Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  It’s just mind over matter, I told myself, as I set some cash down on the bar to cover our tab. Mind over matter.

  Eleven

  PETER GRAHAM WAS NOT WHAT I EXPECTED. I’D PICTURED him as a tall, elegant patrician with graying temples and a fondness for blue blazers with gold buttons. Instead, Graham was bald and probably five feet five inches in his stocking feet. He had a strong, stocky, pugilist’s build, which he had stuffed sausagelike into a charcoal-gray three-piece suit. His entire body seemed tensed with a coiled, contained energy.

  His office also wasn’t done up in the clubby style I’d expected, with heavy mahogany furniture and hunt prints on the walls. Instead, it was very modern, with lots of Lucite and sharp stainless-steel edges. A large abstract painting featuring blood-red and violent purple blobs hung on the wall behind his glass desk. He gestured me to sit in one of the low-slung leather guest chairs.

  I wasn’t the only one with unfulfilled expectations.

  “You look different in person,” Graham said. “I saw a story about you on CNN the other day. I thought you had dark hair.”

  I lifted a self-conscious hand to smooth back my new hair. “I changed it so no one would recognize me,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Graham said approvingly. “You might want to consider using a different name too.”

  This hadn’t occurred to me. I wouldn’t be Lucy Parker anymore? The very idea was both liberating and frightening. “You mean for good?”

  “Just until the news stories about you die down. It will also help keep the profiteers away. Our first goal is to protect your assets. Our second goal is to grow your assets.” He ticked these off on his fingers as he spoke. “So your jackpot was, what, thirty-five million after taxes?”

  “Close,” I said. “Thirty-four point four and change.”

  “And have you made any large purchases that I should know about? Cars, houses, that sort of thing?” Graham spoke quickly, a bullet spray of words.

  “Just some clothes,” I said. Then, remembering the checks I wrote before leaving Ocean Falls, I said, “Wait, no. I gave my sister, my parents, and my best friend each a half-million dollars.”

  I said this almost apologetically, as though Graham would scold me for my extravagance. But he just wrote down the numbers on a yellow lined legal pad with a black Montblanc pen without comment.

  “I just thought I should give them something,” I said, feeling compelled to explain even where no explanation seemed expected. “My sister’s getting married, and my best friend is having some financial difficulties, and I wanted to help out. Was that a bad move?”

  “Ideally, you want to keep the principal corpus intact. Invest it, protect it, live off the earnings. On the other hand, it’s common for lottery winners to feel a lot of pressure from friends and family to share their wealth. There’s the stigma that since the money was a windfall, rather than earned, the winner is not entitled to it,” Graham said.

  “Yeah, I’m starting to notice that,” I said, thinking of Maisie’s anger at me. It had been so unfair, so unjust.

  “Yes, well, it’s a rich person’s problem. And, happily, you are now a very rich woman,” Graham said, suddenly smiling approvingly at me. “And I’m going to do everything within my power to keep you that way.”

  An hour and a half later I left Graham’s office, my head spinning with talk of portfolios, mutual funds, stocks, bonds, and lots of other financial jargon. It was a language that I’d never needed to speak before; now I was playing catch-up as fast as I could.

  For the time being I was—unofficially, at least—no longer Lucy Parker. Instead, I’d adopted my mother’s maiden name, Landon, although the tightening of Homeland Security meant that I had to keep my bank accounts and credit cards in my legal name. But socially I’d be Lucy Landon, at least until the stories of the Lottery Seductress died down. I would also have a new checking account and a debit card to go with it, which Graham would set up for me. Graham was in charge of giving me an allowance—a word I’d frowned at at first, as it reminded me of the spending money my parents had doled out when I was a kid. But he assured me that the accounts would always be topped up.

  “Let’s face it: With this much money, you can afford to buy whatever you like,” he said, waving a hand in the air.

  I couldn’t help feel a thrill of excitement at this. Whatever I liked.

  Graham continued, “But use your common sense. You’d be amazed at how many lottery winners there are out there who manage to blow through their winnings in a few short years and end up in bankruptcy.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be buying any jets or islands, or anything like that,” I said.

  “How about a house?”

  I pictured myself owning one of the gorgeous Mediterranean Palm Beach estates, complete with a hedgerow fence, a swimming pool, and furniture right out of a glossy interiors magazine. I had to admit, I didn’t hate the idea.

  “I have a house,” I said. “But it’s in Ocean Falls. I don’t know when—or even if—I’ll be able to live there again.”

  Graham nodded. “Think it through. You might want to buy a second house, or sell that house and set up your primary residence elsewhere. But let’s talk before you make any final decisions; we want to make sure your assets are protected from any litigation.”

  I knew he was being tactful, not wanting to mention Matt Forrester directly. I shook my head.

  “The parents of the student who made those false accusations against me have assured Andrews Prep—my former employer—that they don’t intend to sue,” I said.

  “That was before you came into possession of a large sum of money.”

  “Even so, he doesn’t have a case. How could he? He made it all up,” I said.

  Graham looked at me almost pityingly. “Unfortunately, lack of proof does not preclude litigation. I’m not an attorney and so can’t offer you legal advice, of course, but I think there’s a chance—a strong chance—that the boy’s family may sue you in hopes of forcing an early settlement.”

  “But Matt knows it isn’t true! Surely he wouldn’t be that stupid?”

  But even as the words tumbled from my mouth, my stomach sank. Matt wasn’t stupid, but he was lazy and greedy. And by all accounts, his father was a shark. Graham was right: They might try to go after my money. In fact, they probably would.

  “As I said, I’m not a lawyer. But I think you should keep the possibility of a lawsuit in mind. Just so you’re not surprised if it does happen.”

  “And if they do sue me?”

  “Then you hire the best damned lawyer you can. And it just so happens that I know a few,” Graham said.

  “Okay,” I replied, trying to ignore the sinking sense of anxiety this talk of lawyers and lawsuits was causing.

  “Lastly—and I can’t stress how important it is that you listen carefully, for this is probably the most important piece of advice I can give you.” Peter Graham paused to let the weight of his words sink in. “From now on you must be very careful whom you trust.”

  “Whom I trust?” I repeated.

  Graham nodded gravely. “Believe me, this sort of money will attract parasites. It’s inevitable.”

  “Are you talking about con artists?”

  “Sure, but it doesn’t have to be that dramatic. Friends, lovers, even family members may come at you with an angle.”

  “So I can’t trust anyone? That just seems so paranoid,” I said with a nervous laugh.

  But Peter Graham didn’t even crack a smile. He just fixed me with a stern look. “I didn’t say you can’t trust anyone, but you should be careful and know that people aren’t always what they seem. Proceed with caution, Lucy.”

  I didn’t go straight back to Crane Hill after my appointment with Peter Graham. His talk of lawsuits and parasites had left me feeling uneasy, so I headed to my happy place where I always went when I needed to unwind: the bookstore.

  I’d seen a Barnes & Noble at CityPlace the day before. It w
asn’t far away—just over the bridge, in downtown West Palm—and I managed to navigate my way back in the car I’d borrowed from Hayden and found a parking spot right in front of the store.

  As soon as I walked into the cool quiet of the bookstore, my whole body relaxed. I looked around brightly, wondering whether I should start with the new biographies, which I’d always had a special fondness for. Or maybe I’d browse through the cookbooks. My brief but intense affair with the Food Network had kindled a desire to expand my culinary skills beyond heating up Lean Cuisines. But, no. What I needed, I realized with sudden certainty, was a novel. Something delicious that I could to sink into and lose myself in. I picked up a green plastic shopping basket from the stack beside the front door and headed straight for the literature section.

  A sad reality of my life was that I had never been able to afford to feed my insatiable appetite for books. I read too quickly and too voraciously, going through as many as three or four books a week. The scan strip on my library card was worn down from use. But I’d always dreamed of having a copy of every book I really and truly loved—my own library, stocked to my exact taste. To me it would be the ultimate luxury, the way Louboutin shoes and Chloé dresses were to my sister.

  And then it occurred to me: I could now afford books. I could buy all of the books I had ever wanted! More books than I could possibly read in a lifetime! Just the thought of this, of the stacks and stacks of volumes rising up before me like skyscrapers, a virtual city of literature, made me almost shaky with joy.

  Seized with this image of my own perfect library and fueled by pure greed, I headed straight for a display table topped with a special line of classics in hardcover. The Last of the Mohicans went in my basket, followed by Sons and Lovers, The Red Badge of Courage, and The Great Gatsby. The Grapes of Wrath. Jane Eyre. And Madame Bovary—of course I had to have Madame Bovary! Everywhere my eyes fell, I saw another title I wanted. The stack began to grow, until the basket became so heavy in my hand, I could barely lift it.

  Why don’t they have shopping carts in this store? I thought desperately. I dashed up to the bank of cashiers by the front door.

  “Is it all right if I leave this basket here while I shop?” I asked the nearest one. She was an attractive older woman with a kind face and short gray hair.

  “Sure,” she said, smiling at me.

  I dashed off to grab another basket, which seemed to fill itself. Once I’d exhausted the display table, I moved on to the fiction section. The Portrait of a Lady. Vanity Fair. East of Eden. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. And then another basket. And another.

  It occurred to me then that I was starting to draw attention to myself. With every overflowing shopping basket I deposited on the counter, there were more looks, more murmurings between the cashiers. They were probably concerned that I was a crazy person with a disorder that compelled me to pull books off the stacks and that they’d be stuck reshelving them. I decided I should probably pay and leave before someone called store security.

  As these anxious thoughts collided in my head like bumper cars, someone tapped me on my shoulder. I started and spun around.

  “Excuse me, I think you dropped this.”

  A man was standing there, holding out a copy of A Farewell to Arms. Without my noticing, the book had slipped out of my overflowing basket, the fourth one I’d filled.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking the book from him, averting my eyes in embarrassment at being caught in the middle of a shopping binge.

  “Here, let me take that for you,” he said, and without waiting for my answer, he plucked the basket from my arms. “Just a little light reading, hmmm?”

  His voice was so light and playful that I found myself smiling up at him, despite myself. He was tall—very tall: I had to tilt my head back to look up at him—and attractive. Not gorgeous, not like the blond lothario I’d seen at the Drum Roll last night. This man’s face was pale and a bit too narrow at the chin, a bit too fleshy at the neck. His dark hair, which he wore very short, was receding, exposing a wide expanse of forehead. He had friendly almond-shaped brown eyes, a prominent nose that ended in a sharp point, and when he smiled, he exposed a perfect set of straight white teeth. He looked unusually conservative for a sunny afternoon in south Florida, a place where most guys favored the American Jackass look: screen-printed Ts, cargo shorts, flip-flops, ridiculous facial hair. The man in front of me was dressed impeccably, in a navy-blue suit, a white shirt with gold cuff links flashing at his wrists, and a yellow silk tie. I liked how comfortable he seemed in himself. He neither slouched nor held his shoulders high and squared like he was trying to impersonate Superman. He looked to be in his late thirties.

  “A little,” I said sheepishly. “I guess I got carried away.”

  “No, not at all. I’m sure you’re at least the tenth person today who came in to buy…” He leaned forward and riffled through the books in my basket. “Middlemarch. Alongside the perennial favorites Don Quixote de la Mancha and Candide.”

  Part of me wanted to yank the basket out of his hands—it was a well-known rule of etiquette that you never, ever commented on the contents of someone else’s shopping basket. But there was something inherently affable in his nature—the wide eyes, the appealing grin—that stopped me. Instead, I smiled back at him, allowing myself to be drawn into his gentle teasing.

  “I went a little crazy. I just kept finding more and more books that I had to have, and before I knew what was really happening…” I gestured helplessly at the basket.

  “This isn’t so crazy. There’s, what—ten, twelve books here?” he asked.

  “Yes, but…” I sighed, and lowered my voice. “This is my fourth basket. I sort of lost control once I got in here.”

  He laughed. I liked the open, ringing sound of his laughter and how his eyes crinkled at the edges. “I love it. A woman who loses control over books. I’d ask you to marry me right here and now, but I don’t know if I could afford to support your habit.”

  “This is unusual even for me,” I said. “In fact, I’m not exactly sure how I’m going to get all these into my car.”

  “Then it’s a good thing you bumped into me,” he said. He flexed his arms like a weight lifter.

  I couldn’t help it: I blushed. I knew he was just being nice and, yes, a bit flirty. But it had been a long time since a guy this attractive had paid so much attention to me.

  “I couldn’t impose,” I protested.

  “Sure you could,” he said. “You’d be doing me a favor. I’ve always regretted dropping out of Cub Scouts when I was eleven. This will help rehabilitate my reputation.”

  “Thanks…”

  “Drew. Drew Brooks.”

  “I’m Lucy,” I said.

  “Just Lucy? One name, like Madonna?”

  “Lucy…Landon,” I said, tripping over my mother’s maiden name.

  “Are you sure about that?” Drew raised one eyebrow in mock query.

  “Yes. Quite sure,” I said brightly.

  I could feel the cashiers’ eyes on me as I stood in line. For all of Drew’s jokes, it was clearly out of the norm for one person to buy piles and piles of books like this, all at once. It was a sad comment on our modern culture that the clerks in the Saks shoe department hadn’t even blinked when I bought twelve pairs of shoes at three hundred dollars a pop, yet my book binge was causing a stir.

  I began to worry about whether or not I had enough cash on me to purchase all the books. I knew I couldn’t use my Visa. What if one of the sales clerks, interest piqued by my book-lust frenzy, recognized the name on my credit card and remembered that Lucy Parker was, in fact, the Lottery Seductress? And then alerted the press? Told them I was in the area, and had been miraculously transformed from a shy, retiring schoolteacher to a flashy blonde in designer clothes?

  Oh, no, I thought, as my heart began to pound and I started to perspire. News of my transformation, of my new Palm Beach glamour, would just add fuel to the story. By this time tomorrow they
might even have tracked down the name of my old college roommate and learned that her family owned an estate on the island of Palm Beach. And then it would be like Ocean Falls all over again, with the press camped out in our front yard. Crane Hill had the advantage of being surrounded by a fence and privacy hedge, but still. I’d be under virtual house arrest.

  It was finally my turn to check out. The cashier scanned book after book, exchanging amused looks with Drew, who kept repeating the titles of every book as the cashier scanned it.

  “The Count of Monte Cristo,” he said. “Anna Karenina. Hmmm, that’s a thick one.”

  “Shhh,” I scolded him. “Pack mules aren’t supposed to comment on the contents of their load.”

  “Flatterer. Why am I getting the distinct feeling that you’re only using me for my brute strength?”

  “I thought that’s what you were offering,” I said, smiling despite the nerves wriggling in my stomach. What was the total now? What if I didn’t have enough money with me? I supposed I could ask them to take some of the books off, but it would be so embarrassing, especially in front of Drew.

  “No, it’s just the first step in my master plan.”

  “Your master plan?” I repeated.

  “That’s right. First, I win your everlasting admiration by carrying your books for you.”

  “Everlasting admiration? Just for lugging some books out to my car?”

  “Which softens you up and lowers your defenses, so when I ask you to have dinner with me, you’ll have to say yes,” Drew finished.

  “Your total is $1,286.42,” the cashier announced. “Do you have a discount card?”

  “No,” I lied. “I don’t.”

  I did, but since it had my name on it, I didn’t want to give it to her.

  “You should get one. It’s only twenty-five dollars, and you save ten percent on book purchases. Even with the cost of the card, it would pay for itself with these books right here. And you’d still save a bundle.”