Lucky

“Dude, you throw the best parties. Doesn’t Jonas throw the best parties?” Aaron said. They were at Hugh’s; it was his birthday, and Cary had organized the whole thing: a Matrix-themed rave. Everyone was dressed in black leather and sunglasses; techno was blaring; the caterers had made “really good noodles” and “chicken tastes like everything” kebabs; there was a laser tag zone inside the house. “Guys, we have to make this happen,” Aaron said. “Jonas wants to open a club. We need financial backers!”

All their friends invested in the venture, which Cary said had to be taken slowly. First, he had to find the perfect location—which took ages, and got Lucky to the start of her final year of school. Then “Jonas” had to travel the globe looking for the right furniture, had to visit vineyards and distilleries all around Europe. Soon, everyone in San Francisco was talking about Jonas Weston’s new club—he’d decided to name it Lucky. But Cary was using hardly any of the investment money for the actual club, instead using some to pay for Lucky’s tuition and squirrelling the rest of it away.

“What do they care who I really am?” Cary said when Lucky continued to voice her fears. “They’re having the time of their lives. And the worst thing that’s going to happen? We’re going to disappear the day after you graduate, and there will be no club. They’ll realize they’ve been duped, and they’ll get over it in about five minutes. What they’re investing in this is chump change, not even enough for their parents to notice. This is just fun for them. You need to have some fun with it, too.”



* * *




The night Lucky graduated from SFU, in June 2003, Cary was sitting in the front row, holding a massive bouquet of red roses. There was an empty seat beside him at the beginning of the ceremony, but when Lucky moved across the stage to collect her diploma, Priscilla was sitting in it. Lucky faltered halfway but forced herself to keep moving.

“What is she doing here?” she hissed after the ceremony. Priscilla was off getting them drinks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Cary said, and he really did appear to be agitated. “I was so distracted by everything we’ve been doing, I stopped keeping track of her—but she’s out of prison and she just showed up at our house—and you were already gone, getting your cap and gown. I don’t know how she figured out where we were living.”

“Who did you tell Hugh she was?”

“No one was home. They’re all at the Stanford graduation. I didn’t have to tell anyone anything. But she told me a lot.”

“Like what?”

“Shhh. Here she comes.”

Priscilla handed around plastic cups of cheap sparkling wine. “Oh, please. Don’t shush each other, there’s nothing you can say I don’t already know. To answer the question you probably just asked about how I found you so fast, I had associates keeping an eye on you two while I was in prison. I’m impressed. One phone call, though, and I could blow your con to bits, tell all your friends you’ve been stealing from them before you get the chance to take off later tonight. Why did you wait, by the way?”

“Lucky wanted to get her diploma,” Cary said. “We weren’t going to be able to leave a forwarding address for it.”

“I suppose not. Well, anyway. Congratulations.” She tapped her plastic glass against Lucky’s. “You’ve done it. A business degree.”

Priscilla made it sound so small, this thing Lucky had been working toward for four years. But, she told herself, this piece of paper she now held in her hands was hers. It was her path to legitimacy—and Cary’s, too. He’d had some fun, but it was risky—and it was fake. With her, Cary was going to build a life that was actually sustainable. Alaina Cadence had no prior record with anyone. And she had a degree.

Priscilla drained her glass. “I’m here as a stand-in for your father,” she said to Lucky. “I promised him I’d share a toast. And he wanted me to give you a hug, although I doubt you’d allow that.”

“Why is my father even speaking to you?”

“I’m a rehabilitated woman. And part of my penance is apologizing to the people I’ve hurt. I’m trying to make it up to your father—and the only thing he wants is to know that you’re happy. Are you happy, Lucky?”

Lucky had been, about an hour earlier. She had been full of excitement about what the future held, but Priscilla’s presence was like a pin in her balloon.

Cary pulled her close. “Of course she’s happy,” he said. “We both are.”

Priscilla tossed her plastic cup in a nearby trash can. “Let’s go somewhere we can get a decent drink, at least. And have a proper talk.”

Cary sighed. “Don’t drag Lucky into this, Mother.”

“?‘Mother.’ Now, that’s a first.” But she was smiling.

He turned to Lucky. “You just head home and keep packing. I’ll have a drink and a talk with Mother here, and be there in a few hours.” As he kissed her cheek, he whispered in her ear, “I’ll pick up the rental car on my way home. We’ll leave as soon as I get back.”

Lucky took a taxi to the coach house, packed, and waited nervously for Cary to return. Betty was at her feet, watching the door anxiously, too. He didn’t pick up his cell phone when she called—and when he did finally return, around two o’clock in the morning, he was drunk, and Lucky was upset.

“Where’s the car?” Lucky asked him. “Aren’t we going?”

“Do I look like I’m in any state to drive?” He stumbled, landed on the love seat. “We can’t leave, okay? We have to stay around for the summer. I have to actually open that fucking club. Mother says so. There are some things I need to take care of for her, or—” It was dark, but she could see it in his eyes: fear. Then he closed them, leaned his head back against the cushions. “I have no choice. I’m sorry.” Soon, he was asleep. Lucky sat staring into the darkness, until Betty nudged her with her snout, reminding her she wasn’t alone.



* * *




It was Christmas Eve, and the club was empty except for Lucky and Cary. Lucky sat on a corner couch, wearing one of the short, tight dresses Cary had bought her so she would fit the role she was supposed to play while beside him at the club. She was helping him count the night’s cash.

“A great night,” he said, locking the cashbox and putting it in a bag. “And not just because we made some good money. It’s time for your Christmas present.” He pulled a card from behind his back.

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