find it. And obviously, I never gave it to you.”
“Obviously,” I said dryly, fingering the white satin bow, and then setting the box aside.
Ned shrugged and walked back to the desk to gather his files.
“You should open it. Whether or not you hate me.”
“I do,” I interrupted. “For the record.”
“Fine. Forget that I gave it to you. Whatever. I think you still might like it.”
After Ned left, I placed the box on my glass coffee table next to his relinquished set of keys, leaned my elbows on my thighs and put my face into my hands, and stared at it. The box. I stared at it for so long that eventually my eyes crossed, and I saw double. Two boxes.
Two reminders of what had left me behind. Two taunts, tempting me to open them. Finally, I blinked forcefully and snapped out of The Department of Lost & Found
55
the trance, and then I reached over, and in one graceful tug, pulled off the white ribbon.
I placed the box in my lap and lifted the lid. There, tucked inside a tiny, soft fabric pouch, lay a gold necklace. I drew the chain out of the bag, careful to avoid knots or snarls, and when I’d nearly lifted it clear out of the pouch, I saw that a charm weighted down the end like an anchor.
On our second-to-last day in the Vineyard, Ned convinced me to explore a deserted lot far down the beach. We must have walked two miles before we stumbled upon it. He lifted me over the fray-ing picket fence, and we found ourselves atop a grassy knoll that reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of the hills of England. We hiked for about fifteen minutes before I begged Ned to give my blistered feet a break, so he plopped down, offered me a sip of lem-onade from the cooler that we’d packed, and began plucking up grass. Not for any reason in particular, I think. But just as something to do to occupy his hands. He was about to toss another handful of blades into the wind when he noticed it.
“Nat, oh my God, check this out,” he said, leaning closer to show me. “A four-leaf clover. That must be a sign.”
I smiled and agreed with him that perhaps that was an omen, even though at that very moment, I’d been thinking of Jake.
As the charm now rested in my palm, I kind of understood what Ned meant. Why he’d rushed in and plunked down his Amex.
Why he’d been certain I would like it. Because when you’re on a sinking ship, you’ll cling to just about anything to keep you afloat.
I held the gold chain up above me and saw the beams of light from the window bounce off the four-leaf-clover charm. And then I walked into the bedroom and tucked it in my dresser drawer, 56
a l l i s o n w i n n s c o t c h
underneath my cashmere sweaters. True, it was from Ned, so maybe it was tainted. But stil , I thought, if anyone ever needed a harbinger of good luck, surely, right now, it is me .
i t s e e m e d a s if every morning, I awoke to more and worse news on the front page of the Post . In fact, the senator’s tax returns had even made the front page of the Times, which meant that we truly were in deep shit. So I paced my living room, my slippers flopping on my floor and practically ingraining tread marks around my couch, and I tried to Jedi mind trick my e-mail. “Go off,” I chanted and pressed my eyes closed, envisioning a new e-mail from Kyle in my in-box. “Go off,” I repeated as I looped the couch once again. I actually jumped when I heard the ping in my in-box not thirty seconds later. Maybe I do have ESP powers after all? I mused as I darted over to my computer.
From: Richardson, Kyle
To: Miller,
Natalie
Re:
The increasing problem of the returns
Hey Natalie,
Hope you’re feeling okay. Your constant e-mailing really isn’t helping: do keep in mind that I’m juggling your work load too, so despite my highly adept skills, I’m a little over-loaded and replying to you 24/7 isn’t doable. Are we clear?
Anyway, I know that you’re concerned about the headlines, and so am I. In fact, word is that
“Obviously,” I said dryly, fingering the white satin bow, and then setting the box aside.
Ned shrugged and walked back to the desk to gather his files.
“You should open it. Whether or not you hate me.”
“I do,” I interrupted. “For the record.”
“Fine. Forget that I gave it to you. Whatever. I think you still might like it.”
After Ned left, I placed the box on my glass coffee table next to his relinquished set of keys, leaned my elbows on my thighs and put my face into my hands, and stared at it. The box. I stared at it for so long that eventually my eyes crossed, and I saw double. Two boxes.
Two reminders of what had left me behind. Two taunts, tempting me to open them. Finally, I blinked forcefully and snapped out of The Department of Lost & Found
55
the trance, and then I reached over, and in one graceful tug, pulled off the white ribbon.
I placed the box in my lap and lifted the lid. There, tucked inside a tiny, soft fabric pouch, lay a gold necklace. I drew the chain out of the bag, careful to avoid knots or snarls, and when I’d nearly lifted it clear out of the pouch, I saw that a charm weighted down the end like an anchor.
On our second-to-last day in the Vineyard, Ned convinced me to explore a deserted lot far down the beach. We must have walked two miles before we stumbled upon it. He lifted me over the fray-ing picket fence, and we found ourselves atop a grassy knoll that reminded me of the pictures I’d seen of the hills of England. We hiked for about fifteen minutes before I begged Ned to give my blistered feet a break, so he plopped down, offered me a sip of lem-onade from the cooler that we’d packed, and began plucking up grass. Not for any reason in particular, I think. But just as something to do to occupy his hands. He was about to toss another handful of blades into the wind when he noticed it.
“Nat, oh my God, check this out,” he said, leaning closer to show me. “A four-leaf clover. That must be a sign.”
I smiled and agreed with him that perhaps that was an omen, even though at that very moment, I’d been thinking of Jake.
As the charm now rested in my palm, I kind of understood what Ned meant. Why he’d rushed in and plunked down his Amex.
Why he’d been certain I would like it. Because when you’re on a sinking ship, you’ll cling to just about anything to keep you afloat.
I held the gold chain up above me and saw the beams of light from the window bounce off the four-leaf-clover charm. And then I walked into the bedroom and tucked it in my dresser drawer, 56
a l l i s o n w i n n s c o t c h
underneath my cashmere sweaters. True, it was from Ned, so maybe it was tainted. But stil , I thought, if anyone ever needed a harbinger of good luck, surely, right now, it is me .
i t s e e m e d a s if every morning, I awoke to more and worse news on the front page of the Post . In fact, the senator’s tax returns had even made the front page of the Times, which meant that we truly were in deep shit. So I paced my living room, my slippers flopping on my floor and practically ingraining tread marks around my couch, and I tried to Jedi mind trick my e-mail. “Go off,” I chanted and pressed my eyes closed, envisioning a new e-mail from Kyle in my in-box. “Go off,” I repeated as I looped the couch once again. I actually jumped when I heard the ping in my in-box not thirty seconds later. Maybe I do have ESP powers after all? I mused as I darted over to my computer.
From: Richardson, Kyle
To: Miller,
Natalie
Re:
The increasing problem of the returns
Hey Natalie,
Hope you’re feeling okay. Your constant e-mailing really isn’t helping: do keep in mind that I’m juggling your work load too, so despite my highly adept skills, I’m a little over-loaded and replying to you 24/7 isn’t doable. Are we clear?
Anyway, I know that you’re concerned about the headlines, and so am I. In fact, word is that
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