Down on Her Luck
Alaina's Story
Carmen DeSousa
Down on Her Luck
Copyright© 2017 by Carmen DeSousa
ISBN: 9781945143168
www.CarmenDeSousaBooks.com
U.S.A.
Cover Design: Suzana Stankovic at LSDdesign
This is a fictional work. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are solely the concepts and products of the author’s imagination or are used to create a fictitious story and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form by any means, without the prior permission in writing, except in the case of brief quotations, reviews, and articles.
For any other permission, please visit www.CarmenDeSousaBooks.com for contact information.
Contents
1
Lady Luck Flees Town
2
Coming Home
3
The Palace
4
An Old Friend
5
Callback
6
Midlife Crisis
7
Life Isn’t Over
8
The Cage
9
Puppies and Babies, Oh My!
10
Scandal or Hype
11
Proposals
12
That Old Harpy Fate
13
Rejecting the Dream
14
Sisters
15
Station Square
16
Fate Doesn't Take a Holiday
17
With Any Luck
18
HEA x 2?
Sneak Peek
How it all started...
Some Lucky Woman
1
Temporary Insanity
Before you go…
“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.” — Cormac McCarthy
1
Lady Luck Flees Town
To the extreme distress of my roommate — Joe was my boyfriend, really, but at thirty-nine, the word boyfriend sounded hokey — I’d spent all night practicing lines from the Broadway play for which I planned to audition this morning.
Joe walked sleepy-eyed into the second bedroom of our tiny apartment, which we now used as an office since I’d started sleeping in his room, and held up his phone, presenting me with the time. “It’s four a.m., Alaina. Could you try to keep it to a low roar? I have an important meeting at nine a.m., and I’m almost certain all my neighbors are nine-to-fivers.”
“Sorry,” I croaked out. I smiled at the one word that came out as a gravelly purr. I’d screamed my lines, stretching my vocal cords so tightly that Eddie Van Halen could strum a chord on them. Now my voice was low and raspy, exactly the sound I was going for. If I rested my voice, it should have that perfect Kathleen-Turner edge I wanted by the time I auditioned. With my luck, though, I’d get to the audition and have laryngitis.
Still, it had to be done. This was it. My last audition, I’d promised myself. I was a tad older than most casting directors were looking for, but I still looked young enough. If the CD didn’t skip right to my age on my résumé, he probably wouldn’t notice, especially since the auditions were taking place in a theater.
For the last twenty years, every time I auditioned for a lead role, I was too short or too skinny. Too young or too old. Too tough or too feminine. Not this time. Everything about me fit this part. This was the role I’d waited twenty years to land. And unlike the last twenty years, I refused to accept a minor role. No way did I want to spend hours every evening waiting to deliver a few select lines. Supporting roles paid the bills, but they didn’t feed my soul. This time, it was all or nothing.
After two more hours of whispering my lines, concentrating on expansive movements and dramatic facial expressions, I decided it was time for face-and-hair detail. Tweezers held at the ready, I scrutinized my reflection, inspecting my blond hair for any stray grays. I didn’t have many, thankfully, but the few grays I had refused to rest silently among my other hairs. The wiry little sprites seemed to have a mind of their own, always popping straight up. I knew if I continued to pluck out the steely invaders, I’d end up looking like a middle-aged porcupine with thousands of hoary spikes, but I hadn’t had the time or the extra money to get a root touch-up job, and the last thing I needed was to show up at an audition looking like I was over thirty. Made no difference that the audition was for a play with a title that indicated my age was perfect — if not too young — I still had to look younger than my thirty-nine years.
“Alaina …” Joe rapped on the bathroom door. “How much longer?”
“Just a sec …” I tossed all my toiletries back into my shower caddy, snatched my cosmetic bag off the toilet seat, and opened the door. Normally, having one bathroom wasn’t an issue, since typically we worked different shifts. Most days, Joe was showered and shaved before I even rolled out of bed to make coffee.
Joe dashed by me. “Thanks.”
The door clicked shut, and I ran to the attached mirror above our shared dresser. After I set up all my primers, concealers, and makeup in the order that I needed to apply them, I glanced up at my reflection. The black lacquer-framed mirror was large enough, but the lighting was better in the bathroom.
As a teenager, my best friend, Markus, and I had spent half of our awake hours either watching TV shows or reading books based in New York and had fallen in love with the idea of beautiful lofts with soaring windows and rooftop balconies. We’d planned to split the rent on an apartment like we’d seen on Friends, which wouldn’t be an issue, since we’d been nothing but good friends. The two of us had had grand plans: he’d write the plays, and I’d star in them. But he’d stayed in Pittsburgh to take over his parents’ real estate company, and I left for New York as soon as I graduated high school. I had never dreamed I’d end up in a shoebox-size two-bedroom apartment with three windows that if you lined them up in a row would be smaller than Joe’s Smart TV.
Both my mother and drama teacher had assured me I’d star on Broadway someday, that I had that extra oomph that producers and directors were looking for. Sadly, my only full-time acting job was my day job, where I pretended to be overjoyed to serve food and drink to rich New Yorkers.
Even my love life was lackluster. Desperate for a safe and stable residence, I’d answered an ad to rent a room from Joe three years ago. He’d been a recent divorcé. He and his ex-wife couldn’t sell the condo for what was owed on it, so they’d pulled the listing, and his ex-wife moved back to Florida with a contract stating that he’d give her half the profits whenever he sold the place. Joe had made it clear to me that he would never sell the condo for that very reason.
Joe and I had been attracted to each other physically immediately. And our personalities, while nearly polar opposite, had somehow worked. He was sensible and grounded, and I’d always been fun and adventurous. On our rare days off together, I tried to talk him into joining me on crazy adventures, but more often than not, he talked me into going to the theater. Then I’d try my crazy idea on a day he was at work.
Our relationship had gone from platonic to erotic in a matter of months, but in the last few months it had steadily dropped in temperature until our sex life was akin to a slow-simmering stew. I wasn’t sure what had happened; it just got to the point where every night w
hen I rolled into bed, Joe was asleep.
My book-loving English mother had always quoted John Bunyan to my sister and me, “Who would keep a cow of their own, that can have a quart of milk for a penny?”
But Joe was sweet, safe, and constant … and apparently, lactose intolerant. While his sensible attitude had turned out to be a tad on the boring side, his homebody attitude had never bothered me, because he had always been fine with whatever I did, and was always home when I got home. I loved him, but I knew our relationship would never be the Romeo and Juliet of romances, never the I’d–die–if–you–left kind of romance. But we were comfortable with each other. I just couldn’t figure out what had happened in the last three months.
The worst part was that I wasn’t even sure I missed having sex with Joe, even though sex had been on my mind more than it ever had. Mostly, fantasies that centered on Markus. About the one night when I’d returned from college and we’d moved our “just friends” status to lovers. Well, nearly. We’d rounded third base and then some, but the game was called before either of us reached home plate. Maybe if Joe had been interested in me, though, dreams of Markus … what might have been … wouldn’t be stalking me nightly.
It seemed a cruel twist of fate that men wanted sex when women were too young to appreciate it, and then didn’t want to have sex with mature thirty-nine-year-olds who couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not that I wanted to leave, I was happy with Joe, but if I landed the part in the play, I should probably find a place of my own, since it was clear that Joe wasn’t interested in taking our relationship further.
The thought of playing the lead in an ongoing Broadway show, the dream I’d chased for twenty years, sidetracked my mind from thoughts of Joe and made my insides churn with excitement and nerves.
“Bathroom’s free.” Joe brushed by me wrapped only in a towel, his dark hair glistening with water.
Another grievance of mine. Why was it men could be in and out of the bathroom in ten minutes and look good, but women had to spend an hour or longer to get ready? Before I could stash all my age-defying products back into my caddy, Joe strolled out of the closet, fully dressed, a tie around his neck.
“Do you mind?” he asked, holding up both ends of his power tie. I smiled at the red necktie around his neck that clashed with the flush of pink across his cheeks from his hot shower. His round boyish cheeks and hazel eyes might look sweet and innocent, but Joe was a killer. Well, killer consultant. I wasn’t even sure what he did exactly, but companies brought him in to advise them, and then the companies did everything he told them to do, even if it meant firing half the workforce.
I reached for the ends of the tie. “Of course I don’t mind.” Years of helping my grandfather after his hands had begun to shake uncontrollably due to Parkinson’s had made me a master at tying neckties. I adjusted the tie around his neck. “What do you have going on today?” Joe hadn’t mentioned that he had an important meeting. Well, not before four a.m. this morning, he hadn’t.
The muscles in Joe’s neck tensed. “The boys upstairs have been keeping it hush-hush. Just said they wanted to meet with me today.” As if he’d thought of something funny, his shoulders shook. “It’s Friday, though. I instruct my clients to do their firing and layoffs on Fridays, giving employees a chance to calm down over the weekend.”
My eyes shot up to Joe’s face, but he was smiling. I smacked him on the chest. “Well, break a leg,” I offered, using the idiom I would have used to send off one of my co-stars, but I figured it’d work in a promotion situation too. After all, I certainly didn’t want Joe to lose his job. If he got fired and I didn’t land the role, where would we be?
He may have lost his sex drive, but we made good roommates. Except when I was running lines all night and hogging the bathroom. But again, I reminded myself, this was my final shot. If I didn’t land this role, I would take advantage of my English degree and find a teaching job. Thankfully, my grandfather had recommended not putting all my eggs in one basket, and he had been a successful businessman, so I’d listened.
Joe ran his fingers over my bare shoulder, sending a tingle through me I hadn’t felt from him in months. “You too, Alaina. You sounded excellent. They’d be fools not to offer you the part.”
I sighed, wondering where that had come from. It wasn’t like Joe to be in tune with my thoughts. Other than sex, we really didn’t have too much in common. Probably the reason we were good roommates for each other. We worked opposite shifts, enjoyed different pastimes.
He bent down and kissed me on the forehead, then pulled back. “Whatever happens …” he paused, holding my eyes, “know that you’re better than what you give yourself credit.” He dropped his arms and left the room.
I peered around the wall, watching as he scooped his wallet, phone, and keys off the counter.
Whatever happens? Maybe Joe cared more than he let on. Maybe he was just stressed with work and a possible promotion — or worse, the possibility of being fired.
Confused, but not wanting to dwell on his feelings, or how his feelings might affect my feelings, I sprinted to the master bedroom closet. I couldn’t afford to lose my focus today.
The master closet was one of the largest rooms in the tiny apartment, which was good, since Joe had more clothes than any man I’d ever known. Not that I could tell one dress shirt from another, or a sports coat from a suit jacket. Other than different colors, they all looked pretty much the same to me, except for the few items that were on the far end of the rod. Those few dust-covered articles of clothing were gifts I’d bought for Joe. Casual shirts and jeans that I thought would look great on him, but he didn’t care for obviously, since he never wore them.
The phone on the nightstand rang as soon as I headed to my small section of clothes. I whipped around and stared at the ringing beast, not wanting to answer it. Whenever I wanted the phone to ring with news of a starring role, it remained noiseless. Whenever I was in a hurry, though, the evil plastic thing taunted me, making my hope soar ever so slightly. Then my confidence would crash when the caller turned out to be a salesman — or Joe. This early, it was certainly Joe not wanting to come back up in the elevator. Probably forgot something that he needed and wanted me to bring it to his work, as he’d done in the past. Since he knew I was home, I couldn’t very well ignore the call.
“Hello?” My voice came out as a soft croak. If I didn’t stop talking, I might not be able to speak at all by the time I got to my audition.
“Hi, honey. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
My head dropped. “Hi, Mom. No, I’m not sick. I was up all night running lines.” I didn’t have time for a phone call from my mother. I didn’t have time to hear about how well my sister, Raylene, was doing. How smart Raylene was. How helpful Raylene was. How not sick Raylene was because she took better care of herself. I love my sister, but I didn’t love how much my mother bragged on and on and on about her. It didn’t make sense anyway. My mother was the reason I’d spent the last twenty years trying to make it on Broadway. The least she could do was be proud of my few accomplishments. But every time I told her about a commercial or TV part, she’d say, “That’s nice, dear. Oh, did I tell you what Raylene …”
“Well?” my mother’s voice broke me from my thoughts.
Damn … she’d asked me a question after she asked if I was sick. “Sorry, Mom. I’m also in a hurry, so I was trying to dress while I listened. What did you say?”
“I asked if you were going to come home for Thanksgiving.”
“Mom …” I whined. I wasn’t usually whiny, but my mother seemed to have that effect on me. “It’s a nine-hour trip by train, and I really don’t have the money.”
“I’ll send you the money.”
“You don’t have the extra money, either,” I reminded her. Last time we had talked she’d mentioned that she’d be lucky to keep the shop going for another year. “Plus, I doubt I can get the time off. The restaurant is scheduled to be open on Thanksgiving.”
/> My mother clucked her tongue. “You’re waiting tables. How hard can it be to find another waitressing job? I really think you should come home for Thanksgiving, Laina. You haven’t spent a holiday here in years. Ray and I miss you and want to spend the day with you.”
I shook my head, wanting to say, I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you. But I bit down on my lip because I love my mother and sister, and it had been too long since I’d spent a holiday with them. And it wasn’t often that my mother asked me to do anything. Something about her request, while she’d tried to keep it light, told me she really wanted me to be there. “I miss you too, Mom. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you, honey. Okay. I know you’re in a hurry. Call me as soon as you make your reservations.” And she hung up.
Somehow, my mother missed the, I’ll see what I can do, and heard, I’ll do it. But that was my mother. She was the boss, and she’d always been the boss. Her two daughters had, after all, been her employees for many years. I was surprised she hadn’t gone with her usual, “And since both of you refuse to give me grandkids, the least you could do is succumb to my whims once and a while.”
I took one last look in the mirror and was shocked to see that, with my lips pursed after the conversation with my mother, I look like her. Gah! When did that happen? Oh, no! How would I ever land a lead role if I look like my mother? Not that my mother wasn’t pretty; she was. But I wasn’t supposed to look like her for another twenty-three years.
A glance at the clock had me sprinting back into the closet. Great. Now I was running late. My thoughts back on the audition, I pulled on the outfit I’d set out to wear: a short black skirt and my most recent splurge, a winter-white, vintage-looking BKE top. I slipped into a pair of short black boots and assessed myself in the full-length mirror. Joe hadn’t cared much for the outfit, said it looked steampunk.
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