Good Luck (9 page)

“Of course I trust you! God, Maisie, you know that,” I said. Color flared hot in my cheeks, and I shifted uncomfortably on my seat. Harper Lee, sitting next to me, gave a grunt of displeasure at being disturbed. She shifted her round, sleek body so that she was again slumped against my hip and let out a deep, martyrlike sigh.

“Then why didn’t you tell me? I’m assuming that’s where you went last week on your mysterious out-of-town trip.”

“I had to go to Tallahassee to claim the money,” I said.

“And that was, what? Five days ago? How many times have we talked since then? And you didn’t think of maybe throwing out the news that you’d won ninety million freaking dollars?”

“Eighty-seven million dollars,” I said automatically. “And it was only thirty-four point four after taxes and my opting for a one-time payout.”

“Oh,
only
thirty-four point four,” Maisie said sarcastically.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’ve been in—” I didn’t want to say shock. It sounded so dramatic, as though I’d suddenly turned into a Victorian-era woman taking to my bed with the vapors. “I’ve just been trying to absorb it all. I wasn’t purposely keeping it from you. I just wasn’t ready to talk about it.”

“Right,” Maisie said. Her voice was flat again. It made her sound cold and distant, like a different person from the warm, funny friend I’d known all these years. “Or maybe you were just worried that I was going to hit you up for some money.”

“What?” I said blankly. “Of
course
I didn’t think…Maisie, you’re being—”

“You wouldn’t have even known to buy a lottery ticket if I hadn’t told you about it,” Maisie burst out. And now her voice was so full of self-righteous fury that I could feel a small flame of anger suddenly lighting within me.

“What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

“It has everything to do with everything,” Maisie said, spitting out the words as though they tasted bitter in her mouth. “It should have been
me
!” She wasn’t yelling, but her voice was much higher than usual and edged with steel. “I should have been the one to win that money!”

“What are you saying?” I asked quietly. “You think you deserve it more than I do?”

“Well, don’t I? After everything that Joe and I went through to get the twins? And that on top of my student loans! We’re up to our eyeballs in debt. We can’t even afford to hire a babysitter so we can go out to dinner on a Saturday night,” Maisie fumed. “Do you know how much it’s going to cost to put two boys through college? Not to mention the cost of private school, since the public schools around here are all crap, as you well know. We needed that money more! And, yes, I do think we deserved it more!”

After she finished, we were both silent for a moment. I listened to her breath, ragged and angry, and tried to swallow back my own mounting fury. I knew Maisie wasn’t being rational, that she couldn’t really believe that I’d won the lottery just to piss her off. It wasn’t Maisie saying these things—it was just an inner demon, summoned up by fear and stress and anxiety, that had broken loose inside her and temporarily taken over her body.

But at the same time, I was the one who had the press camped outside my house beyond the police barricade. Weirdos were leaving threatening messages on my answering machine, and I was suddenly reviled by everyone in town. Surely my need to have my best friend be understanding and supportive was greater than her need to shout at me. And knowing this, the anger that had flickered inside me suddenly flared up, burning hot.

“It’s not my fault you’re having money problems,” I said, and in my anger my voice rose to a near shout. “It’s not my fault you had a hard time getting pregnant. My winning the lottery wasn’t some sort of cosmic fuck-you aimed right at you, Maisie. So stop being so self-centered!”

That was when Maisie hung up on me. I stared down at my cell phone, which was flashing the message
CALL ENDED
.

“Damn,” I said, dropping the phone onto the coffee table. And then I closed my eyes, pressed my fingers against the lids, and wondered when—
if
—my life would ever return to normal.

Seven

         
ELLIOTT SHOWED UP THE NEXT DAY. SOMEHOW HE
man aged to talk his way past the police—his driver’s license still had our shared address on it, I realized—and was able to walk right up to my front door and ring the doorbell while the press grouped back on the sidewalk and shouted questions at him. I peered out the window, and then, seeing who it was, I cracked the door open just as far as the security chain would allow.

“What do you want?” I hissed.

“Lucy! Thank God! Let me in.” Elliott peered at me through the crack, his long, narrow face anxious.

“I don’t want to see you.”

“Lucy…please. I need to talk to you.”

“I’ve already said everything I have to say to you. Unless you want a few choice words on what exactly I think of you. You know, words like
rat bastard piece of shit
and
cheating ball of pus
. You get the general idea.”

“Look, I’m sorry. It was a huge mistake.
Huge
. I think I…I must have panicked about how serious we were getting, what with moving in together and everything,” Elliott said.

The one good thing about the tidal waves of fury that kept lapping over me was that I was pretty sure it meant I wasn’t in shock anymore. I closed the door, fumbled with the chain, and then threw the door open, ready to expend some of that fury at my asshole of an ex-boyfriend. In my blind rage, I’d somehow momentarily forgotten that the press was camped out in front of my house and that I looked like hell. I’d managed a shower that day, but I was wearing my oldest and rattiest sweats and had my hair scraped back in the ponytail favored by depressives everywhere. The reporters pounced.

“Lucy, do you have a comment?”

“Lucy, would you like a chance to tell your side of the story?”

“What does your boyfriend think about the allegations against you?”

They roared out their questions and pointed their cameras at me. I snaked one arm out, grabbed Elliott by the wrist, dragged him into the house, and slammed the door shut behind him. And then I turned on my ex-boyfriend, even angrier at him than before, if that were possible. While it wasn’t exactly his fault that I’d let my guard down and allowed the press to get me on camera, he hadn’t helped matters either.

“Wow. This is insane,” Elliott said, running a hand nervously through his hair. “How long have they been out there for?”

“Two days.”

“Do you need anything? Or do you want me to go out there and tell them to go away?” Elliott asked.

I laughed without humor. “It doesn’t work. My dad tried that yesterday.”

“And this is all because of what that student said about you?”

“Yes. Well, that and my winning the lottery.” I folded my arms over my chest and stared coldly at Elliott. “That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“No! Of course not. I just wanted to check on you,” Elliott insisted.

“Mission accomplished. Now you can leave,” I said, turning toward the door.

“Wait. That’s not all. I also wanted to talk to you,” Elliott said. He reached out, presumably to touch my arm, but the look I gave him made him think twice about it. His hand dropped limply to his side.

“I don’t have anything to say. It’s done. It’s over. We’re over. There’s no point in discussing the details,” I said.

I glared at him through narrowed eyes. I noticed that he’d recently had his light-brown hair cut and there was a small shaving nick on his jawline. He was wearing a navy-blue polo shirt, pressed khaki pants, and, inexplicably, leather thong sandals. I’d never seen the sandals before. Elliott had always been a confirmed penny-loafer man, insisting that sandals for men were “very, very gay.” I wondered if they were a gift from Naomi.

“I know I hurt you,” Elliott said. “I made a mistake. A stupid, idiotic mistake. I fully admit that.”

“That’s big of you,” I said sarcastically.

“You can’t tell me you really want to throw away three years of shared history over one mistake?” Elliott’s eyes were soft and pleading. His expression reminded me of Harper Lee when she’s begging at the table, ever hopeful that a forkful of my dinner will come her way. “Because I think what we have is worth saving. I love you. And I know you still love me. That doesn’t just go away overnight.”

“Seven nights,” I said.

He blinked. “What?”

“It’s been seven nights since I found you in our bed with your new girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Elliott said quickly.

“I don’t really care one way or the other. Your sex life is no longer any of my business.”

“No, what I mean is, I’ve already told Naomi that it’s over—because I love
you,
Lucy. It took losing you to make me realize that, to realize how much I’ve taken our relationship for granted. But now I know—you’re the woman I’m meant to be with. You’re the love of my life.”

This speech was delivered with the same soft eyes and urgent, earnest tone. And then Elliott dropped to one knee and held out a white ring box I hadn’t noticed in his hand. He opened the box, revealing a gorgeous, glittering two-carat diamond solitaire ring nestled on a bed of white satin.

“Marry me, Lucy. Let me spend the rest of our lives making it up to you,” he said. A lock of light-brown hair had fallen forward over his brow, giving him a boyish air. With every gesture and every word, he was the very picture of repentance.

He had to be insane if he thought I was going to buy it.

“Did you practice that little speech?” I asked.

He hesitated for the briefest of moments. So I was right: He had practiced. Probably in front of a mirror.

“No,” he said. “Of course not. Every word came from my heart.”

With his ring-free hand, he patted himself on the chest, just over his heart. Or where his heart would have been if he actually had one. I looked down at his clear hazel eyes, narrow face, and thin, hard lips and wondered why in the hell I had ever wasted a single moment of my life with this man, how it was that I had failed to see what he really was. All along I’d always thought he was one of the good ones. I thought he only had a minor commitment hang-up and, despite that one flaw, he was worth waiting for. Now I finally saw Elliott for the selfish, manipulative jerk he really was.

Considering how wrong I’d been about his sense of loyalty, I probably shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he was a gold digger as well. Because it was blindingly obvious to me that there was one reason, and one reason only, that he was here now.

“The answer to your question,” I said, “is a most definite
no
.”

“No what?”

“No, I will not marry you.”

Elliott’s eyes widened, and I thought I could detect the faintest trace of sweat on his forehead. He was still down on one knee, and—as though suddenly aware of how ridiculous he looked—stood abruptly.

“But I thought this was what you wanted. To get married. For me to commit,” he said.

“Oh, it was,” I agreed. “But I’ve changed my mind. Thank God.”

I could see something shift behind Elliott’s eyes. I didn’t know if it was anger, or frustration, or maybe even genuine disappointment.

“Are you saying no just because of Naomi? Because I promise, that’s completely over,” Elliott said.

“No, that’s not it. Well, I mean, of course I’m
angry
about that. I did walk in on you screwing some random woman on my bed, after all. But that’s not why I’m saying no to your proposal,” I said.

“Then why?”

“Because you’re an asshole, Elliott,” I said gently. “And I’m well aware that the only reason you’re proposing to me now is because of the lottery money.”

“That’s not true!” Elliott gasped. Two spots of red flamed suddenly on his cheekbones. I’d always envied him his cheekbones, which were high and prominent, like a model’s. “I’m not here because of the money! I’m here because I love you.”

“The thing is, I don’t think you really
do
love me. I’m sure it must stick in your craw to know that if you’d been decent and kind and faithful, that money would now be yours too. But you weren’t—and it isn’t. And now I’d like you to leave,” I said.

I turned and opened the door for him, taking care to step back so the photographers wouldn’t be able to catch sight of me again. As if a switch had been flicked, the reporters immediately began shouting out questions. Elliott stood staring at me, not sure what to do. Then he blinked and looked down at the ring. With a decisive snap, he shut the box and thrust it into his pants pocket, where it made a noticeable bulge.

He left without saying another word.

Elliott got his revenge on me the next morning.

“Yes, it’s been very hard,” he said to Diane Sawyer, as she interviewed him on
Good Morning America
.

Diane was wearing a dove-gray suit and pearls, her lovely face frowning at him in concern. Elliott had on the blue sport jacket I’d bought him for Christmas last year over a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His expression was a perfect mixture of stoicism and sorrow. I even felt a little sorry for him, before remembering that he was, at that moment, betraying me for the second time in less than two weeks.

“I loved—no, I
still
love Lucy very much,” Elliott said sadly. “I was prepared to stand by her through the stunning allegations made against her by this student. But then she won the lottery—and for whatever reason, she broke off our engagement.”

“Engagement? What engagement, you lying turd,” I muttered at the television.

“You believe she ended your relationship because she didn’t want to share the money with you?” Diane Sawyer asked.

Elliott shrugged while tilting his head to one side. “I have to wonder if that was her motivation,” he admitted, conveniently failing to mention how he’d cheated on me. The bastard.

“And what do you think about the allegations made by Ms. Parker’s former student, claiming that she attempted to coerce him into having sexual relations with her?”

“At first I thought the allegations were ridiculous. The Lucy I knew would never have done something like that. But now…” Elliott looked right at the camera. “Now I’m starting to realize that I never knew the real Lucy Parker.”

My jaw dropped open, and I shook my head silently. Which was worse: Walking in on your boyfriend screwing another woman…or having him appear on national television, telling the world that you’re the new Mary Kay Letourneau? And then, to make matters just that much worse,
Good Morning America
flashed the most unflattering possible video of me. It had been taken as I was letting Elliott into the house, and featured me looking like a sloppy, guilty mess with my face twisted in an ugly expression of anger.

“Oh. My. God,” I said. My legs felt suddenly weak, and I sank down on the sofa.

“Where do you go from here?” Diane Sawyer was gently asking Elliott.

He smiled bravely. “I’ll be fine. It will just take a little while for my heart to heal, I think.”

Diane Sawyer smiled warmly at him. “Good luck, Elliott.”

“Thank you, Diane.”

“And coming up on
Good Morning America,
we’ll be taking a look at the epidemic of female teachers seducing their male students. It’s an eye-opening story every parent of a son should hear,” Diane Sawyer said seriously, as somber piano music played in the background.

I groaned softly and lowered my head into my hands. Without looking up, I lifted the remote in one limp hand and turned off the television.

By Friday afternoon, the reporters were still there, and I was still a prisoner in my home. The phone rang constantly whenever I plugged it in. They’d even somehow managed to track down my cell-phone number and began calling on that too. I finally turned off the cell phone and tossed it in the junk drawer in the kitchen.

I’d hoped that if I just ignored the reporters, they’d get tired of waiting and go away. But it had been a slow news week; there wasn’t even a runaway bride or starlet heading to rehab around to distract the media. If anything, there were even more reporters camped outside than there had been the day before. I stood by the window, chewing on my lower lip and peering out at them from behind my curtains. There was a sandwich truck out there today, doing a brisk business serving BLTs and grilled hot dogs to the news crews.

I had to get away. I just wasn’t sure where I could go. My parents’ house was out of the question—it was far too crowded with dogs and wedding plans. And for the first time in our twenty-year friendship, Maisie and I weren’t speaking. I’d always dreamed about traveling to Europe, especially to England, home of my beloved Jane Austen and Henry James. But when I’d pictured myself going overseas, it was a trip I thought I’d make with someone I loved. Going alone, and when my life was in a free fall, seemed somehow wrong.

The phone rang. I cursed myself for forgetting to take it off the hook after calling my parents’ house, which I had immediately regretted when my little sister answered. As Mom had predicted, Emma was only too happy to let me pay for the wedding of her dreams. She was pointedly ignoring Dad’s stubborn insistence that he and Mom were going to pay for the wedding and that she would have to make do with the budget he’d given her. This all put me rather horribly in the middle, and even though I’d begged to be left out of it until they’d hashed it out, Emma had taken to whispering her latest over-the-top ideas whenever we spoke. Today she’d gone on and on about releasing doves—real live, flying, cooing, shitting doves—just as the minister was pronouncing Emma and Christian husband and wife.