The Lucky One

“Are you a good swimmer, Alison?”

Slumped with her back against the bow, Alison Conover shifted her gaze from the bottom of the canoe to the young woman with the paddle at the stern. Her name was …

Alison’s head rolled to one side, and now she was gazing at the glassy water, reflecting the fading violet and gold tones of the twilight as it slid by the gunnel. Low in the mirrored sky was a bright glow: Venus, the Evening Star.

She tried to raise her head to look at the sky, but her muscles would not obey.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have time to get to know each other better. Unfortunately, I cannot afford to have the surprise appearance of a half-sister interfere with everything I have worked for. I’m not big into sharing. My brother also found that out the hard way,” said the young woman. She made another powerful stroke with the paddle, adding a deft twist at the end to keep the canoe moving straight. “We’ll be at the deepest part of the lake in just a minute.”

Cornelia. Last name … Something Dutch …

“We’re in the middle of the lake. Time to go.”

Lake. Lake Oriska. Cornelia Schuyler. Something in the drink. House on the lake. Big deck. This isn’t fair.

Time to remember how to swim.

Alison shifted her body weight to the right. Over they went.

* * *

Alison arrived at the gate to the Schuyler compound promptly at 6:00 p.m. She had driven by on East Lake Road before, curious about the lucky people who lived there. Normally, she would have been required to press the call button on the device next to the gate, but today it was wide open.

The compound was impressive. No wonder her mother wanted to work here in the summers during her teenage years.

Once inside, a private roadway arched around the property, passing garages and barns and a few smaller cottages — presumably for the hired help or maybe for lower-echelon family members.

All seemed deserted, which was no surprise. It was only mid-June, and most summer residents on New York’s Finger Lakes didn’t show up before the July Fourth holiday.

Alison eyed the glimmering water through the trees. By July, the lake might be warm enough for swimming. The daytime temperatures were inviting now, with daylight stretching late into the evening, but she knew spring-fed Lake Oriska was deep — well over 200 feet at the center — which made for a chilly bathing experience, even at the shallow public beach.

Alison had paddled by the property before, and she recognized the large main house, with its long, gracious Craftsman-style lines, and the deep porch. Like most houses on the lake, the front faced the water, with the kitchen and utility rooms pointed toward the woods and the road. Alison parked in a circular area in back and walked around the perimeter.

She didn’t see any other cars, but she knew Cornelia Schuyler, the half-sister she was planning to meet for the first time, was here someplace.

Alison scanned the upper floors. According to Zillow, the main house had eight bedrooms and nine full bathrooms, plus a couple of lavatories. Her mother said babies usually stayed in one of the cottages, away from adult noise and clatter.

Pausing to admire the stunning view of the lake from the veranda, a movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. A figure was waving to her from a dock a hundred yards or so to her left. Cornelia. It had to be.

The dock — one of several along the shore — connected to what Alison assumed would be called a boat house, although it was much fancier than any boat houses she had ever seen up close. It was modeled after the style of the main house, with ample room for boats at the water level topped by some sort of living and entertainment structure, complete with its own large deck that extended over the water.

By the time Alison climbed to the deck, Cornelia leaned against the railing, two frosty glasses of bubbling liquid in her hands. A simple spread of salsa and chips and peanuts sat on the coffee table.

“G and T? Custom made. Just for you.” Cornelia’s words were welcoming, but the warmth did not extend to her eyes.

Alison gently set her bag on the coffee table and accepted the drink. The bite of alcohol was very strong.

“Here’s to finding a new sister,” Alison said. She noted the remarkable resemblance between them and also to the pictures she had seen of their shared father: on the tall side; long, lanky limbs; oval face; wavy blond hair. Actually, Cornelia’s blond was definitely an enhancement job, but close enough, and her eyes were brown, while Alison’s were blue.

Cornelia sipped her drink but did not return the smile. “You did as I asked and left your cellphone at home, right?” She acknowledged Alison’s nod with another sip. “Good. That allows us to be candid.”

She waved her free hand over the view of the family compound. “I suppose you’d like a piece of all this,” she said. “I can tell you it doesn’t come cheap. Growing up a Schuyler is no cakewalk.”

Alison noted the bitter tone. “So I’ve gathered, looking at social media.” The travails of the Schuylers didn’t reach the heights of national gossip news but were regular fodder in New York City media: divorces, breakdowns, rehab, a troubled brother who died of an accidental fentanyl overdose.

Alison paused to re-study the view. “If you had asked me when I was a teenager, I’d have said I’d love to have it. These days, I’m fine. Although I do appreciate the chance to see it up close.”

Based on her scowl and pursed lips, Cornelia did not appear mollified. She plopped onto a deck chair and motioned for Alison to do the same.

“Well, if it’s money you want, you’re out of luck. Daddy will never agree to a paternity test. Besides, you’re too old for child support.”

All seemed to be going as Alison had anticipated.

“I’m not here to complain. I’m here to talk about Claire. She needs your help in a different way.”

Cornelia drained half her drink in a gulp. “Claire? Are you referring to your mother?”

Alison chose not to debate that point. Yet. “She is very ill. She needs a new kidney. It turns out I’m not a match. I was hoping you would agree to be tested and consider becoming a donor.”

Cornelia pulled out a cigarette and made a big show of lighting it, shaking the lighter and blowing out a large plume in Alison’s direction.

“And what makes you think I might be a match if you aren’t?”

Alison considered her bombshell announcement. Perhaps one of the lines suggested by her favorite AI engine — nonsense about becoming partners and supporting each other. Did Cornelia really not know or at least suspect the truth?

“Because Claire is not my mother. She’s yours,” Alison said.

After several long seconds, Cornelia let out a cackle. “What the hell are you talking about? Not just Daddy sleeping around but some sort of swapped-at-birth crap?”

Alison suppressed a grin. This was a performance. There was just enough of a hesitation and lack of surprise in Cornelia’s eyes. She did know. Or suspect.

Alison answered, “I think of it more like a changeling or a brood parasite. Like cowbirds. They lay their eggs in the nests of other species to feed and raise.”

Cornelia finished her drink and got up to make another. “Bullshit.”

Alison stood and followed. “I’ve known since I was fifteen. Our biology class on genealogy centered on simple stuff like blood types. I had a huge fight with my lab partner, and Ms. Simpson quietly took me aside and explained very clearly that if my mother was really Type AB, I could not be Type O. Either she wasn’t AB, or I wasn’t O. Unless I had been adopted, of course.”

“Nonsense. Seems flimsy to me.”

“Mom thought so too. Since that day, I began thinking of her as ‘Claire,’ not ‘Mom.’”

“Oh, please.”

“Call it teenage turmoil. Eventually, I let it slide because I couldn’t figure out who my real parents might be or how it could have happened.”

“I suppose you pulled the Schuylers from out of a hat. Pick from the wealthiest summer people.”

Alison turned her back on Cornelia to stroll over to look at the view and then resumed her seat on the couch.

“I didn’t give it much thought for a while. Life was busy and exciting with college and jobs and moving to New York City. About two years ago, on a whim, I took a real DNA test to see if I could track down my father. Even if he wasn’t in the database, I thought maybe I could find a bunch of cousins.”

She paused to wipe the condensation dripping from her glass. “The Schuyler name popped out. Lots of cousins. I remember Claire talking about her time as a teenager working here. A bigger surprise was all the Pierrepont cousins. Your mother’s maiden name is Pierrepont, isn’t it? It all began to fit. Like why she has a photo album with details about you when I don’t even have a baby book.”

Cornelia rotated in her chair to face away. Alison ate peanuts and waited for her sister to return to the conversation.

“In your email you said she was even my nanny that first summer,” Cornelia said. “She bonded with me, I suppose. Your cowbird scenario is too far-fetched. Too many people would have noticed.”

Alison let Cornelia’s objections settle over her like a thin layer of dust before she spoke. “I do have a theory. I don’t think our father knew that Claire had a baby at that point, at least not at first. She came back hoping to convince Daddy,” Alison indicated air quotes, “to leave his marriage for her.”

“Stupid assumption. My mother’s family has way more money than the Schuylers. He wouldn’t risk losing that.”

Alison offered Cornelia a bow. “No argument from me on that score. Claire’s not stupid, but she tends to make decisions based on emotions, not logic. Eventually, she figured she wasn’t getting anything from him. She could see your parents — I guess I should say our parents — were not attentive. She and Baby Cornelia were relegated to her cottage in order not to bother guests — or any of the adults. We were born only a few weeks apart, and we looked very much alike at that age. She desperately wanted the best for Baby Alison. I think the swap was her Plan B.”

Cornelia’s mouth compressed to a thin line, but this time, she didn’t turn away. “What about her family and friends? Someone must have noticed. Where were you all this time?”

Alison ignored the assertion that she was the actual Baby Alison. “In the care of Granny, Claire’s mother. Yes, I think she did know. I tried pressing her for the true story when she was in the hospital after her hip replacement. But she clammed up and told me to leave.”

Cornelia snorted. “Good grief. Shame on you, cornering a sick woman like that. Of course she did. There was no true story to tell.” She gazed into her gin and tonic as if searching for answers. “And by Granny, I assume you mean Lucy Connover, Claire’s mother. Is she still with us?”

Alison stopped mid-sip. A faint alarm bell was going off deep in her brain.

“You would have loved her. And vice versa. She was the one who really raised me. Lots of common sense and passion. She died about two months ago from a stroke. Very unexpected because she was in great health,” Alison said and drained her drink.

“Sorry to hear that. And your grandfather was never in the picture, I gather.”

“Correct.” Alison noted that Cornelia seemed very well-informed for someone who had just found out about her true parentage.

Cornelia retrieved Alison’s glass and refilled her drink. “And your mother. Claire. Not doing well? I’ll bet she’s beyond needing a kidney. That was just a ruse to talk to me.”

“Things don’t look great for her, but a kidney would improve her chances of collecting Social Security someday. Look, Cornelia. I’m not trying to be you. I’m Alison. I have been my whole life. It wasn’t a life of privilege, but I didn’t suffer. Claire was a good mother. I don’t think I’ve been precious to her, but overall, I can’t complain. I do love her. I would greatly appreciate it if you would agree to do the test for her for a possible kidney. It could make a difference. No one else needs to know.”

Alison decided to leave her emotional baggage unsaid. She didn’t bother to mention that Claire actually was an indifferent parent, leaving Alison for months every summer with Granny while she worked jobs at resorts or fancy households around the Finger Lakes. Or that there had never been enough money for so many things she ached for, such as going to a private college like Cornell or Hamilton. Important stuff at the time.

The charm offensive seemed to work. Cornelia’s eyes lost a bit of their squint, and her shoulders relaxed. “Someone might be concerned if I decided to donate a kidney to someone I wasn’t related to.”

“I’m sure you could spin it. You felt a connection thanks to those early summers, and you offered to try on a fluke. Not everyone who matches is a blood relative.”

“I’ll consider it.” Despite the accommodating words, Alison sensed she had been dismissed. This part of the conversation was over.

Cornelia smiled and waved toward the water, with dusk now closing in. “Would you like to swim? I’m sure one of my suits would fit you. Or go skinny dipping. No one else is here, and I doubt the neighbors are around.”

“Wouldn’t all these cameras pick that up?” Alison pointed to the closest ones installed on the boat house.

Cornelia dismissed the notion with another waving gesture. “I hate those things. What I do is no one else’s business. I turned them off as soon as I got here.”

Which might explain the open gate, Alison noted.

“Maybe a quick dip before I go. The water is still a bit cold for me. The lake takes a long time to warm up.”

“I always loved swimming in cold water,” Cornelia said.

Determined to be agreeable, Alison forced a grin. “As a kid, I would stay in until my lips turned blue. These days, I’m in and out in a flash.”

Alison had noticed a growing soft buzz in her limbs, and she was starting to have a hard time concentrating on the conversation. She tried to introduce a new topic.

“How much time do you spend in the City? I’m in Brooklyn these days. Prospect Heights. Maybe you could come check out one of the outer boroughs?”

Cornelia’s grin seemed off-center. In fact, Alison’s vision seemed fuzzy.

“Excuse me. I’m going to go to the bathroom,” she said, rising. Somehow, her feet tangled, and her drink went flying. Alison sat down on the floor. Odd. She hated being drunk, and this was only her second gin and tonic.

Unless. Unless …

Cornelia’s voice was soft and soothing. She dangled a bathing suit from one hand. “That’s all right, sweetie. I’ll clean it up. I thought you’d never get enough of that into you. Now it’s time for your swim.”

On some level, Alison was alarmed. But not much. Something was wrong, but she felt relaxed and calm.

Cornelia guided Alison back to the sectional couch on the deck and started pulling off her clothing. “First, we need to get you into this suit. Ugh. I wish you had made this a bit easier by changing on your own.”

Alison followed along, not resisting, not helping. Eventually, she was sitting on the couch in a bathing suit that did seem to fit just fine.

Cornelia pulled Alison to her feet and wrapped a big towel around her shoulders. That was nice because the air was a bit chilly now. Moving was growing more difficult. Navigating the stairs down to the dock was tricky, but she relied on Cornelia.

The sky was gorgeous shades of deep purple and pink. Oh. And now, a few bumps and groans as Cornelia forced her into the canoe. Cornelia seemed a bit cross for some reason, rubbing her elbow. Was she going swimming too? She had on jeans, a bulky sweatshirt, and her running shoes. Not good for swimming.

The alarm bell deep in Alison’s brain was growing louder, but her body remained passively relaxed.

The canoe floated out into the lake, propelled by Cornelia’s powerful strokes and her nonstop chatter about bloodlines, irritating family, and earning her inheritance.

* * *

As the canoe tipped over, Alison remembered to inhale deeply and tried to roll. For several moments, she thrashed her limbs without any noticeable effect but abruptly found herself floating on her back, looking at the Evening Star.

She could make out the upside-down canoe to her right, but it seemed so far away. She could hear a lot of sputtering and gasping nearby.

The sputtering grew closer, and Alison found herself in a vise grip with the writhing Cornelia.

“Help. Help me. I’m …”

Cornelia sank below the surface and now grasped Alison’s waist. They were both sinking.

You’re wearing too many clothes.

Alison concentrated all her energy and kicked.

She was free again, on her back, waving her arms a bit. Floating. Floating.

* * *

Alison’s feet dragged on the rocky bottom of the lake, and she started, fully awake. And functional — more or less. She was profoundly cold and still very weak, but she could stand if she held onto the dock.

How long had it been? It was still night and no sign of dawn.

She managed to crawl onto the dock and found the towel Cornelia had dropped there. She wrapped herself in it and slept.

* * *

By the time Alison opened her eyes again, the eastern sky was growing light. She climbed the stairs to the deck and scanned the lake. The canoe and paddle had drifted in and bobbed at the pebbly beach area not far from the dock, but there was no sign of Cornelia, floating, bobbing, or otherwise visible. Could she have made it to shore?

A quick search of the boat house indicated she had not returned there.

Alison found the pile of her clothes on the upper deck and dressed, giving her time to consider next steps.

Calling 9-1-1 seemed to be the right thing to do. She didn’t see a landline phone, but maybe there would be one at the main house. That seemed like a long walk.

There was also the burner phone she had hidden in her bag, resting on the coffee table. Sadly, its battery had run down as it tried to keep recording all night. She found a compatible charger in the kitchen and plugged in the phone.

Soon, she’d be able to call. But …

There would be many questions and accusations if Cornelia were found in the lake and not wandering around on the shore. Or even if she were found alive. She could easily claim that Alison was the villain and tried to kill her.

Hopefully, the recording on the burner phone would straighten out all that, but it would be messy, requiring lawyers and a lot of hassle. And the Schuyler family had tons of money to hire help with those things.

Alison used a set of binoculars from a shelf in the living area to check the surface of the water. No sign of a body floating on the lake. But that would be temporary. She knew bodies might sink for a while, but the decomposition process generated gases, and sooner or later, they tended to pop back up.

The situation was a bit embarrassing. She had known Cornelia would put up a fuss, but she had not anticipated the depth of Cornelia’s fears and desperate response.

Alison was clever, but Cornelia had been one step ahead the whole time. That first drink must have been doped with something. Alison had been playing the whole thing by ear while Cornelia had a plan. An amateur mistake.

Cornelia was not a harmless victim of circumstances. Alison was rattled by Cornelia’s knowledge and probing questions about Granny and Claire’s health. Plus, the comment in the canoe about her brother. There was no indication in the news reports that his death was anything but an accident, of course.

Bigger than most birds, cowbirds often dominate the attention and even cause the death of the other nestlings, she recalled.

She started cleaning the floor where her drink had landed, followed by the bar area. Sure enough, a bottle with no label sat behind the gin. She moved that to her pocket.

After about an hour, she had transformed the intimate gathering for two into a site for a solitary evening cocktail or two. It was slow work. She felt a bit sluggish and slightly nauseous, but that forced her to pay close attention to details.

At last, she was satisfied. Surfaces, doorknobs, the bathroom, and even the binoculars were wiped down. Her fingerprints were gone. The extra glassware and dishes were washed and returned to their storage spots. The bathing suit and towel were washed and packed away.

Outside, the day had fully arrived. Alison needed to leave. Sooner or later, gardeners or cleaners would show up. These big places required extra work and consistent maintenance. Hopefully, Cornelia’s statement about the camera system being off was true.

“But what was your plan?” she said to the empty room. “Would you say I dropped by uninvited and then insisted on a swim? Or was I never here? Would my car show up at the public beach?”

She walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboards. Almost empty. She checked the refrigerator. Same. She moved down the hall to examine the bedroom. No clothes in the closet or so much as a toothbrush in the ensuite bathroom.

She glimpsed a car parked under the trees on the far side of the pool house. She grabbed several paper towels to make sure she would leave no prints and went to investigate.

It was unlocked. Bags and luggage filled the trunk. Alison picked up a piece of paper from the passenger seat and studied the three names written there:

Lucy Conover

Alison Conover

Claire Conover

Granny, herself, her mother. The first two names had Xs through them.

Alison gazed through the trees at the lake. The memory of her mother’s call flooded back.

She died in her sleep, Alison. I guess it happens. All her doctors are surprised, but she’s gone.

She should have told her mother to insist on an autopsy.

All pretense of regret was swept away. Alison hoped Cornelia was under 200 feet of water.

Alison was not about to leave breadcrumbs for investigators to follow. She had no way of knowing how much Cornelia might have shared or outsourced to a private detective, of course. If the police came calling, she would be as transparent and open as seemed prudent. Meanwhile, this piece of paper would go into a hidden place along with the burner phone, the recording, and the mystery bottle.

As she walked to her car, Alison studied the grounds, the gardens, and the main house. Did she really want any of this? A big apartment in Manhattan? A beachside outpost in the Hamptons?

Money would be nice, of course, but it so rarely came without strings.

She decided she didn’t need to do anything. The laws of human nature would take care of the rest, like gravity of the soul, but she would never be Cornelia. Recalling the vicious sneer on her sister’s face when she picked up Alison off the floor and then the look of panic as the canoe tipped over branded Cornelia’s unique identity into Alison’s memory bank.

Cornelia’s body would be found. Claire would hear about that and react emotionally. She would reach out to the Schuyler family. She would insist on attending the funeral. She would almost certainly blurt out her confession that Cornelia was her real daughter. Alison wouldn’t even need to push the right buttons.

Alison smothered her sigh and climbed into her car.

Claire would suffer, and that would be a shame. She gave away her daughter to live a life of luxury, only to have Cornelia grow up in a life of pain and neglect. In return, Claire gained a daughter who loved her deeply but gave that daughter only a tiny fraction of her heart.

However, despite her indifference and imperfections, Claire was Alison’s mother in every way except DNA.

Alison guided the car out of the compound. She would hang around for a while rather than return to Brooklyn the next day as planned. Just in case Cornelia popped up. Alive.

When she arrived at Claire’s doublewide, she would take a long hot shower. After breakfast followed by a nap in her childhood bedroom, she would visit Claire in the hospital.

She would not mention Cornelia, the visit, or her late-night swim. She would sit back and wait for fate to fulfill her destiny. If she came into money — small or large — she would make certain Claire received the best available medical treatments.

Alison was the lucky one at last. Perhaps she always had been.