Lucky (28 page)

‘Yeh. Why not?’

‘Because I never lied to Gino, and I’m not going to start with you. You’ll have a good night’s sleep and tomorrow you’ll look as beautiful as ever.’

‘I didn’t book a hotel.’

‘I should hope not. You’re staying with me.’

They walked toward a Chrysler saloon, followed by a porter with Lucky’s three suitcases. She planned to have the rest of her things sent directly to the East Hampton house.

Happily she tucked her arm through his. ‘I was hoping you’d say that. I think I’ve had enough of hotels to last me forever. Staying with you will be wonderful.’

He glanced at her shrewdly but said nothing. There was time to talk and find out what was bothering her. He had always loved Lucky as if she was his own daughter, and anything she wanted she could have. Even if it was only his time.

‘You’re comin’ to L.A. with me,’ Lennie said firmly.

Jess thought of all the reasons she couldn’t.

There weren’t any.

‘I’m going to L.A. with Lennie,’ she told Matt.

He didn’t believe her. He was crushed. Making plans had kept him so busy he had forgotten to tell her about their future together. He wanted to look after her, provide for her, even
marry
her.

‘You can’t do that,’ he stuttered.

‘It’s the only thing I
can
do,’ she replied wanly. ‘I’ve had it in Vegas. Too many memories. Lennie was right, I have to get out of here.’

‘No, you don’t,’ he protested.

‘Yes, I do.’

He wanted to tell her how he felt. Say all the right things, and by doing so, convince her she had to stay. But expressing himself, revealing his true feelings, was not an easy task for a man like Matt. He just didn’t know how to begin.

‘What’ll you do in L.A.?’ he asked blankly.

She shrugged. ‘I’ll make out.’

He was sure she would. Girls like Jess were a rarity. She was pretty and smart and vulnerable and wise. Some guy would grab her like picking peaches. Some schmuck. While he, Matt Traynor, that well-known man-about-town, couldn’t even find the words to make her stay.

‘Keep in touch,’ he said gruffly.

‘Sure,’ she mumbled.

But he knew she wouldn’t.

Being with Uncle Costa was almost as good as the last year with Gino . . . the year before Susan Martino had entered their lives.

Lucky talked to him long into the night. All her fears and frustrations, hopes and ambitions came tumbling out. He listened patiently, never interrupting, never criticizing.

‘I love Gino so much,’ she concluded fiercely, as the dawn light began to creep into the cosy living room of the oceanside apartment. ‘But I hate him too.’ She ran a hand through her unruly black curls, a gesture which immediately reminded Costa of Gino. ‘He can be so . . . so . . . stupid!’ She jumped up and paced around the room. ‘Susan Martino is not his kind of woman. She’s just a plastic, groomed-to-the-eyeballs, ladylike bitch, who’s going to grab his money and make his life miserable. Any fool can see it. Why can’t
he
?’

‘Lucky,’ Costa said, choosing his words carefully. ‘Gino is just like you. He knows what he wants and he always gets it. If he decides to marry this Martino woman he will do so. Nothing you or I do or say will make the least bit of difference.’

‘I know
that.
’

‘Besides, maybe you’re wrong about her. Perhaps she will be good for him.’ He gave a long drawn-out sigh. ‘A man needs the company of a woman. It is not good to be alone.’

‘He wasn’t alone,’ Lucky blazed. ‘He had me.’

‘Did you share his bed at night?’ Costa asked mildly.

‘He could get laid any time he wanted,’ Lucky replied defiantly.

‘And did it ever enter your head that a man of his age might need more than just a one-night adventure? When you get old, Lucky, companionship is what really matters. Someone who cares about you.’

‘You’re
alone.
You’re
happy.’

‘If I could find the right woman I would marry her in a minute.’

‘Shit,’ Lucky muttered. She wasn’t winning any wars.

‘Accept it,’ Costa said. ‘You’re doing the right thing by moving to New York. Now you can look around and do what
you
want – break the tie between yourself and Gino. Everything you’ve ever done has been for his approval. The time has come to live your life for
you.
’

*   *   *

Lucky stayed in Miami for three days. The weather was nice, the life style simple, and Uncle Costa an interesting and wise companion.

She flew into New York early on Saturday morning to find it was raining, hostile and alive. The streets were crowded with people. Oh God! How she had missed the pace of the city. Immediately she felt great. There was a sense of excitement in the air. New York was a challenge. Costa was right, she had to start living her own life. If she didn’t, she would regret it.

She checked into the Pierre Hotel and wondered how she was supposed to start.

There were a couple of messages waiting for her. One from Costa just to be sure she had arrived safely, and another from Dr Liz Turney. What the hell did she want?

Lucky felt a tingle of apprehension. All those stupid tests Liz had insisted on running . . . Maybe there was something wrong with her. Oh shit. She
had
been feeling tired.

Convinced she had some terrible ailment she returned the call.

Liz Turney was cheerful and to the point. ‘Lucky,’ she announced crisply, ‘I’m delighted to tell you that you’re going to have to slow down.’

‘Why?’ Lucky demanded suspiciously.

‘Because, my dear, you are pregnant.’

*

Carrie Berkeley anticipated her sixty-seventh birthday with mixed feelings. On one hand she looked great. Slim, athletic, her taut black skin hardly marked by the harsh march of time, her short dark hair cut in the latest style with only a sprinkling of silver streaks.

On the other hand, there was no escaping the fact that sixty-seven was sixty-seven, and
that
was getting up there. Dare she even think about it . . . that was definitely
old
.

Carrie shuddered at the very thought as she hurried around her Fire Island house straightening cushions and moving her collection of Art Deco silver frames to different positions.

The house was lovely. Comfortable and tasteful, a true reflection of her personal style. Every few months the editors of
Vogue
or
Harpers
would phone begging yet again for a chance to photograph her at home. ‘Absolutely not,’ she would say firmly. ‘I no longer wish to be in the public eye.’

And she meant what she said. Three years previously she had divorced her husband, prominent businessman and theatre owner Elliott Berkeley. And by doing so had given up all the trappings of being a rich man’s socialite wife. The beautiful Mrs Elliott Berkeley, perfect hostess, perfect fashion-plate, perfect perfect perfect.

Oh, if they only knew the truth . . .

Carrie Jones, thirteen-year-old prostitute. Set on the streets by her grandma and uncle. Sent to Welfare Island. Hooked up with a pimp named Whitejack who fed her drugs while she plied her trade. At fifteen she was in a mental institution, out of her mind, and completely alone in the world. Nobody cared if she lived or died.

She stayed locked up for nine long anguished years. And then came the jobs . . . everything from working as a maid to a dime-a-dance girl. Until she found herself pregnant and realized the only way to make enough money to survive with the baby was to return to the life she knew so well . . .

A whorehouse was better than working the streets.

A whorehouse meant her baby son, Steven, had a home, clean clothes, and a girl to look after him.

A whorehouse was her life, until dear sweet Bernard Dimes rescued her and four-year-old Steven.

She would always be grateful to Bernard . . . always love him . . . Even though he had been dead twenty-five years.

Bernard had introduced her to a different world. He was an elegant man with money and class. He was also a successful theatrical producer. When he married Carrie his friends and acquaintances were shocked. Who was she? Where had she come from? And how could he marry a
black
woman?

It was Bernard’s private joke – his boldest production yet – that he invented a background for Carrie which suddenly made her acceptable in their prejudiced eyes. According to Bernard’s story she was a beautiful African princess whom he had met on safari in Kenya and lured back to America with her baby son to marry him.

What an outrageous lie. Only someone like Bernard could carry it off.

Carrie lived the charade because it amused him. And by living it she became it – and was soon embraced by the media. Even her son, Steven, never knew the truth until 1977, when she was forced to reveal everything.

She had shattered his world, his security, his heritage. Disoriented and angry he had given up his job as a respected public prosecutor and left America for Europe where he wandered around for two years, finally returning at the end of 1979. He visited her once then to tell her that he understood. But she knew he didn’t mean it. He was cold and distant. She hadn’t heard from him since.

And then he had called her unexpectedly two days ago. ‘I have to see you,’ he’d announced.

And soon he would be there.

*   *   *

Steven Berkeley drove a black Porsche. It wasn’t his. It belonged to his friend, Jerry Myerson, who had loaned it to him for the day. Jerry was one of New York’s most successful lawyers. He deserved a Porsche if that’s what turned him on. Frankly, Steven considered paying fifty thousand bucks for a car ridiculous. But he had to admit, it
was
fun to drive.

He played with the accelerator, secretly pleased with the surge of power the pressure produced.

Jerry Myerson was a good friend. They had attended high school, college and law school together. Jerry had officiated as best man at his 1966 wedding to an unsuitable dancer named Zizi. Bad news Zizi. Five feet two of dynamic trouble every inch of the way. He had stayed married to her for five years. The divorce was a relief. Carrie had always hated her.

Carrie.

His mother.

For a moment he felt the familiar surge of rejection and anger. Feelings he had hoped to conquer by now. Ever since she had told him . . . revealed herself . . .

All his life he had believed he had been born in Africa, that his father was dead, and that Carrie had brought him to America as a baby.

The truth was a shock.

Born in America. Brought up in a brothel. And his father could be either of two men – both of them white.

He had forced their names out of her. One of them a brief one-night affair. The other a rape. Forty-one years ago he had been conceived, and Carrie couldn’t tell him which one was his father. But he had to know. Then he could get on with his life.

Automatically his foot pressed down hard and his mouth tightened into a grim line. Steven was undeniably handsome. Over six feet tall with the body of an athlete, very direct green eyes, black curly hair, and skin the colour of rich milk chocolate. Age suited him. As each year passed he seemed to get better looking. Once he had been one of the hottest Assistant D.A.s in New York. A steely prosecutor, with an incorruptible reputation. But Carrie’s revelations had thrown him off track, and for the last three years he had bummed around Europe, taking transient jobs, and trying to come to terms with the reality of his beginnings.

Carrie had brought him up believing in a dream. When she shattered it, she broke his life in two. It was taking time to put it back together again.

Now, finally, as he drove toward Fire Island, he knew what he had to do. Three years ago she had given him two names, Freddy Lester and Gino Santangelo. One of them was his father. And whether she liked it or not, she was going to help him discover which one.

The hot sun burned into Lucky’s body as she stretched out on a mat, beside a sea-water swimming pool shaped like a grotto. She wore only the bottom half of a minuscule bikini, and her skin glowed with oily bronzeness. Her jet hair was plaited into one thick roll, and a Sony Walkman rested beside her, the earphones firmly in place. She listened to the soulful sounds of Bobby Womack, a long-time favourite. And his voice enveloped her, leaving no room for thought as she lost herself to ‘Inherit the Wind’. Only when the tape clicked off did she finally open her eyes.

It was a hot day. Blue skies, with little puffs of clouds so high they just drifted like decorations. A very slight breeze made the heat bearable.

Lucky stood up, stretched languorously, then dove into the pool. The water was cold, unheated. But invigorating and refreshing. Easily she began to do laps, cleaving the water with a stylish symmetry. She did not stop until the familiar white shoes of Dimitri appeared at the edge of the pool.