Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  “That’s okay,” I said.

  “But, really, your whole order will be, let’s see…” She pulled out a calculator and began to hit the buttons with the eraser end of a number-two pencil.

  “Really, thanks anyway, but I’d rather not get a discount card,” I said quickly.

  “She likes to spend as much as possible,” Drew told the clerk. “In fact, if any of these books are on sale, please waive that and charge her full price.”

  “Shhh,” I shushed him. My heart beating a heavy thunk-thunk-thunk, I pulled out the cash envelope I’d gotten from the bank and began to slowly count out the bills.

  Please let me have enough, please let me have enough, I thought. It would be close, I could tell. I counted out a thousand dollars in fifty-dollar bills and was then left with only twenties. One hundred. Two hundred. Two hundred sixty, two hundred eighty, three hundred. With a whoosh of relief, I triumphantly handed the clerk the stack of bills. She was much speedier at counting out the money, licking her index finger, and snapping the bills down in front of her. Once satisfied that it was all there, she punched some buttons on the register, deposited the bills in their proper slots, and then counted out my change.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I was so happy I hadn’t blown my cover that I turned to beam up at Drew while the cashier bagged my books. Then what he’d just said suddenly hit me.

  “Did you just ask me to have dinner with you?” I asked, genuinely surprised. Casual flirting was one thing—unexpected, yes, but not completely unheard of. But being spontaneously asked out on a date by a handsome stranger? That never happened to me.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You’re not a serial killer, are you?” I asked, the words popping out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  “Wow, that’s even less flattering than being called a pack mule,” Drew remarked, as he gathered several of the bulging plastic shopping bags.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. Then, to redeem myself, I grabbed a few of the bags. “You don’t have to carry them all. Let me take some of them.”

  “If you insist. But the dinner invitation still stands.”

  “Well…” I stopped, thinking about it.

  I had decided to abandon my no-men stance. And Drew seemed like a nice enough guy. But this gave me pause. I’d made the mistake of believing Elliott was one of the good ones and look how wrong I’d been there. But did that mean I was supposed to avoid all men who came across as decent and pleasant and only go out with the ones who were slimy right off the bat? Because that didn’t seem like a great solution either. And there was no reason to think that Drew was anything like Elliott. Elliott had proposed to me in a transparent attempt to get his hands on my lottery money; Drew was gallantly carrying my shopping bags for me, even though he wasn’t under any obligation to do so. Elliott wore those stupid leather thong sandals; Drew appeared to prefer classic lace-up dress shoes. They were nothing alike.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’d love to have dinner.”

  “Excellent,” Drew said. He appeared to be struggling with the weight of the bags; the veins in his forearms were bulging with the strain, and a damp mist covered his face. “I’m glad to hear it. Now, why don’t you show me to your car, so I can put down these bags before I end up with a permanent hunch-back, and then we’ll firm up our plans.”

  “Whoops, sorry!” I said. I held the door open for him. “Right this way.”

  “Please tell me your car is close by,” he groaned.

  Twelve

  I ELECTED TO MEET DREW AT THE RESTAURANT rather than have him pick me up. He’d made a reservation for us at Morton’s, a steakhouse in downtown West Palm Beach. The restaurant was darkly lit, which meant that I had to blink a few times after pushing through the wooden door so my eyes could adjust from the bright streaming sunshine outside. I glanced around and saw that Drew was by the bar, a clubby wood-paneled room off to the right, talking to an older, distinguished-looking man with short salt-and-pepper hair. Drew looked very handsome—and very preppy—in a blue blazer and khaki pants. His dark hair curled back off his face, exposing his high forehead, and his face was animated. I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt his conversation, but Drew looked up then and saw me. He grinned and stood, and when I walked over, he kissed me on the cheek.

  “Lucy. You look lovely,” he said.

  I was rather pleased with my outfit—a red sleeveless shirt and long skirt, both made out of a flowy knit fabric that skimmed over my curves. When I saw it in the store, I thought it would look awful on me. But Hayden insisted I try the outfit on, and, as usual, she was right—it was perfect.

  “Hi,” I said, smiling at him.

  “This is Ken Kramer. He’s an old friend of my family,” Drew said easily. “Ken, this is Lucy Landon.”

  Hearing Drew call me by my assumed name almost made me wince. Lucy Landon. It sounded so phony to my ears. But that was vastly preferable to Drew finding out he was on a date with the Lottery Seductress.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said to the older man.

  “Hello. Well, Drew, give my best to your parents. Tell your dad I’ll call him to set up a lunch sometime soon,” Kramer said, before nodding to me and taking his leave.

  “He looks familiar,” I said, watching the maître d’ rush up to hold the door for Kramer as he left the restaurant.

  “He’s the United States Congressman for this district,” Drew said.

  “Really? And your family is friends with him?” I asked interestedly.

  “My family’s pretty heavy into politics,” Drew said, his tone casual. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Just a glass of white wine, please,” I said.

  Drew signaled for the bartender to come over and placed my order. A moment later the bartender set the glass of chilled wine in front of me. I took a sip.

  “Good?” Drew asked.

  “Delicious.”

  “I don’t know much about you, other than that you have fairly esoteric tastes in literature,” Drew said. He had a habit of speaking quickly, I’d noticed, and everything he said sounded like it was a joke. “You’re something of a mystery.”

  I felt a stab of panic at what I knew was a request for more personal information. I had expected this—it was a first date, after all; we were supposed to be getting to know each other. I’d even come up with a cover story, as though I really was a spy. I decided not to get too fancy, to basically stick to the facts and lie as little as possible.

  “I’m not nearly that exciting,” I said, covering my nervousness with a laugh. “I grew up in Ocean Falls. My parents and sister still live there. So did I, until recently. But I decided I’d had enough of small-town life, so I came down here to visit a friend and test-drive what it’s like to live in Palm Beach.”

  “And what did you do back in Ocean Falls?”

  “I worked as an office manager. For a friend’s landscaping business,” I said. It was part of the story I’d invented, a fictional job at Maisie and Joe’s business.

  “And are you planning on getting the same sort of job here?” Drew asked. He was drinking what looked like Scotch, served neat in a short, square glass.

  “I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” I admitted. This, at least, was the absolute truth. “I’m still trying to find myself.”

  Find my new self, that is, I added silently. The Lucy that couldn’t be a teacher anymore.

  Drew raised his glass to me. “Here’s to finding oneself.”

  We clinked our glasses together. Just then, the maître d’ came over to tell us our table was ready. Drew and I stood and, carrying our glasses, followed him to the table. It was one of those odd, crescent-shaped booths that force you to sit side by side, like in an old Hollywood movie. Not only was it awkward to sit that way, right next to Drew, as opposed to across the table from him, but in order to get into the booth I had to awkwardly scootch my bottom over bit by bit.

  Drew took a few minutes to consult the wi
ne list, asking for my input before settling on a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. He gave the bin number to the sommelier and then turned to me with a smile.

  “What about you?” I asked. “All I know about you is that you’re nice enough to rescue strange women in bookstores who’ve bought more than they can carry.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily say you’re strange,” Drew teased.

  “Thanks a lot!”

  “But I do get the feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, too nervously and too quickly. I could feel my skin heating up into an embarrassed flush.

  “About the reason you’re down here test-driving a new life, I mean. People don’t normally make big changes, unless…”

  “Unless what?” I asked. Unless they’ve won the lottery? Been accused on national television of propositioning one of their students? Happening upon their boyfriend of three years in bed with a woman sporting fake breasts and a spray-on tan?

  And then, as if he could read my thoughts, Drew said, “What was his name?”

  My jaw dropped open. “What?” I asked, in a strangled voice. “How did you know about Elliott?”

  “Elliott, hmmm? I figured there had to be someone looming in the background. Let’s face it—women like you don’t rush off to start a new life unless some guy’s been stupid enough to screw up their current one,” Drew said, smiling at me. He really had a nice smile, accented by a set of dimples.

  “Women like me?” I repeated. My voice was a bit higher and squeakier than usual, so I cleared my throat. “What do you mean, women like me?”

  “Beautiful, charming, intelligent,” Drew said.

  Beautiful, charming, intelligent? I wondered, flabbergasted. No one had ever called me beautiful. Usually I got stuck with the dreaded cute, and that was on a good day. A guy I’d dated postcollege and pre-Elliott had told me several times that I had beautiful nipples, but as he said it in bed when he was approaching climax, I didn’t take it too seriously.

  I was still trying to digest Drew’s compliment when the waitress arrived, pushing a cartful of raw steaks and produce in front of her.

  “Hello,” she sang out. “My name is Beverly. I’ll be your server tonight. Have you dined with us before?”

  Drew nodded, but unfortunately Beverly was looking at me as she spoke. I smiled and shook my head.

  This prompted Beverly to launch into a bizarrely detailed explanation of every single dish on the menu, picking up various sample food items for a visual. I suppose this might have been useful if one really wanted to see the exact difference between a porterhouse and New York strip steak, for example. But when she held up a potato and a head of broccoli, I could no longer feign interest.

  I glanced around the dining room…and there, sitting directly across from us in another one of the crescent-shaped booths, was the scruffy man I’d seen the other night at the Drum Roll. Only tonight he didn’t look so scruffy. He was clean shaven and wearing a navy-blue polo shirt.

  What is his name again? I wondered, but it came to me almost instantly: Mal. And Mal was looking right back at me. When our eyes met, my heart gave a nervous thump and then began to race, as though I’d had a shot of adrenaline.

  In order to stop staring at Mal—which was difficult, considering I was facing him—I looked at his dining companion. She was very attractive, with delicate features and short dark hair, and was dressed in a slim-cut ivory dinner suit. She was also quite a bit older than Mal. She had to be in her late forties at least, or maybe a well-preserved fiftysomething. She also looked extremely annoyed. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were flashing: the very picture of a woman wronged.

  How odd, I thought, as our waitress continued to natter on, now flourishing a bouquet of asparagus, while Drew listened patiently. Why would a hookup artist like Mal be out with an older woman? And it looks like they’re having some sort of a lovers’ tiff. That much was obvious from his date’s thunderous expression and stiff posture.

  The answer came to me in a flash of understanding.

  Oh, my God, I thought. He’s a gigolo.

  I didn’t even know that such a thing existed anymore. But that was stupid of me; of course it must. Wherever there was big money—and Palm Beach was certainly famous for its wealth—there would be opportunists sniffing after it. Hayden had told me that half of the shopgirls were just biding their time, until they could snag a wealthy husband. Obviously there would be a male counterpart—handsome men more than happy to squire rich divorcées or widows around town. Did he want to marry her, or was he just happy to get what he could off her? A nice watch, an expensive suit, a flat-screen television. The thought disgusted me. Mal was exactly the sort of man Peter Graham had warned me about.

  It was worrying. Here I was, concerned that Drew would find out that I had this notorious and scandalous past, when what I probably should be worried about was if he, or any other guy I might ever meet in the future, would be after my money. At this thought, my resolve not to tell Drew the truth about my past hardened. I looked back at Mal, who was now gazing at me with an amused expression, and narrowed my eyes in dislike.

  “Is something wrong?” Drew asked, leaning toward me in concern. I started and realized that our waitress had finally finished her spiel with the tomato and broccoli and had pushed her cart away.

  “No! Nothing’s wrong,” I said quickly.

  “For a minute there, you looked like you were mad about something.”

  “Of course not.” I was so flustered I started to blush again. “What would I be angry about?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the waitress touched a nerve with her produce demonstration. Maybe you had a traumatic run in with some asparagus in your past.”

  “Ah, no. What was up with that presentation anyway?” I asked, trying to push aside all thoughts of Mal the Gigolo. “Do you think they get many people in here who don’t know what a potato looks like? Or did we just look particularly stupid?”

  “No way. At least, you don’t. You read Madame Bovary, after all. Maybe I’m the one dragging us down.”

  I laughed. “You still haven’t told me what you do.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Drew said. “Commercial litigation at a midsize firm here in town.”

  “What were you doing at the bookstore yesterday?”

  “I occasionally go there on my lunch break. I find it oddly soothing,” Drew confessed.

  “Me too!” I said excitedly. Not many people understood how comforting stacks and stacks of books can be.

  “Plus, they have decent sandwiches in the café,” Drew said. “So I’ll go, browse a bit, then grab a sandwich. It’s a good way to take a break from the stress of work.”

  “I totally get that. If I had a rough day at school, I used to stop at the bookstore on the way home just to unwind,” I said. The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I’d said: at school. But Lucy Landon, the Lucy who was having dinner with Drew, hadn’t been a teacher; she’d been an office manager. I could feel my cheeks flushing hot again, and I inwardly cursed my stupidity.

  Thankfully, Drew didn’t seem to notice my slip.

  “Oh, really? Where’d you go to school?” he asked.

  And I realized that he thought I was talking about college. I breathed a sigh of relief and resolved not to make any more mistakes. I liked Drew. I didn’t want to jeopardize whatever this could turn out to be before I even had a chance to find out what that was.

  At some point after the server had cleared away what remained of our steak dinners and before she’d brought out the hot molten chocolate cake (for me) and key lime pie (for Drew), I decided I was going to sleep with Drew. I didn’t announce it, of course. One doesn’t just casually say, Would you please pass the cream? And do you have a condom on you, or should we stop at a CVS on our way back to your place? But I was determined. The only sure way to get over Elliott would be to indulge in a good, old-fashioned rebound. And Drew—attractiv
e, funny, smart Drew—would be the perfect guy to rebound with.

  The new Lucy, I decided, the one with the blond hair and wardrobe of chic dresses, was just the type to sleep with whomever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

  This was such a liberating thought, I got goose bumps.

  We finished our desserts and coffee, Drew paid the bill, and together we headed out into the now dark evening to hand over our tickets to the parking attendant. I could feel the excitement fizz up inside me. How would this go down? Would he ask me over to his place? Or would we go to a glam hotel and order up champagne and strawberries to the room, as though we were characters in a Jackie Collins novel? I made a mental note to have Hayden take me lingerie shopping.

  But when our cars pulled up—my borrowed BMW, his Lexus sedan—Drew just smiled down at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. This is it! I thought, my pulse humming.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said simply.

  I stared at him, not sure what he meant. It had been so long since I’d done this, I couldn’t get my footing. “You mean…later tonight?” I asked awkwardly.

  Drew laughed. As though I’d just told a joke. Which I clearly hadn’t.

  “No. I meant next week. Are you free on Friday night? We could have dinner again.”

  “Um…sure,” I said, hoping he couldn’t tell how mortified I was. Was he ignoring my not-so-subtle suggestion that we not end the date now—or had he really not gotten that? Should I clarify what I’d meant?

  “Great,” Drew said. “I’ll call you.”

  “Great,” I repeated.

  And then he leaned over and kissed me softly on the cheek.

  “Bye, Lucy,” he said.

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not interested in you,” Hayden said.

  “Were you listening to the part where he kissed me on the cheek?”

  “Mmm, I was,” Hayden said patiently. “Pass me the sunscreen?”

  I handed her the tube of SPF 15. Hayden squirted a white blob into her hand and rubbed the lotion over her bare shoulders and arms. We were poolside, reclining on the teak loungers. Hayden and I were both wearing bikinis and sipping from bottles of chilled water. Hayden’s eyes were closed behind her sunglasses, but I was too captivated by the view of the clear turquoise water lapping up on the sandy white beach and the tall palm trees swaying gently in the breeze.