“How many children do you have?”
“Two. A girl and a boy. Four and five.” At this lie, Lucky’s voice wobbled—and her hand rose instinctively to her stomach, the way it often had during the two-month period in Boise when she had been pregnant with Cary’s baby. She tried not to think of this time, of the loss. But in pretending to be a mother now, she had opened that wound. She fought to smile again.
“How lovely. A million-dollar family. I have a son, but we’re hoping for another child.”
“Yes, well.” Lucky turned away from the window, composed herself. “I’m thinking of having a third, but my mom would probably move out on me if I did, and I sort of count on her for help with the kids.”
“Oh, that would be amazing,” Stephanie said. “My mom still works, so she can’t help with my son during the day—but she does babysit for me when my husband is working, like tonight.”
Lucky wished she could ask why Darla was still working. They’d had so much money, before. But as she remembered the house, the car, from days gone by, she realized it wasn’t enough to sustain anyone for a lifetime. Especially after some con made a serious dent in your bank account on his way out of town.
Lucky cleared her throat. “How many bedrooms did you say there were?”
“Three, plus an office. Here, let me show you.” Stephanie led Lucky down the hall to a bedroom painted a dark blue with electric-green accents and football pennants on the walls.
“My son would love this,” Lucky said, the pain from earlier now receded, her focus back on the story she was weaving about herself. “He’s a huge Seahawks fan.”
In Stephanie’s grin, Lucky saw the girl she had known. “I tried to convince the owners to paint out this dark color, but they wouldn’t do it. They said it would just be a matter of finding the right buyer.”
“Can I see the master?”
As Stephanie walked ahead, she talked about the brand-new Berber carpeting, the hardwood in the bedrooms, the wall sconces. Lucky could tell she was getting excited, thinking she had found the perfect buyer for this house. Enough was enough. Lucky had nothing for her—not yet.
“Listen,” Lucky said. “This is a great house—but I just realized, I have to go. It’s getting late, and I have to pick the kids up from a friend’s place because my mom is at swim class. I got so sidetracked, seeing this house, the sign saying it was for sale when I’d always admired it. It’s perfect for my family. You’re right, it feels like kismet. And I want to see it again, but right now… I can’t stay.”
“Kismet?” Stephanie cocked her head. “I don’t remember using that word.”
Lucky was backing out of the room. “I’ll call you. I’ll bring my husband and the kids to look at it. I’ll see you again soon, thank you for your time, bye.”
January 1999
SAUSALITO, CALIFORNIA
The year Lucky turned seventeen, her father won a “houseboat” in a New Year’s Eve poker game in Palm Springs. When Lucky and her father arrived in Sausalito, where the boat was docked, they learned it was a decades-old thirty-five-foot Catalina live-aboard sailboat and not much of a prize: it wasn’t seaworthy.
“But at least it’s a roof over our heads,” John said, climbing down the steps and putting his rucksack on the kitchen table belowdecks in the tiny living space. There was a bench on one side of the table and behind it was a shelf. A lantern-like chandelier hung above the table; a rusted icebox was tucked beneath the bench. There was a tiny sink, but it didn’t work. There were a hot plate and a kettle, too. The bedroom consisted of a cabin belowdecks with leaky porthole windows and two long cushioned benches; mildew crept up from the cushion seams.
Lucky’s heart sank a little as she looked around. It wasn’t just that it was dingy. There was no privacy here, and as she inched closer to adulthood, she was craving it.
“Did you leave the corkscrew at home?” she heard someone shout a few boats over.
Home. Her father went out to the deck; she opened her backpack and began lining the shelf in the kitchen with her books. She put the last one on the shelf and reached deeper into the bag. Her father poked his head in the door and she zipped the backpack shut, fast. “Sun’s setting,” he said. “It’s really pretty. A little chilly, though. Grab a sweater.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” She put the backpack on one of the beds but didn’t unpack anything else.
When she stepped outside, he turned to her. “Hey, kiddo? You can have the room to yourself. I’ll just sleep on the kitchen bench, or out on deck when it gets warmer. You’re a young woman. I know you need a little privacy.”
“It’s okay,” Lucky said.
“No, it isn’t. Let me do this for you.”
“Dad, it’s okay.”
He said nothing more, just looked out at the San Francisco Bay. “Maybe this could be it,” he eventually said. The water was silver now, the sky above it a moody blue, streaked with garish pink. Houseboats lined the bay, hulking together in colorful clusters. Lucky looked down into the waves lapping against the side of the boat and thought she saw a sea lion swim by, grinning at her for a slip of a moment before diving down. She smelled grilled meat, and heard quiet laughter a few boats down. Maybe this could be it…
“It’s not exactly the dream house I always promised you. But it’s nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s very nice, Dad.”
A sailboat edged past them and docked. She heard a child call out, “Mom!”