’d like once we’re out on the water as long as you’re not vomiting.”

  Adrenaline zips through me. I’ve got my bathing suit on beneath my clothes, which is exactly the same as a bra and panties, but somehow it always feels a little naughty. Like why is one kind of fabric only for underneath clothes, but another kind of fabric totally okay for flashing around in public? One of the mysteries of life.

  “What did you tell Winona?”

  “That we’re taking the boat out to the same spot we always do.”

  “Good,” he says. “I told my mom the same. Said we may be late for Sunday dinner, so not to wait for us.”

  “Ugh. Now she’s going to text you, asking where we are.”

  “Who cares? I’ll tell her we lost track of time. It’s fine.”

  I groan. “Definitely don’t like lying to Kat Karras.”

  “You lie to your mom on the regular,” he points out. “It’s the same.”

  “But it feels wrong.” He has the traditional family with the big backyard. That makes it worse somehow. I just have Winona, who doesn’t keep track of where I am half the time.

  He squints at me. “Got a feeling there’s something else that’s bugging you. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want anything to spoil our perfect getaway.”

  “If there’s another broken window, I swear—”

  “Stop.”

  “Come on, shutterbug,” he teases. “Talk to me.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and let my head loll backwards. “It’s Evie. She hates me. I tried to talk to her.” Several times, in fact. She’s now taken to locking her bedroom door. And okay, fair enough. But she refuses to look at me in the Nook. “This is the last communication I got from her. Look at this.”

  I pull out my phone and show him the single text she’s sent me since the I don’t want to talk one from movie night—

  Evie: I broke it off. It’s over for good. Don’t want to talk about it, so don’t ask.

  “Over? Between her and the scumbag?” Lucky asks, squinting at my screen. “That’s what she means? She and Adrian broke up.”

  I nod. “Yeah. I also heard Evie Skyping her mom a couple days ago and crying. It wasn’t their normal day to talk, so I definitely think Evie’s upset about this. I wish she’d talk to me about it, but … nope. Now I’m worried.”

  “At least she and Adrian broke up,” he says. “That’s good, right?”

  Is he serious? “Lucky, the last time she broke up with him, Adrian showed up at a party he wasn’t supposed to be at, drunkenly shouted at her, and humiliated my family. What if he does something horrible this time? He threw a crowbar.”

  “He wouldn’t hurt her. He’s an asshole, but he’s not a psychopath.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure? But I can absolutely understand why you’d be worried. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to even have to consider that. It’s messed up.” He frowns. “Should you tell your mom to watch out for Evie today?”

  “Then Mom will know I’m up to no good. Besides, Evie’s
studying with her friend Vanessa and some other people today, so she’s not alone.”

  “Good,” he says. Then he squints at me, sensing there’s more. “Or … not good?”

  “It’s good. But that’s not the only thing. Evie is now pissed at me, and how is their breakup my fault? I didn’t know he’d be in her room that day. Why am I the bad guy for pointing out something she wasn’t seeing herself?”

  “The messenger always gets shot. No one wants to hear about their failings. But once she has some time to think about it, she’ll realize the messenger is not your enemy. The messenger is there to help you. Messenger good,” he enunciates broadly. “Josie good.”

  “Josie’s always good, but Josie has zip to show for it,” I mutter.

  “Well, guess what,” he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. “That’s what today is for.”

  “Is that so?” I say, wanting to believe him.

  “Absolutely. Forget all that. Forget about trying to solve everyone’s problems, and all your plotting and scheming. Evie is safe with Vanessa. You said so yourself. Today is just about us. Let’s be a little bad together.”

  “Okay … fine. You and me,” I say, giving in to his seductive speech of temporary freedom and smiling up at him. “Let’s be a little bad.”

  We board the Narwhal and stow the cooler in the below-deck apartment. Then Lucky quickly unmoors the boat, and while I chew on ginger and don my life jacket, the sky above begins to look overcast. And then more than overcast.

  Definitely not a perfect summer day. But I guess it’s still okay to sail.

  “Chance of rain,” Lucky reports. “We need to keep an eye on the weather. Hopefully it will stay south of us. I’m not too worried.”

  The darkening skies make me nervous, but I know zilch about navigating a boat. So I just nod and take a deep breath.

  “Let’s get out of here before anyone catches us,” he tells me, “and find out what it’s like to be free of Beauty for an afternoon.”

  Sure. Let’s be a little bad.

  Let’s just not get caught.

  NO OVERNIGHT DOCKING: Sign posted on dock at northern end of Rapture Island, several miles south of Beauty. There are more than thirty islands in Narragansett Bay, and Rapture, though uninhabited, is one of the largest. (Personal photo/Josephine Saint-Martin)