Good Luck

by Whitney Gaskell

  This spurred a completely irrelevant conversation about Movie Stars One Hadn’t Seen in Person, until we realized that the only movie star any of us had ever seen was Rutger Hauer, whom Judith swore she had passed in a Chicago airport six years earlier. Paul, who had been with her at the time, was just as sure it wasn’t him and that Judith only thought so because she had watched Ladyhawke on cable the night before the supposed sighting.

  And the whole time this conversation was going on, Emma and Christian were quietly gazing at each other with gooey expressions, which just reminded everyone at the table—or, at least, reminded me—that they’d spent the night before consummating their nuptials.

  My jet lag was kicking in again, and I was just trying to think up a good excuse that would get me out of there so I could go home and snuggle up in bed with Harper Lee, when Judith suddenly leaned forward and said, “Lucy, what are you going to do with all of that money you won?”

  Everyone at the table went instantly quiet.

  “Judith,” Paul said severely. She turned to look at him, and he shook his head at her. “Don’t put Lucy on the spot.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry,” Judith said, turning to look at me, her face creased with anxiety. She reached out a hand and patted my arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Lucy.”

  “You didn’t,” I said quickly. “I’m not at all upset.”

  And then, since every face was now swiveled toward me—even Emma and Christian had snapped out of their newlywed love fog—I decided now was as good as ever to drop my big bombshell.

  I took a deep breath. “Actually, I do have plans. I’ve decided I’m going to open a school.”

  The silence was so absolute, it was a bit intimidating.

  After a few uncomfortable beats, Judith finally asked, “What kind of a school?”

  “It’s going to be a small, humanities-based program for at-risk teen girls. Academically, we’ll cover the same subjects as a regular school, with an added emphasis on art, literature, and creative thinking. But there will be counselors to work on self-esteem, a mentor program to bring the girls strong female role models, and—most important of all—I want to stress the importance of foresight. How the decisions they make now really can and will affect their futures,” I said, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  I hadn’t meant to go into so much detail, but every time I thought of the school, I instantly got carried away. The idea had first popped into my head weeks earlier, while I was in London, and it refused to go away no matter how many times I tried to convince myself that it was too ambitious, too unwieldy, too unrealistic. It was the perfect solution. I wanted to use the money I’d won to make a difference. If I could make this work, then not only would I be able to teach again, I’d be helping some of the most marginalized members of society.

  “Goodness! How wonderful!” Judith exclaimed. “I can’t think of anything better!”

  “Nor can I,” Dad chimed in. I could swear he had tears in his eyes, and he seemed to be swelling with pride.

  My mother was thrilled by the news too. “Even though I must admit I was hoping you’d use the money to build a new no-kill shelter, this is a fabulous idea too,” she enthused. “And more in line with your interests, I think.”

  I nodded. “I really want to teach again. Only not at a school like Andrews Prep. Those kids have so much already. I want to be somewhere where I can really make a difference. I can help these girls get back on track and make something of their lives. There are so many negative influences out there. They need something to hold on to if they’re going to make it.”

  “It’s the boys. Girls start getting in trouble when they’re trying to please boys,” Jenny said darkly, her hands folded on her swollen abdomen.

  “What about the troubled boys? Don’t they deserve to have a program too?” Scott asked. I had the feeling he was speaking more to aggravate his wife—who was, indeed, shooting him a dirty look—but I decided to pretend he was genuinely interested.

  “I thought of that, but I figured I should probably start with the girls and then see how successful the program is,” I said.

  “I think that’s smart. You can always expand later,” Judith said.

  “I was just reading a piece on single-sex classrooms,” Paul chimed in. “I think it was in Time or maybe Newsweek. I’ll try to find it and send it to you, Lucy. It was interesting and really supported the claim that kids—girls, especially—can flourish in a single-sex school environment.”

  “Thanks, I’d like to read it,” I said. I looked over at my sister. “So…what do you think?” I asked.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” Emma said unexpectedly.

  “You do?”

  Emma shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s what I’d do if I had that sort of money. But I think this is right up your alley. It’ll make you happy.” She smiled at me, and I grinned back at her.

  Emma picked up her mimosa and held it up to me in a toast. “To Lucy and her new project,” she said.

  Everyone followed suit, even those who were sticking to water or coffee. “To Lucy’s new project,” they chorused.

  The next few weeks were a whirlwind of activity. My goal was to get the Bright Futures School up and running in twelve months’ time, and I already had a to-do list that was a mile long. I had to find a location, figure out the licensing requirements, come up with a curriculum, hire a staff, handle all of the money issues—although Peter Graham, my financial adviser, had sweetly volunteered his time to help me with that—and a million other considerations that kept cropping up. My parents pitched in before they left for their cruise, and even Emma said she wanted to help, although between her honeymoon to Peter Island, work, and selling the beach house she and Christian had wisely decided they couldn’t afford to keep, she didn’t have a lot of extra time.

  I suffered through an interview with Mitch Hannigan, who had seemed very keen on the Lottery-Seductress-turns-philanthropist aspect of the story. Just sitting across the table from him at Starbucks made my skin crawl, but I figured the publicity made it worthwhile. I had to admit that the article he wrote, which appeared on the front page of the local news section, was very positive, despite a few unsavory allusions to the wild socialite party life I’d supposedly led in Palm Beach.

  A week later there was an article about Drew in the same section of the paper. I’d gotten used to seeing his name in print—news stories about his congressional campaign regularly appeared in the paper—but this story was more personal in nature. In it, Drew was interviewed about his life as the local boy made good, his prominent Palm Beach family…and his new girlfriend, who just happened to be a publicist. There was a picture of her sitting nestled in Drew’s arms, both of them flashing toothy smiles. She was pretty much what I would have expected—attractive, polished, appropriate. She had an elegant, thoughtful face and long dark hair held back in a white headband. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a pang of regret, but that’s all it was—a small ripple of wonder at what might have been had Drew and I met at a different time, under different circumstances.

  After Hayden sent an e-mail saying that she thought Trip was about to propose to her, I’d e-mailed her back, asking for details. She never responded. From the silence, I had a feeling things hadn’t gone quite as she expected. I made a point of regularly reading the society section of the paper, where the engagements of the moneyed Palm Beach community were always announced, but I never saw Hayden’s name. I knew from past experience that Hayden always put out a radio silence when she was disappointed in love or business, but now I wondered if this silence spoke to even greater troubles. I hoped for her sake that she’d come out of it okay.

  Mal didn’t e-mail me again. It was probably for the best, I told myself. Cut things off in one clean break. It was dignified and mature and—when I was being honest with myself, which I tried not to do when it came to Mal—pretty damned miserable. But I knew I’d be okay…eventually. Both the old and new Lucys ha
d taught me that.

  And then, a few weeks after the article about the Bright Futures School appeared in the Palm Beach Post, an odd thing happened: I received a check in the mail. It had been sent in an ordinary business envelope, the kind that’s printed on the inside for security, and was hand-addressed to me. When I opened it up, there wasn’t a note, just a check that fluttered out, spiraling to the ground. I picked it up and then stared down at it, vaguely aware that my heart had started to thump loudly.

  The check was from Mal, and it was made out to the Bright Futures School Foundation I’d set up, with a note on the memo line saying simply, Donation.

  The check was made out in the amount of three million dollars.

  Twenty-Five

  I BROKE ALL SPEEDING LAWS AS I DROVE DOWN TO Palm Beach in my convertible. I hadn’t been able to part with the car, although I kept the old Volvo too, to drive on rainy days. But I wasn’t worried about it raining today. It was gorgeous out, like an advertisement for Florida vacations. The sky was an azure blue and dotted with swirling cotton-candy clouds.

  In a little less than an hour, I was driving through the all too-familiar streets of Palm Beach. I headed straight for the tennis club, hoping that Mal would be at work, although preferably not in the middle of a lesson. If I had to sit beside the courts, scuffing my toes at the red clay while I waited for him to correct a client’s topspin and offer suggestions on how to improve their serve, I just might lose my mind.

  I took a frantic turn into the gated driveway of the Rushes Country Club, followed the winding road through the carefully manicured grounds to the clubhouse, and pulled into the first open spot I saw. I forced myself to walk calmly and deliberately around the side of the club to where the tennis courts were. The courts were full. Men in white shorts and women in tennis skirts rallied back and forth, their conversations and occasional exclamations dotted by the pinging of ball against racquet.

  I rushed down to the edge of the courts and, shading my eyes with my hand, scanned the players for Mal. His broad shoulders and sun-bleached hair were usually pretty easy to pick out. But I didn’t see him. Damn.

  “Can I help you?”

  I turned and saw the perky sales clerk from the pro shop standing there, smiling politely at me. She had a name tag that read DANA pinned above her left breast.

  “I’m looking for Mal. Is he here?” I asked.

  “No, he’s not. He’s off this afternoon, but he’ll be in tomorrow. Do you want to leave a message?”

  Suddenly I realized I knew exactly where Mal was. It was Thursday, practice day for the girls’ tennis team at Leeander High School.

  “No, thanks,” I said to the sales clerk, and turned and bolted for my car.

  I tried to remember the way to the high school. The last time I’d driven there, I’d been following Mal and was paying more attention to keeping his car in sight than to all the twists and turns of the route. I had to stop twice and turn around to get back on the right track. But somehow—maybe through sheer dumb luck—I finally managed to find the school.

  Wheels squealing as I made the turn, I drove around the building to where the tennis courts were located at the back. And, yes, the girls were there, hitting balls back and forth across the net. They were doing baseline drills, two on each side. And there was Mal—my heart gave a wild lurch—standing between the two courts and calling out to the girls, instructing them to get their racquets back, to follow through on their swings, to chase down balls out of reach. All instructions he’d given me during our lessons, right down to the way he called out playfully, “Chantal, are you trying to choke your racquet?” or “Sharise, if you don’t start running for those wide shots, I’m going to set a fire under your feet!” or “Good hustle! That’s what I like to see!” When one of the girls hit a winner, Mal would jump up and down, waving his hands in the air, making a complete idiot of himself. And the girls loved him for it.

  So did I.

  But, I reminded myself sternly, that’s not why you’re here.

  “Who’s that lady, Mal?” one of the girls called out. “Do you know her?”

  All of the girls instantly stopped playing and turned to stare at me.

  “Check out that tight whip,” I heard one of them say. I had no idea what that meant—even after a decade of teaching, I wasn’t fluent in teen slang—but I had a feeling they were talking about my car, since they all stopped staring at me and began eyeing the Porsche instead.

  Mal turned to see what had distracted his girls. As our eyes locked, I felt a physical jolt of energy pass through me. Without looking away from me, Mal said, “Keep on going with the drill, ladies. I’ll be right back.”

  “Is that your girlfriend, Mr. Mal?” one of the girls called out, which unleashed a torrent of giggles and catcalls that Mal wisely ignored.

  He strode purposefully across the courts and up to where I waited on the sun-faded parking lot. My heart felt like it was hammering harder and louder with each step he took toward me. By the time he reached me, I thought it might burst right out of my chest.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” he replied. His voice was calm and even. “What are you doing here?”

  “I knew you coached the tennis team here.”

  “How? No one knows that.”

  “I do. In truth, I’m a CIA agent. The lottery-winning schoolteacher is just a cover.”

  Mal grinned. “Right. Because that’s really flying under the radar.”

  “It’s actually so high over the radar, no one would ever suspect. That’s how the CIA works these days. Julia Roberts is an agent too. Although now that I’ve told you that, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “I suppose you will,” Mal agreed. “So, really, how did you find out about my coaching gig?”

  “The old-fashioned way. I followed you a few months ago,” I admitted.

  Mal’s eyebrows raised. “You were stalking me?”

  “That’s not the most flattering characterization,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coaching a girls’ tennis team?”

  Mal shrugged. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”

  “Why? It’s not like you’re shooting crack into your eyeballs. You’re giving some needy kids your time. That’s a good thing.”

  “I don’t like it when people make a big deal out of their volunteer work,” Mal said. “They should just do it and shut up about it.”

  I nodded. “Okay. Fair enough.”

  “Why are you here now?” Mal asked. His tone was casual, but his face was guarded.

  “Why do you think?”

  “I take it you got my check.”

  I nodded. “If you were trying to get my attention, it worked.”

  “I just wanted to help,” Mal said.

  I frowned. “But it was a joke, right?”

  “No, it wasn’t a joke.”

  “But you don’t have three million dollars,” I protested.

  Mal laughed. “How do you know?”

  “Because you just don’t. Wait—do you?”

  Mal drew his eyebrows down and gazed at me contemplatively. He was wearing a bright white T and shorts, which highlighted how deeply tanned his arms and legs were.

  “Do you?” I repeated, my voice rising.

  “Why don’t you try cashing the check? That’s one way of finding out.”

  I just stared at him, mouth agape, while I tried to process this. Mal was rich. Oddly enough, this irritated me. It seemed like an awfully big piece of information to hold back.

  “How rich are you?” I demanded.

  Mal shrugged eloquently.

  “But you never said anything!”

  “What was I supposed to say?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe, ‘Hey, Lucy, guess what? I’m really rich.’ That would have worked for me. We certainly talked about my lottery money often enough.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Mal shook his head patiently. “No. We talke
d about how much your life had changed since you won the lottery, but we never really talked about the actual money.”

  “You’re splitting hairs!”

  “Why are you getting so angry?”

  “Because you lied to me!” I realized how stupid this sounded, but my anger, once ignited, had started to blaze out of control.

  “I didn’t lie to you. I never told you I was poor,” Mal pointed out. He leaned against my car and smiled, which just pissed me off even more.

  “But you pretended to be,” I said.

  “How so?”

  “Your job, the way you dress, the way you live,” I said—well, shouted, really—and waved my hands.

  “I live on Palm Beach.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Look: Yes, I have money. But it’s not really my money. It’s my dad’s.”

  “But you said your dad is a builder.”

  “He is, sort of. He owns a company that builds houses.”

  “How big of a company?”

  Mal hesitated. “The largest residential developer on the East Coast,” he admitted.

  I stared at him. “So if it’s not your money, how were you able to write that check?”

  “My dad set up a trust fund for me years ago.”

  “You’re a trust-fund brat?”

  “Really, Lucy, don’t hold back. Tell me how you feel,” Mal said with a snort of laughter.

  But I wasn’t in the mood to be teased. My entire body was prickling with anger. I felt duped, led on, lied to. It was like Elliott all over again. I turned on my heel, planning to march back to my car and drive off without saying another word, but a strong hand gripped my arm and spun me back around.