If You're Lucky (5 page)

Rocket greeted me at the kitchen door and I let him outside. He needed to be walked. The sink was filled with dishes from lunch, which meant my mom ate something. I opened the fridge and closed it again. I hadn't had much of an appetite since Lucky died. I stared at the markings on a narrow strip of wall next to the fridge.
My mom wrote Lucky's height with a date there in blue ink every year, from when he was two until he was fifteen and wouldn't let her measure him anymore. She didn't start measuring me till I was four. My measurements were in red ink. She stopped when I was ten.

I went to my bedroom and closed the door. I kicked my sneakers off. It was not till I was lying on my bed that I allowed myself to think about Fin. My heart began to pound. I needed to see him again. I idly picked my laptop up off the floor and turned it on. I started scrolling through the hundreds of e-mails Lucky had sent me over the last several months. Honestly, I'd never really read them that closely and then, after he died, I just couldn't. Every one of them, no matter how tired or jet-lagged or drunk Lucky was, overflowed with life. I went back to three weeks before he died and started there:

George,

Dead tired. It's midnight here and I've been out with my mates after a good long day on the water. At the bar, we got to singing Australian drinking songs with a bunch of drunken fishermen who tried to teach us the words but we couldn't understand them so we pretended. Things got ugly for a minute when their girls got a little flirty with us (can we help it if we're irresistible?). We sorted it out though and it was hugs and
I love you, man
all around. Still bunking with Javier from Spain (producer of the world's smelliest farts) and Mel from New York (trust fund recipient and bad ass surfer). My money's running low, should last about another month or so and then I have to start thinking about work. Hopefully Dad will take me on again for the summer. That won't be as bad as the chicken ranch. I almost went vegetarian over that. Don't think I'll ever get that smell out of my nose. I'll take oysters over chickens any day. Be back home by early summer at the latest. Hug Mom for me, will you? And say hi to everyone. Miss everyone except you.

L.

I skimmed the next several letters, looking for a mention of Fin. There were so many friends: a Javier, a Mel, a Caleb, a Donut (?), a Spark, a Jesse, and then I found him. Lucky didn't say anything specific about him, he just added him to his gang. I read back a couple of months, and then a few months before that. Fin was sprinkled all through Lucky's life, which was clear across the world, and now here he was in mine. It felt a bit strange, like I'd been given a little piece of Lucky's life as a gift.

I heard my dad coming in the back kitchen door with Rocket.

“George? You here?”

“Right here, Dad,” I called out.

He opened my bedroom door. “Rocket just took a shit in the Swiss chard.”

“So?”

“So, did you walk him?”

“No, did you?”

He didn't respond. I heard the back door slam and I watched out my bedroom window as my dad took a shovel from the shed and walked over to my mom's garden. He picked up a fresh pile of dog poop and hurled it into the brush outside our property. I turned around to see Rocket staring at me from my bedroom door. He looked sheepish.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

He turned his head to the side.

“Go get your leash, you horrible animal.” I closed my laptop.

I clipped Rocket's leash on his collar and pulled on my boots. We walked past my dad, neither of us making eye contact for entirely different reasons.

“Dinner's in an hour,” he called after us.

I didn't respond.

“I'm making fish stew.”

I kept walking.

Rocket was a Christmas present from my parents to Lucky eight years ago. I got a bookcase that year. It was hand built by my dad. He'd painstakingly carved flowers into the wood along each side. It was beautiful but it couldn't compete with Rocket, the wiggly, cuddly, adorable puppy. I mean, what nine-year-old would choose a bookcase over a puppy? I was so despondent that I locked myself in the bathroom until hunger forced me out. When Lucky started traveling, Rocket, who seemed to need to poop almost as often as his owner, became everyone's responsibility, and then Lucky would arrive home and Rocket was his dog again. He didn't even acknowledge any of us until Lucky took off on his next trip. But now it seemed Rocket knew that we were all he had left and he wasn't happy about it.

Rocket scampered up the back porch steps at Sonia's house. I knocked on the door. No one seemed to be around. I peered through the glass window on the door and tapped on it lightly. Sonia shuffled down the hallway from her room to the back door. She had sleep in her eyes and bedhead and she was wearing the same sweats she had on when I stopped by yesterday to try and pry her out of the house. She pulled open the door. Rocket jumped all over her.

“Hey.”

“Hey, we're going down to the beach. Come with us.”

She squinted into the sunlight. “Is it warm out?”

It was five p.m. and she hadn't set foot outdoors yet? This girl who used to fly down the sides of mountains most weekends?

“Warm enough . . . c'mon.”

“Come inside. I'll get my jacket.”

Sonia's kitchen looked a lot like ours. No food smells though, just the smell of wood burning. Most of us here have woodstoves in our kitchens. I looked at the sink: two empty coffee cups. Sonia's mom wasn't much of a cook. She worked long hours and she had a boyfriend somewhere, Petaluma, I think, so she wasn't around that much.

Sonia pulled on a jean jacket and a wool cap. We headed downhill toward the water with Rocket tugging at the leash. We walked side by side, not saying anything for a minute.

“Hey, you remember that Fin guy from the memorial party thing?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Fin?” she said. “What about him?”

My heart started pounding again.

“Did you know he's here in False Bay?”

She stopped walking. “Really? Are you sure you mean Fin?”

“Yup. He's here. I just went to the secret beach with him.”

She looked at me doubtfully and then she darkened.

“He seems really nice. You know him? I mean, from when you went to Australia?”

“Uh, yeah, I met him.”

“He and Lucky were like brothers, right?”

“Uh, sure, they were friends, I guess.”

“He said they were like brothers.”

“Okay, like brothers.”

“He picked up some shifts at the Heron.”

“Waiting tables?”

“Yeah, nights.”

“What the hell? I wish I'd known they were hiring. I could use a job.”

“Really? You're staying?” I looked at her hopefully. “Stay, okay?”

She shrugged and looked away.

“Maybe they need more help. Jeff said the summer months are filling up. You want me to ask?”

“Nah, that's okay.”

We walked across the highway and turned into the parking lot. It bothered me, her vagueness about everything. It was out of character for her. She'd always been decisive and focused. She seemed unmoored now. I don't know why it made me feel so uneasy. Maybe it was because
I
was supposed to be the hot mess in this place. Sonia always knew exactly what she wanted and then she went and got it.

The parking lot at the beach was empty except for Fin's beat-up red truck. It really was too cold for most people to be at the beach.

“That's his truck, by the way,” I said.

“Fin's?”

“Yeah.”

Sonia looked annoyed and shook her head. I unclipped Rocket's leash and he took off for the beach.

I fell into step with Sonia and the cold wind yanked at our hair as we stepped over the rocks and down across the packed sand to the water where Rocket was already halfway down the beach, chasing gulls. A speck of a person was walking toward us. Fin, I assumed, though he was too far away to know for sure. Rocket had spied him too and though he generally prefers seagull chasing to human interaction, he loped down the beach toward the figure. Sonia and I both watched, but we said nothing. As the figure and Rocket approached, Fin came into focus. An onlooker would probably think that Rocket belonged to him. Guys like Fin always own dogs like Rocket. Fin waved when he saw that it was us. The cold air had cleared my head and the details of my afternoon with Fin seemed less romantic now. But then he was standing in front of us and I was smiling at him and watching the way he pulled his tangled hair out of his face and how perfectly imperfect his front teeth were. He was looking at Sonia the same way he'd looked at me an hour ago. I felt a pang of jealousy.

“This must be Rocket,” he said, bending over and ruffling the fur on the dog's head.

Rocket was making a ridiculous display of jumping all over him.

“Rocket! Down!” I scolded.

“Oh, don't worry. He's great. Anyway, I feel like I know him. Lucky talked about him all the time.”

Lucky talked about his dog all the time but he never talked about me?

“
Are you looking for waves?”

He looked down the beach. “Yeah, not much happening here today. Guess I have to drive down the coast a ways.”

Sonia was hugging herself, shivering.

“Hi, Sonia,” he said.

“Hi,” she said softly and looked off at the water. She seemed reluctant to make eye contact.

“You look cold,” he said.

“I'm fine,” she said.

We stood there, awkwardly. It seemed like Fin wanted to say something to Sonia and then thought better of it. Sonia looked everywhere but at him.

“We should go,” I finally said. “We need to move or we'll freeze.” I didn't mean that, though. Part of me wanted to ask Fin to come with us. Part of me wanted to ask if I could go with him wherever he was headed.

“Yeah, okay. I'll see you later.” He gave Rocket a quick rub. “Nice to meet ya, Buddy.”

Rocket was reluctant to follow us. He stood there, watching Fin walk away. “Rocket!” I called.

When he caught up with us he circled around a couple of times, watching Fin disappear up the beach. I looked back too. Sonia didn't seem to notice.

“He's nice, isn't he?” I said, but Sonia looked lost in her own thoughts as we carried on walking.

“Sonia!”

She snapped out of it. “Sorry, what?”

“What's going on here?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “It's nothing.”

“These . . . are . . . fabulous,” said Jeff, with a mouth full of lavender shortbread. “You're a genius. Did Miles tell you we're going to sell them in the gift shop?”

“No.” The gift shop is actually an antique bookcase next to the check-in desk.

“Well, we are, in pretty cellophane bags with a raffia tie, right next to the granola. You're not going to leave us for the big city and start a baking company, are you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, don't even consider it. Miles and I had a hand in raising you. We're not about to lose you to those jaded pastry eaters in the city.”

“Don't worry about it. You could pay me more, though.”

Marc, who'd just strolled into the kitchen, snorted.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.” Jeff licked his fingers. “Maybe in the summer when things pick up around here.”

“It is summer.”

“Almost,” he said.

It was midmorning on Thursday, one of my baking days at the Inn. I generally bake Sundays or Mondays and always on Thursdays when I'm out of school and the Inn is full. Today I was making apple frangipani tarts. The pastry dough was cooling in the walk-in and I was peeling apples. The order of things, the pastry, the fruit, the assembling of desserts, it all appealed to me. I was happiest when I was working in this kitchen with all its activity and smells and sounds. I could disappear into my music or I could stay in my corner and eavesdrop on the goingson.

Marc surveyed the small mountain of apple peels. “
Tarte aux pommes
?
” he asked.

“Yes, with frangipani.”

“
Bon.
” He scratched his head. “I think we serve just a nice whipped cream with that, maybe almond scented,
alors
?”

“Sure, fine.”

“Good morning, Marc,” said Jeff, lifting the lid off a big pot of something simmering on the stove. Marc slapped his hand. Jeff retreated back over to me.

“Hey, did that new guy start yet?” I asked, casual as possible, eyes on my paring knife. I already knew that he had.

Jeff grabbed a slice of apple and popped it into his mouth. “Fin?”

“Yeah.”

“He worked last night. Excellent waiter . . . and
so
attractive.”

I glanced over at Marc. He never had anything good to say about the waitstaff, particularly new waitstaff. Everyone was an idiot until he decided otherwise.

“Marc, you like him?”

Marc looked up from expertly chopping shallots. He would rather I address him as “Chef Marc” and he likes to pretend that idle kitchen chitchat is beneath him, but he was quick to respond.

“He picks up the plates immediately when I set them down. Not like some of these idiots smoking outside while the food sits and sits. I could keeeees him, this Fin.”

Jeff beamed. “And he's a Sagittarius. You know what that means,” he said, all singsongy.

“Actually, I don't.”

“Sagittarians are very compatible with Aries and Leos. And, as you know, I'm an Aries and Miles is a Leo.”

Marc looked over at me and raised an eyebrow. I smiled. Jeff saw me.

“Well,” he said indignantly, “when I first met Miles, I wouldn't even consider dating him until I had my astrologist's blessing.”

The couple had not considered my astrological sign when they hired me. They tasted my pecan tarts at a fundraiser and hired me on the spot to “make a few desserts.” Somehow, the job had morphed into full-blown pastry chef.

Jeff popped another apple slice into his mouth and glanced at his slim wristwatch. “I better go finish the wine order. I promised Fin I'd help him move in this afternoon.”

“Move in?”

“He's moving into the redwood cottage. He's going to do some work on it for us and he's got some fabulous ideas for the landscaping too.”

And he was gone. I stood there with a long tail of apple peel dangling from my knife, watching the swinging door, wondering if I'd heard him right. Only the most important friends of Jeff and Miles were invited to stay in the redwood cottage, and that was usually just for a weekend.

After I got the tarts into the oven and I'd cleaned up my corner of the kitchen, I wandered out to the porch and sat on the vintage porch swing flanked on both sides by distressed terra-cotta pots planted out with rosemary and oregano and placed just so by Jeff. I pushed myself back and forth on the swing with one foot. A light breeze carried the low-tide smell of rotting seaweed in from the shore.

I started thinking about last night. I'd washed and dried my hair, pulled on my favorite jeans and a T-shirt, walked down the hill, and waited for Fin outside after the dining room closed. I hadn't seen him since Sonia and I ran into him at the beach, days before. When he emerged from the back door of the Inn, I was leaning against his truck smiling. He looked surprised. He said nothing to me for a few seconds. He seemed to be considering what he should do. Then he suggested a drive. We drove in the dark, not saying much at all. Fin pulled into the parking lot above the trail we'd hiked down several days ago. I felt reckless, like I had the last time we were there. I'd never been this forward with a guy. Fin switched off the engine and watched the dark horizon. I watched Fin. This time I smelled nice. I'd prepared myself. I'd planned it carefully.

Fin inhaled abruptly and turned to me and grinned. “How about a drink.”

“I'm not supposed to drink. My meds.”

He frowned. “Right. Okay, well you don't mind if I do, do you?”

I shook my head. “ 'Course not.”

“Wait right there.”

He got out of the truck and I watched through the back window as he pulled a bottle of champagne out of a plastic cooler in the bed. I recognized it as the brand featured on the Inn's wine list. He got back in the truck holding the bottle.

“Ta-da!” he presented the label to me and then he pulled off the foil and the wire cage like an expert and tossed it on the floor. I wondered if he'd intended to share it with someone else.

“Miles will kill you if he notices. He does rigorous inventory, you know.”

“Don't worry, I'll replace it tomorrow. He won't even know it's gone.”

I smiled.

“Hey, wanna see a cool trick?”

“Sure.”

He leaned over me, so close that I could smell his hair. He popped open the glove box and pulled out a bone-handled hunting knife. He extended the blade carefully.

“This won't hurt a bit.” He pulled a knob on his dash. His high beams came on, eerily lighting the fog swirling up from below the cliff. He jumped out of the truck.

“Watch.” He stood in front of the truck like a magician on a stage with the bottle in one hand and the knife in the other. He held the champagne by the bottom and with his other hand he ran the knife quickly up the side of the bottle. There was a loud pop and the entire top of the bottle and the cork shot off into the darkness. Champagne foamed up over the freshly cut glass rim. I squealed and clapped my hands. He bowed dramatically and got back in the truck.

“That was so cool!”

“Here, hold this,” he handed me the bottle and pulled a thermos out from under the seat. He unscrewed the metal cup. I looked at the bottle. The top was sliced off cleanly as though he'd used a glass cutter. He took the bottle from me and filled the cup. He handed it to me. “Madame?”

I hesitated, and then took a small sip. It was ice cold and delicious. Warmth spread through my belly.

“Where did you learn that?” I asked.

“My dad.”

I handed him the cup and he took a thirsty swig. He refilled it. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

“I'm not as interesting as you think I am” he said, like he was reading my mind.

“Are you kidding? Paris, New York, Bulgaria?”

“It wasn't like you think. A lot of my life has been hard times. After my uncle and I moved to New York he got deported back to Bulgaria and I should have been too but there was no way I was going. My family left Bulgaria for Paris when I was three. I couldn't even speak the language. I couldn't go back there. After my uncle left I took off. I became a street kid for a while. I even spent some time in Crossroads.”

“What's Crossroads?”

“It's a place for juvenile delinquents in New York. I got caught stealing stuff, just small stuff: electronics, CDs, things I could sell so I could eat. They put me in a foster home but I took off again. I lived like an animal.”

“That sounds terrible,” I said. I pictured him darting furtively around the streets of New York City, staying one step ahead of the law.

He offered me the cup again and I shook my head. “Better not.”

“How long have you been on your meds?”

“Forever, seems like.” I stared out the windshield. “They make me feel like I'm not here,” I said, turning to face him. “Do you know that I haven't even cried since Lucky died? Not one single tear.”

“It's okay,” he said. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to him. He felt warm and strong and I didn't want him to let me go. He pulled away first.

Fin dropped me at home. I kissed him on the cheek and he said he would call me soon. I lay awake all night thinking about him: the way he looked at me, the way he smelled, the way he knew how I felt. When I finally fell asleep I dreamt of Lucky, but this dream was different from the others. In this dream something was pulling him down through the dark water, away from me. I tried to swim after him but I was pathetically slow. I woke up exhausted. All day at work I'd been replaying my night with Fin.

I was about to go back to the kitchen to check on my tarts when I heard a car approaching from the other direction and turned my head out of small-town habit to see who was coming up the road. I recognized Fin's red truck and my heart leapt. He turned into the lane just before the Inn. Jeff and Miles live on that lane. His window was rolled down and I could see that he was having an animated conversation with his passenger. He was so preoccupied that he didn't even glance over at the Inn or the porch where I was sitting in plain view. Then I recognized the person in the passenger seat. It was Sonia. She was listening to something Fin was saying and though she was far away, I thought she looked upset. I wondered how they came to be driving down the road together. Had she climbed right in beside him just like I had? I pulled my cell phone out of my apron and dialed her cell number. Her voice came on the line:
Hi, you've reached Sonia. Leave a message and I'll call you back.

I clicked my phone off.