Page 1 of My Lucky Star
Chapter 1
Aria
ILOVE TURKISH.
The food, I mean. It’s the perfect takeaway – not full of sugar like Chinese or greasy like pizza. Yet, it’s always tasty, unlike those spiritually aware bowls of sprouts.
“Thank you!” I grinned from ear to ear as the stocky middle-aged Turk handed me my trusted chicken kebab.
Kerim smiled back, a glimpse of his handsome youth showing through the cracks.
“How do you say delicious?”
“Lezzetli.” He drew out each syllable with passion.
I repeated the word, and he insisted on high fiving me.
“You have a good ear! And you’re very beautiful today.”
I chuckled. He told me that every time, and every time, I instinctively glanced at my outfit. This time, I’d tucked a loose T-shirt into denim shorts and was using my ballet flats as slip-ons, completely destroying their structural integrity. They had some sparkle, though. I’m not a cavewoman.
“You laugh. I’m serious.” Kerim threw up his hands, mock offended. “You remind me of a movie star. I’m not remembering the name...” He tapped his forehead in frustration. “It will come later. Old age.”
My long, dark hair had always been shiny and thick, which usually saved me from looking like I’d slept in a car, even if I lacked in every other aspect of put-togetherness. I smiled obligingly at Kerim’s praise, my mood elevating with each word. Getting my lunch with an ego boost was definitely one of the upsides of being back in my old hometown. That, and not having to worry about appearances.
I inhaled the rich scent of frying meat and spices. Since moving back to Napier a couple of months ago, I’d already decided that Kerim’s Kebab deserved to become a famous movie location. A place where every traveler had to stop and photograph themselves next to those pretentious, airbrushed actor headshots adorning the walls.
I would make that happen, I promised myself. After all, it was my job to attract international film productions and channel money into the region; a brand-new job I was still figuring out, but figure it out I would, because it was a real job with a real salary, not a pipe dream. I was done with those.
Someone tapped their foot behind me, and I moved along, waving my foil-covered roll in goodbye. In December, the seasonal tourist activity had already started, limiting our lunch and dinner chats. Still, everything in Napier happened at a leisurely pace.
With the burn of midday sun on my skin, I strolled down the street toward my car, browsing the cream, pale pink and minty green stucco buildings with golden zigzags and sunbursts, proud and polished like artisan cakes. Hailed as the Art Deco capital of New Zealand, residents of Napier had discovered gold paint and geometric detailing in the 1930s while rebuilding after an earthquake. I found it unsettling that it had taken total destruction to birth something so beautiful and unique.
What had once been fashionable was now historical, a money pit of constant restoration. Still, nowhere else in New Zealand could you time travel to the 1930s like in Napier. That was one of the lines I now recited, a friendly smile splitting my face, as I spent my time selling the town and its surroundings to discerning location scouts, directors and producers.
I reached my car, a cheap hybrid in an unassuming grey I’d bought based on the specs and nothing else. The vehicle was part of my new life plan of lowered expectations and practicality. It added little to my personality but did its job and didn’t leave me on the side of the road.
I’d get used to this new version of me, I promised myself. The always-broke dreamer I’d been in my twenties would soon be an anecdote I told witty, wildly exaggerated stories about at parties. That was one part of me I couldn’t shut down. I’d always be the inappropriate one with stupid jokes.
My phone rang. I knew it was Mom before I even found the device in my pocket. Ever since I’d moved back, she’d taken it on herself to fill my calendar with family obligations, possibly to distract me from the fact that I had nothing else going on. Also, nobody else I knew used their phone as a phone.
“Are you free for dinner on Thursday?” Mom chirped. “We’re having fajitas to thank Felix for his help with the lawns and the pergola.”
My stomach tightened. Felix, my old friend who now lived next door to my parents, ran a one-person carpet cleaning business and clearly looked after my parents better than I did. I should have been grateful, and I was, but he was also the reason I couldn’t move back into my old bedroom in my parents' house, not even in the short term. Living next door to a guy your parents were eyeing up as a future son-in-law would have taken the small-town suffocation to a whole new level.
To make matters worse, I really liked Felix as a friend. We’d always had an easy-going relationship that included the occasional poking-fun-of and laughing-until-our-lungs-hurt, but never the wonder-what-he-thinks-of me or other weird crap. I’d carefully avoided giving out any ‘I want to be Mrs. Carpet Blast’ vibes, hoping I didn’t lose his friendship. The only friend I had in this town, apart from my colleagues.
“Um... I don’t know. I haven’t really been part of this.”
By this, I meant the garden makeover my parents had orchestrated with the help of Felix, the world’s best neighbor.
“Maybe you can think of yourself as part of this family as we show gratitude to an exceptionally helpful neighbor.” Mom’s voice had a tired edge.
I swallowed. “Yeah, of course. He’s been amazing.”
“Maybe Felix can help you feel more at home. He loves Napier, and he’s well connected.”
God, she was good. So diplomatic. I had no reason to diss my only friend, even if this fajitas gathering sounded an awful lot like a chaperoned dinner date.
