The Lucky One

by Caroline Overington

  What happened next happened fast. I ducked back under the water and stayed there, frog-kicking towards the opposite end of the pool. I surfaced with my hair slicked back and my nose running.

  ‘Come on,’ I said.

  Earl was still standing by the water’s edge. ‘It looks cold,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not cold. You can trust me,’ I said.

  He was slower to strip out of his clothes than I’d been. He kept his eyes locked on mine. The hat came off first, then the boots, then one white sock at a time. His T-shirt was wet, and clung to his chest. He pulled it over his head in one smooth movement, and lay each item with precision over the seat of a pool chair.

  ‘Okay, but can you trust me?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know. Can I?’

  He stripped off his jeans. He had a broad, brown chest and large biceps, and he was wearing loose boxer shorts.

  ‘How old are you again?’ he asked.

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Jesus. When are you eighteen?’

  I didn’t answer because what did it matter? We were old friends, bobbing together in a deserted pool, away from friends, family and financial problems. We weren’t kids anymore and we were far from anywhere.

  ‘Come closer,’ he said.

  ‘No, you have to catch me,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, I’ll catch you,’ said Earl. He had me in two strokes.

  * * *

  We drove back to the estate with the truck windows down and the radio on, wind rushing in and the dog barking. Mom was stretched out on the pavilion pool deck, wearing a nautical-striped bikini, big sunglasses and a layer of coconut oil.

  ‘Where on earth have you two been?’ she said, looking up from her eReader. ‘I nearly died of starvation waiting for you to get back.’

  ‘You did not nearly die,’ I said, passing over the twin-pack of Costco blueberries. ‘There’s plenty of food.’

  ‘There is not, and you’ve been ages,’ she complained, pulling a near-transparent animal-print kaftan over her body. ‘And you haven’t answered my question. I asked: where have you been?’ Grasping the end of my wet ponytail, she added: ‘Have you been swimming?’

  ‘It was my fault, Mrs Alden-Stowe.’

  Mom turned in Earl’s direction, eyeing him over her sunglasses.

  ‘Earl Sidwell,’ she said. ‘Well, hello. Long time, no see. You look well.’ She was shuffling her feet into flip-flops. ‘Didn’t my daughter tell you I was waiting here and starving?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Alden-Stowe.’

  ‘Yes, well, it’s nice to see you, Earl,’ said Mom, rising from the pool bed, ‘but now you’ll have to excuse me, because I’m very hungry.’

  I waited until I was sure she was gone before turning to punch his bicep.

  ‘You’re going to get me into trouble,’ I said.

  ‘You got yourself into trouble,’ said Earl, clasping his arm like it hurt. ‘You were the one who didn’t want to come back.’

  ‘You better get out of here. Don’t still be here when Mom comes back out. Go – just go!’ I laughed as I shoved him away.

  ‘Eden!’ cried Mom, from inside, ‘I can’t believe you did this to me!’

  I hurried inside, heart racing a little, to find Mom standing before the cardboard boxes of groceries on the bench. ‘You went to Costco, didn’t you?’

  ‘It was really great,’ I said. ‘Everything was fresh.’

  ‘Everything is not fresh. Where do you think these tomatoes are from? They might have been in storage for a year. Don’t you read the news?’

  ‘They do have fresh produce at Costco.’

  That was Penelope, coming out of the walk-in pantry to help sort through the new purchases. ‘Did you have a nice morning, Eden?’

  ‘I guess,’ I said, snatching an apple from one of the cartons under Mom’s roving hands. ‘We swam in the lagoon pool at Seascape.’

  I should have known better. Mom looked up.

  ‘I hope you’re joking,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ I said, crunching into the apple.

  ‘The new development? I was under the impression that Seascape wasn’t open,’ said Mom, ‘and even if it is open, you’re not allowed to just wander in, surely?’

  ‘Nobody stopped us,’ I shrugged, trying to make light of it. ‘We walked right past the gatehouse. There was nobody there.’

  ‘You could have been arrested,’ said Mom, looking over at Penelope.

  ‘Well, we weren’t,’ I said, still chomping.

  ‘Okay, but that is private property, Eden. What if you’d gotten caught? You would have been in big trouble. Now, please go and get changed. The rest of the family are going to be here any minute and you look like a drowned rat. Go!’

  I took off down the corridor towards my bedroom, pausing with both hands resting on the smooth door long enough to hear Mom saying: ‘I really don’t understand your son, Penelope. Why would Earl take Eden to Seascape? He knows better than that, surely.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him,’ said Penelope, and I could hear her nervousness. ‘I’m sure he won’t do it again.’

  * * *

  I stripped out of my damp clothes, showered and changed, then rested on my bed until around 4pm, when Mom heard tyres on the drive.

  ‘They’re here,’ she said, through an open crack in my door. ‘Go out and say hello. I’ll be there in one second.’

  Dutifully, I went onto the deck to find my uncle Tim lifting suitcases out of the back of a six-seat SUV. Tim’s a used-Mercedes car dealer, and he was wearing a Mercedes-symbol baseball cap over his bald head, a baby blue polo shirt and deep-blue denim dad jeans held up with a brown belt.

  ‘Well, well, look who it is!’

  ‘Hey, Uncle Tim,’ I said, bouncing forward.

  ‘It’s great to see you, Eden. You haven’t changed a bit.’

  ‘What do you mean, she hasn’t changed? Of course she’s changed. Look at her!’ cried Fletcher. ‘Eden the Ewok, all grown up.’

  Fletcher was the elder of my two cousins. Twenty-one years old then, he was a pre-med student at UCLA, and he wore a baby pink polo shirt with the collar up and sporty mirrored sunglasses. He was a dick back then and it seemed like nothing had changed. Then came Austin, two years younger, an undergraduate at Santa Monica College, keen on being a chef, I discovered, but taking college courses to appease his mom, dressed completely differently, in a tank that showed off a sleeve tattoo, worn with a woodcutter’s beard. Then came my aunt Fiona in her modest outfit: blue slacks, a white top, no make-up and simple gold jewellery – a pendant on a chain, some bracelets and her wedding band. Her hair had been lighter last time I’d seen her. Now it was coloured chestnut.

  ‘How was the drive?’ I said.

  ‘Different,’ said Tim, which made sense, as for years they would have come to the estate for the holidays from San Francisco, in the north, where Tim had his large dealership, and not from LA, in the south.

  ‘How old are you now?’ asked Fletcher. He’d removed his wrap-around sunglasses in one motion, and they were hanging from his neck by a rubbery holder.

  ‘Seventeen,’ I said.

  ‘Got your licence?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Will you stop peppering the poor girl with questions?’ said Fiona, as she stepped out from behind the boys to say hello. Lifting my chin, she said: ‘You look so much like Jack. I can’t get over it. And how is Briar Ridge?’

  ‘It’s great.’

  ‘I’m so glad. You worked hard to get that scholarship. And where is your mom?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Mom stepped out of the pavilion, in a dazzling loose coverall, white, but near transparent, and sprayed over with sequins. She had fresh gloss on her lips and cork-heeled wedges on her feet.

  ‘Wow, Jesalyn,’ said Fiona, reaching up to fiddle with the pendant on her gold chain, parts of which were lost in the rolls around her neck. ‘Look at you. You haven’t changed. S
till tiny.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’ve put on weight,’ said Mom, tugging at the coverall. ‘I’m just hiding it under this tent.’

  ‘Oh yes, you’re enormous,’ said Fiona, as she tugged her light-weight cardigan more tightly over her rounded back.

  ‘So the gang’s all here,’ said Mom. ‘Lovely to see you, Tim. Fletcher. Austin. And, no – wait, who’s this?’

  I’d been wondering the same thing, having already exchanged a quick smile with a girl who had climbed out of the SUV, and was now nervously bouncing on the balls of her feet.

  ‘This is my girlfriend,’ said Fletcher, reaching over to take her hand. ‘Everyone, this is Solveig.’

  ‘Solveig. Is that Swedish?’ said Mom.

  ‘It’s Swedish,’ said Solveig, nodding. ‘Sol is fine.’

  ‘You look Swedish,’ said Mom.

  Sol wore three-quarter yoga pants with mesh inserts, a racer-style top, neon-coloured sneakers and no socks. She had long blonde hair, worn up in a loose ponytail revealing a feather tattoo behind her left ear, and three piercings in each ear – just the holes, no earrings. She had blue eyes and pink lips and clear skin.

  ‘She’s a last-minute inclusion,’ said Fiona, ‘but we’re thrilled you’re here, Sol.’

  ‘Well, why doesn’t everyone come inside?’ suggested Penelope. She’d been standing back, but was now stretching one arm out to usher us all up the deck and in through the bi-folds. ‘I’ve got some iced tea and some iced water.’

  ‘Hello, Pen,’ said Tim, carrying the luggage. ‘How’s Owen?’

  ‘He’s okay,’ said Penelope, nodding. ‘He ate a good breakfast. Had a little bit of lunch and went off to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll look in on him when I take my bag up,’ said Fiona, then paused, and bit her lip, but it was too late.

  ‘Yes. I heard you’d moved in,’ said Mom.

  ‘Oh yes! We did. We moved in,’ agreed Fiona, moving as speedily as she could across the kitchen to escape Mom’s gaze. She extracted the Brita jug from the fridge and began pouring clear water into glasses set out by Penelope, looking desperately like she was trying to think of a new topic of conversation. ‘Good God, is anyone else thirsty from the road? Sol? Water?’

  ‘I’d love some water.’ Sol stepped up to the long bench and instinctively ran a hand across the polished surface. She pulled out one of the pony-skin stools and stroked the hide. ‘Oh, wow,’ she said, ‘these are gorgeous.’

  ‘I chose those,’ said Mom. She looked pleased for a second, then turned her attention back to Fiona, saying: ‘But listen, when did you move in, Fiona? And why? Don’t you still have the business in San Francisco?’

  ‘Ah. Well, we sold it,’ said Fiona.

  ‘You sold it?’

  ‘We had no choice,’ said Tim, amiably. ‘It was a good little business when I started, but just try to sell a car in San Francisco these days. Nobody can park. And they’re all college grads, working in computers. It was time to get out.’

  ‘You sold it,’ repeated Jesalyn. Then: ‘On that subject, can anyone tell me what happened to the Eames chair?’

  Fiona looked nervously over her water glass but didn’t speak, her eyes on Tim.

  ‘Ah. Yes. Okay, well, we sold that too,’ he said, tone all jokey.

  ‘You sold it.’

  There was Mom again, repeating things she had trouble believing.

  ‘Yes, Tim, you’re right, I think we did,’ said Fiona, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Solveig, oblivious to the tension – or perhaps in an effort to defuse it – swivelled on the kitchen stool to look admiringly around the pavilion, taking in the smooth surfaces, the wide open spaces, the modern furniture.

  ‘This design, it’s so beautiful,’ she said, in her accented English. ‘The light in here is lovely. I’d love to take some shots, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Shots?’ said Mom.

  ‘Instagram,’ said Fletcher. ‘How many followers have you got now, Sol? Fifty thousand, last time I checked. That’s just Instagram. She also has Snapchat. Facebook. Twitter. You name it. She’s a real online sensation, aren’t you, Sol?’

  ‘No, no, I’m just starting,’ said Solveig, smiling shyly. ‘I have some followers. I guess I’m lucky.’

  Mom picked up one of the glasses filled by Fiona, and stepped closer to Sol, her expression curious.

  ‘What kind of things do you post?’ she asked.

  ‘Pictures of herself,’ muttered Austin.

  ‘Will you shut up?’ said Fletcher.

  ‘No, it’s true,’ said Sol. She had a pretty, nervous laugh. ‘I do post pictures of myself! It’s wellbeing. My blog. Yoga poses. But also I’m interested in architecture. And I’ve just started a new thing, which is lights and shadows. Shot with a motion camera, on time delay. It can look spooky or lovely. People like it.’

  ‘People like to look at you,’ said Fletcher, kissing the back of her neck. ‘And I don’t blame them.’

  ‘Well, this house is something of an architectural marvel.’ That was Mom again, taking the opportunity to remind the family that this house – the grand Glass Pavilion – had been her dream realised. ‘I designed it, and had it built. I had no choice, really,’ she went on. ‘Before this place went up, we were living in that castle you would have passed on the way up here. Alden Castle? The thing with the turret? It was terrible.’

  ‘Oh, yes, we saw that!’ said Sol eagerly. ‘It looks amazing. I’d love to see inside.’

  ‘It was amazing,’ said Fiona. ‘I grew up in there. All the Alden-Stowe kids did.’

  ‘Yes but now it’s sealed up,’ said Mom. ‘I built this house to replace it.’

  ‘At great expense,’ said Fiona.

  ‘You did a wonderful job,’ said Sol. ‘Maybe I can make some little videos in here? My followers will love it.’

  Fletcher draped an arm around her bare shoulders, saying: ‘But I warned you, babe, there’s no service here.’ Sol reached down to retrieve her smartphone from her bag. It had a pink plastic case, with extended bunny ears.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, brow furrowed as she examined the screen. ‘There’s none. But that’s okay,’ she said, mood brightening. ‘I can take videos here and upload them later.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Fletcher. ‘We’ll have a whole bunch of pictures to remind us of the place when it’s gone.’

  ‘Stop that, Fletcher,’ said Fiona, sharply. ‘Not now.’

  * * *

  The new arrivals excused themselves to settle into their bedrooms and to shower and change for dinner. I joined Penelope in the dining room, to help set the table.

  ‘I count eight,’ said Penelope.

  ‘No, nine,’ I said, counting dinner guests on my fingers.

  ‘No, try again,’ said Penelope. ‘There’s you and your mom. There’s Fiona and Tim, that’s four. The boys, that’s six. And Solveig, seven. And your great aunt Margaret, she’s coming from the retirement village to say hello, so that’s eight.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten Pop,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, but I wasn’t counting Mr Alden-Stowe,’ said Penelope, gently shifting one of the Perspex chairs into place. ‘I talked to your mom about that this afternoon and she really isn’t that keen on having your pop downstairs tonight.’

  ‘Okay, but it’s making me feel weird, not seeing him. Maybe I’ll go up now before dinner and say hello. I get that he’s not good. Earl warned me. But Mom’s forgetting: I saw him after he had the stroke and could only use that one side of his face. I’m not scared.’

  ‘Well, goodness, he’s not scary,’ said Penelope. She turned her back to take an old Sri Lankan tablecloth – a ‘refugee’ from Alden Castle – out of a sideboard drawer. ‘I think your mom is more thinking that she has things she wants to talk about tonight and maybe she doesn’t want your pop getting upset.’

  I reached out with both hands to help smooth the cloth down. I was thinking about how to answer when Fletcher butted in with: ‘Hey
, hey, it’s the Ewok!’

  He’d come into the dining area holding Sol by the hand. They had both changed for dinner, Fletcher into a pair of tailored pants with dark boat shoes and a navy polo, still with an upturned collar; and Sol into a strapless dress, with her blonde hair now loose around bare shoulders.

  ‘What’s everyone talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘Eden hasn’t seen your pop since she arrived,’ said Penelope, stepping back with hands on her broad hips to survey the setting, ‘and Jesalyn’s not keen for him to be at the dinner.’

  ‘Can’t blame her,’ said Fletcher. ‘Mom says he flies into rages.’ He moved across the dining area to press his palm against the back doors overlooking the pool and the pink frangipani tree. ‘Did you want me to open these, Pen? I can if you want.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure it was warm enough,’ said Penelope.

  ‘Yes, open them,’ said Fiona, as she came into the dining area. She, too, had changed out of her travelling clothes into a fresh pair of slacks and a tan blouse and she was flapping both hands near her flushed face. ‘Is it just me or is everyone hot?’

  ‘It’s just you, honey,’ said Tim, kissing her forehead. ‘Let’s leave them.’

  Austin came up from the cellar, arms laden with bottles. He was wearing a pink checked shirt that clashed with his ginger beard, and jeans in burgundy denim, rolled up at the ankle.

  ‘What have you got there, Austin?’ said Fletcher, eyeing the wines disapprovingly. ‘A thousand bottles and you pick these?’

  ‘There aren’t a thousand bottles down there anymore,’ said Tim, searching through the drawers in the side table for a corkscrew. ‘Not since your mom’s been busy selling them off on eBay.’

  ‘Really, am I the only one who’s hot?’ said Fiona again, hands still flapping.

  ‘Oh, you’re going through the change.’ Sol put her hands together in a gesture of delighted prayer. ‘Aren’t women’s bodies amazing?’

  ‘Good God, you’re actually going through with it?’

  That was Mom. She had come into the dining room wearing a sexy, clinging wrap dress, blonde hair styled high with hairspray, smelling like a whole bottle of French perfume. ‘I’ve already decided not to. Who wants to get all old and dried up?’