Lucky(44)

After a bit more fire and brimstone, Priscilla’s sermon was over. She then moved from table to table, chatting with everyone.

“I’m really tired,” Lucky said to Janet. “Think I’m just going to turn in early.” She smiled, apologetic, and stood.

“You’ll miss meeting Priscilla,” Janet said.

“Not tonight,” Lucky said. “I’m just… not up for it.” Lucky bused her plate and headed for the back door. She could hear the front door of the house opening and Sharon crooning, to Priscilla’s dog, she presumed. Just before she made it outside, someone touched her arm.

“We haven’t formally met yet. Do you have to rush off, or could you come up to my apartment for a cup of tea?”

Lucky turned and forced herself to meet Priscilla’s penetrating gaze, her deep-brown eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Well, of course, that would be—”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence. A large bundle of brown and white fur streaked into the room, Sharon following close behind, shouting. The dog jumped up on Lucky, barking joyfully and wagging her tail.

“Down, girl,” Lucky said, and the dog obeyed. Of course she did. She was Lucky’s dog.





September 1999

SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA



In late September, Lucky returned from school to Priscilla’s mansion—a place she was having trouble considering home—to find Cary waiting in the entryway, holding a short electric-blue cocktail dress on a hanger. The place was immaculate, the pool cleaned and glimmering, the backyard pergola strung with fairy lights. There were buckets of champagne on the countertops.

“They’re coming over. We’re having a party. For your birthday. You need to go change.”

“But it’s not my—”

He planted a kiss on her lips and took her book bag from her arms, dropping it to the floor. “Yes, it is. You’re turning nineteen. In Canada, where I’m from, remember—my name is Jonas Weston, and you’re still Alaina, but Parkes—you’d be of legal drinking age. And you’re a real party girl.” He shook the dress. “So, we’re celebrating with my new friends from school. You’re going to love them.” He laughed. “Okay, fine, you’re going to barely tolerate them, the way I do. They’re okay—a little boring and repetitive, but extremely generous and incredibly careless. And that’s important for us.”

“Remind me of the rest of the details?” This game was familiar to Lucky, but she still felt nervous.

“I’m a softwood lumber heir, but I’ve had a tiff with my parents. They don’t like that I’ve taken off to Cali to go to school for something other than business—I’m taking liberal arts, of course—and live with my girlfriend. Your parents are dead. Plane crash.” He cleared his throat and looked away, fiddling with a champagne bottle. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I know I’ve used that one on you. But it’s a good one.”

Betty came running into the kitchen and jumped up on Lucky, barking her greeting, wagging her tail. She was no longer the scrawny, malnourished pup Cary had presented her with on the dock: her glossy brown coat was now shot through with white hairs, which made her fur look reddish. She was growing fast, turning lithe, wolflike. She was a good-natured dog for the most part, but was protective of Lucky—even barking and snarling at Cary on the rare occasions when they argued. Now she had a blue bow tied to her collar. It matched Lucky’s dress, and Betty’s eyes.

“Come on, go put the dress on,” Cary said. “This is going to be fun.”

Upstairs, Lucky changed and put her hair up—but it was already falling down her back by the time she descended the stairs. Their first guests had arrived: Aaron and Magnolia, a couple who double-air-kissed as they came through the door, followed by two more guests, Hugh and Will. Will had a box of cigars in hand. “For later, my friend,” he said to Cary with a wink—while Lucky marveled at how quickly her boyfriend had managed to insinuate himself into an inner circle. “Unless your lady likes to partake.”

Lucky smiled. “Cigars aren’t my thing. Champagne, however—” There was a bottle waiting on the side table. She grabbed it and popped it open, grateful Cary had shown her how a few days before. She had never opened champagne, had never pretended to be the kind of person she was pretending to be now.

“I like her,” Hugh said as they trooped into the kitchen.

“She’s the best,” Cary said, putting his hand on the small of her back and propelling her forward, kissing her ear, and whispering, “Good job.”

“Ah, the famous Alaina,” Magnolia cooed. “Jonas talks about you endlessly. Says you’re a genius.” She had raven-black hair and bright blue eyes, and was wearing a butter-hued silk dress that draped effortlessly over her perfect body. Lucky’s hair was too frizzy and her dress felt cheap—even though she had left the tags on, afraid to take them off because of the price; now they were scratching at her side—but, “You are absolutely gorgeous,” Magnolia said, grabbing her hand once they each had a glass of champagne. “Come on, show me the pool. And is this your dog? Adorable. She must be a shepsky, right? I have a cousin who breeds those on a farm in the Black Forest.”