Fortune (20 page)

Chicago, Illinois,
1996

F
or Chance, it had been love at first sight. He had taken one look at the Chicago skyline and he had known, instinctively and in his gut, that this was the kind of town where anything could happen, where a boy with nothing but street smarts and determination could make something of himself. It was an accepting city, a midwestern city that still believed in the old-fashioned work ethic and offered the hungry a version, Chance's version, of the American dream.

Chicago didn't put on airs. She wasn't pretentious like Los Angeles, not manic like New York or tied to convention like Boston or Philadelphia. She sprawled, a not always graceful mix of the old and the new, the super rich and the utterly poor, the energy of youth and the wisdom of age. It was a city of contrasts and homogenization, both reflected in her architecture, her neighborhoods, her people.

In the arms of this city Chance had felt alive and exhilarated. He'd felt unstoppable. Here, his past had fallen away from him and the future had opened before him.

Chance had spent his first days in Chicago exploring. He loved the way the shore of Lake Michigan rippled along the edge of the city and the way the Chicago River cut through her heart, like an arrow shot from Cupid's bow. He rode the El, browsed through the retail empires that lined the Magnificent Mile and visited the office towers that held seat to Fortune 500 companies like Sears and Amoco. And when he visited those places, he made his wishes, his plans. He promised himself
someday.

Within a week, Chance's first infatuation had become a deep, abiding certainty that in Chicago, if he worked hard enough, believed in himself enough, he really would make his dreams come true, he really could become anyone he wanted to be.

And he wanted to be one of those who held the money and wielded the power, one of those to whom all the right doors were open.

He began setting about making those dreams come true. The first order of business was finding a permanent place to live, the second, a job. He hadn't bothered applying for corporate positions he'd had no possibility of getting; and he'd had no desire to be stuck in some basement mail room where the only people he would encounter were others like himself. Nor was he so foolish as to think he could work his way up from there. Not in this lifetime, anyway.

He wanted to move up fast. He wanted to rub shoulders with the beautiful, the wealthy and educated. So he applied for a job as a doorman at the Ritz Carlton hotel.

There, he watched the wealthy. He noted the way they dressed and what they ate. He noted their labels, their manner of speech, the things they said to one another, verbally and with body language. He studied, he memorized. And at night he practiced what he'd learned, mirroring mannerisms, patterns of speech, facial expressions. On his days off, he shopped, though he rarely bought. He studied the merchandise that made these people
look
their part; he tried garments on, learning what worked on him and what worked together, learning where he could cut corners without anyone noticing.

When he had learned all he needed there, he left the Ritz, moving on to the Palm Court, a fashionable restaurant in the heart of the business district. He studied the executives, the CEOs and the up-and-coming movers and shakers. He learned what they ate and drank and wore; he developed the ability to read who the most important man at the table was and why.

He eavesdropped shamelessly. He learned the fine art of the deal while serving prime rib and grilled tuna with beurre blanc.

His quest became a kind of game, a competition with himself.

A competition he was determined not to lose.

Chance began grooming himself for success. Literally. He figured two things: to get a shot he had to look the part, and he wouldn't actually have to prove himself until the shot had come his way. Until then, all he needed was image and a good, very good, line of bullshit.

He enrolled in night classes at the University of Chicago. It seemed to Chance, from watching and listening, that everybody had something to sell—even if only themselves—something or someone they needed marketed or promoted. So, he signed up for every marketing, advertising and business class the university would let him take.

Chance realized quickly that he had a gift for understanding the mass market and for knowing what people wanted. He found that he understood not only how the system worked but how to make it work for him.

His professors described him as one of the best bullshitters they had ever had the pleasure to try to instruct. His fellow students either liked him a lot—or they despised him—for that same quality.

Inside two years after going back to school, Chance landed his first agency job. Within five years of that, he had worked his way up the corporate ladder, not stopping until he was named vice president of public relations and special events for Adams and Sloane.

Now, twelve years to the day since looking at the Chicago skyline and knowing that his future had finally begun, Chance was celebrating his first day as president and CEO of McCord Public Relations and Special Events.

Nothing could stop him now.

Life was good.

Leaning back in his all-leather armchair—an extravagance his fledgling company couldn't afford but one he had indulged in, anyway—he brought his flute of champagne to his lips. He had his strategy mapped out. Tomorrow he would begin making cold calls; he would muscle or charm or finesse his way past receptionists and flunky assistants and into the seats of money and power. Once there, he would convince those powers to hire him.

Chance smiled to himself. He would call on every damn business in Chicago if he had to, he would call on them again and again, until someone gave him a shot. Until someone opened the magic door.

With a laugh of pure triumph, he held up his glass in a salute to the future. His plans began tomorrow. Today he would allow himself to bask in the pleasure of his achievement.

He swiveled his chair to face the window behind his desk. The sky was a perfect robin's-egg blue, the clouds fluffy and white. As he gazed at them, he thought of Skye. He often did, though he didn't regret what he had done. He had missed her, but he hadn't looked back, hadn't second-guessed his decision to leave her with Sarah and Michael Forrest. It had been the best for them both.

He wished he had been able to say goodbye. That hurt. It had bothered him. It still did.

Had she forgiven him? Was she happy? He had wondered both countless times over the years. Though he hadn't wondered if she was well. He knew she was. Somehow, in his gut. Skye was a survivor. They had always had that in common.

Once again, he lifted his glass in a salute. But this time to Skye, wherever she was.

Rhode Island School of Design,
1996

“S
kye! Wait!”

Skye stopped and turned. One of her fellow grad students, a woman named Roxy, hurried across the parking lot toward her. Skye lifted a hand in greeting and waited, though she was anxious to go.

Roxy reached her, slightly out of breath. “I just heard!” she said. “Way to go, girl. God, I'd kill to get into a show at the MOMA.”

Skye hugged her books to her chest and smiled. She had received the news today that several of her pieces, including a rather experimental brooch, had been accepted into the Museum of Modern Art's prestigious Decorative Arts exhibit. Jewelry designers from all over the world had submitted pieces for possible inclusion in the show. Only a handful had been accepted, hers among them.

“I was pretty much blown away,” Skye murmured. “Wildest-dreams stuff.”

“You're going places.” Roxy fumbled in her coat pocket for her pack of cigarettes. She found it and swore when she saw it was empty. She crumpled the pack and stuffed it back into her pocket. “A few of us are going out tonight. Come with us. To celebrate.”

Skye shook her head. “Thanks, really, but I can't.”

“Come on. It's Friday, for heaven's sake. You deserve a night out.”

“I can't. Really. I have plans.” Skye took a step backward, working to look apologetic. “Thanks anyway, though.”

“Plans?” Roxy made a face. “With your studio and that big Moo mutt of yours, I'll bet.”

“Guilty.” Skye smiled. “And that's ‘Mr. Moo Mutt' to you.”

“You know what they say about all work and no play. You're going to turn into a very dull girl.”

“Boring can be good, Rox. Believe me, adventure isn't all its cracked up to be.” She took another step backward. “See you Monday.”

Skye turned and walked away, aware of the other woman's speculative gaze on her back. Skye knew what the other grads said about her: that she was a snob, that she thought she was too good for them. They thought she was cold, unfriendly, serious to a fault.

None of those things were true, at least not in her estimation. She preferred to think of herself as focused, determined, motivated. She had worked damn hard to get here—so she could learn. Not to party, not to make friends. And certainly not to hop from one bed to another, in search of a nineties HIV-free version of Mr. Goodbar, which several of her fellow grads—and a couple of her professors—had seemed to think when they'd put the rush on her.

Instead of socializing, she buried herself in her creations and in the absolute wonder of this opportunity. If she had realized anything from her past, it was never to take anything—not people, situations or things—for granted. You could wake up one day, any day, and they would be gone.

So, she took the maximum number of hours her faculty adviser would allow her, absorbing as much as she humanly could. Her load left her little time for friends or partying. She would rather spend her time with her art and Mr. Moo, anyway.

Skye climbed into her Hyundai, tossed her books into the back and started for home, stopping on the way to pick up her favorite Thai chicken and a bottle of wine. As Roxy had said, she should celebrate.

MOMA. She had made it into the MOMA.
She shook her head, almost unable to believe it had really happened. For an artist, the Museum of Modern Art in New York was
It.
The best, the pinnacle; if she did nothing else in her life, she could still say her work had been shown at
the
Museum of Modern Art.

But she would do more, much more. Her inclusion in this important exhibit was only the beginning.

Home at last, Skye climbed the stairs to her third-story apartment, deposited her books, purse, packages and the mail beside the door, then retrieved her keys from her coat pocket and unlocked the door. Bracing herself, she swung it open.

As she did, Mr. Moo—so named because he was black and white and as big and clumsy as a cow—came bounding around the corner from the kitchen, charging toward her, one hundred and ten pounds of pure, unbridled joy. He launched himself at her—a habit she had not been able to break him of—though, in truth, she hadn't put that much effort into it—his front paws hitting her chest, knocking her backward several steps. He kissed her, not caring at all that he was sending slobber flying in all directions, then dropped to all fours and raced around her in dizzying circles.

Laughing, she dropped to her knees and hugged him. “I'm happy to see you, too, buddy. How about a walk?”

He barked twice, and she pointed toward the kitchen. “Go get your leash. Go on, get it.”

He turned and bounded for the kitchen. Smiling to herself, she collected her things and followed. She and Moo had a lot in common. She had found him as a puppy, abandoned at the side of the road. She had taken him in, and he had been grateful. He loved her completely. But not as much, she often thought, as she loved him.

He was her best friend.

He was waiting in the kitchen for her, leash dangling from both sides of his mouth. She shook her head, amused at the way he stood there gazing at her with that hurry-up look in his eyes, his whole backside swinging with each wag of his tail.

“All right, all right. I'm hurrying.” She dumped her stuff on the table, attached it to his collar and let him lead her outside.

Thirty minutes later, after Moo had taken her for an anything but leisurely walk, she fixed herself a plate of the Thai and a glass of wine, and sat with Moo on the floor in front of the couch. As she ate, she fed him bits of her meal and chatted with him about the events of the day.

“We'll have to call Sarah,” she said to the dog, sipping her wine and feeling totally relaxed and deliciously satisfied. “To tell her about the show. She'll be tickled.”

Skye rested her head against the sofa, smiling. The truth was, Sarah would be thrilled and proud.

Skye owed Sarah so much. It had been Sarah who had introduced her to jewelry making, Sarah who had convinced her she had talent and had encouraged her to use it. It had been Sarah, too, who had gotten her back into school, using her connections to get her into the local high school without a birth certificate, Sarah who had helped her secure the scholarship to the Rhode Island School of Design.

And it had been Sarah who had helped her through her devastation after Chance left her; Sarah who had showed her a reason to live, who had given her the
will
to live—by sharing her art with Skye, by allowing Skye to immerse herself in it, by showing Skye how to draw energy from it.

Without Sarah, she might not have made it. Without Sarah, Skye wasn't sure she wouldn't have simply curled up and died.

Skye wished she could love the other woman. She wished she could think of her as a mother, for she knew Sarah longed to be loved that way. For
Skye
to love her that way.

Skye believed she owed Sarah that.

So she had tried, tried as hard as she could. But she simply couldn't. Skye had seen, had experienced firsthand, what happened when you loved people. They let you down. They left you. No matter how much they promised they wouldn't.

They broke your heart.

And when they did, it hurt too much. She couldn't bear it again, she knew she couldn't. Twice had almost done her in.

Skye pushed away her plate and refilled her wineglass. She cupped the red wine bowl in her palms and brought it to her lips. The wine was warm and sturdy, with just a bit of a bite. She sipped, enjoying the flavor and the slightly numbing effect it was having on her senses. She knew she should stop now, before slightly numb became downright stupid, but it was Friday night and she had nowhere to go and no one to be with. So she would indulge herself tonight and pay the price tomorrow.

In life, it seemed, everything came with a price.

She set down the glass and turned to Moo. “Ready for dessert?” He barked, and she cracked open his fortune cookie. “Hmm, it says here you're on your way to fame and fortune. Cool, Moo. Can I come?” She fed him half the cookie, which he wolfed down, then the second half, which he also inhaled. Then she cracked open her own cookie.

 

Be careful what you wish for…

It just might come true.

 

Skye gazed at the fortune, amused. A warning? A fortune cookie with a warning inside? She shook her head. Moo got fame and fortune, and she got a warning? What was wrong with this picture?

She fed Moo her cookie, then sat back, studying the fortune, thinking about her wishes, her many wishes.

“Let's see,” she murmured, going to the easiest, the most obvious first. She wished to be rich and famous, a designer everyone was talking about. She wished to be mentioned one day in the same breath with the likes of Paloma Picasso, Angela Cummings and Dorothy Monarch.

But she wasn't about to stop there. If she was wishing, she wanted it all, starting, she supposed, with the biggest—true love with the perfect man.

Skye laughed to herself, imagining him. He would be gorgeous, of course. Rich and successful, with a family who adored her.

But most important, he would love her almost beyond reason, so much, so completely, he would never leave her. Never. So much that she wouldn't be afraid to love him back. She wouldn't be afraid to give him everything—her heart and soul, her very life.

Skye brought her wine to her lips and sipped, growing dizzy as she imagined her perfect man, as she imagined how good it would feel to be loved that way. How good it would feel never to have to be alone again.

Her smile slipped as suddenly her head filled with thoughts of her mother. And Chance. And the secrets locked tight inside her.

Mr. Moo nuzzled up against her, his nose cold and wet. She turned her face to his, longing to block out the thoughts but knowing she could not. Her wishes, it seemed, past or present, sweet or bitter, all mixed together to make a big, hollow place inside her. A place that ached from wanting so badly for so long.

Skye gave in. Silly as it was after all this time, she wished to be reunited with her mother. And when that happened, she would learn it had all been a mistake, that a terrible twist of fate had separated them, that all these years her mother had been hunting for her, desperate to find her, heartbroken.

She would learn that her mother had loved her, after all.

Eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed, Skye shifted her thoughts to Chance. She had cried buckets of tears over him and her mother; she had left those tears behind long ago. She lifted her glass in a mock salute. She wished to see Chance again, but only to make him regret having hurt her, only to make him pay for having broken her heart. She wished that he would realize that all his dreams meant nothing compared to having lost her.

The wine tasted bitter suddenly, and Skye set it aside, regretting ever having started this ridiculous wish-inventory but wanting to finish it, anyway. Wanting to put it behind her, once and for all.

She shut her eyes and completed her list, wishing that someone or something would unlock the door to her past so she would know, finally, the secret of those first years of her life, the years, the things, her mother had never told her.

Because then, Skye was certain, she would at last feel whole.

Skye reopened her eyes and found herself staring at the fortune. She reread its silly warning, the beginnings of a headache pressing at the back of her eyes. How could her wishes be bad? she wondered, anger taking her breath. Why should they come with a warning?

She crumpled the bit of paper, stuffed it into her cardigan pocket and stood. If all of her wishes came true, she wouldn't care what happened to her.

She would be too busy being the happiest person alive.