Chapter 9

June 2023

Fred is acting weird, like he doesn't recognize me or wishes he didn't.

It's not anything he says, but his expression says it all. A slight downturn of his mouth, a wariness in his eyes. I know his looks better than my own, and even though it's been years since I've seen him, it hasn't been too long for me to misinterpret them.

He's surprised by what I look like now, a shadow of myself, and he's unhappy to see me in general, though he must've known, when he went to a party at my father's, when he agreed to come to my sister's, when he negotiated to buy our house, that it was inevitable.

He must've sought it out, and though I feel like I have a pretty good idea of the answer, I want to ask him why.

But now's not the time, not with him looking at me like I'm an unpleasant stranger.

"I'm going to go," I say to Sophie.

"You sure? Stay for a drink."

I eye Fred across the room, where he's sitting with Lucy, smiling at her the way he used to smile at me. Attentive, engaged, that heat of interest. His hair is short in a way that suits him, almost no curl to it, and his face is tan. My heart squeezes just looking at him, but that might be muscle memory.

"I don't think so. I'm tired. The boys wore me out. We'll catch up another time, okay?"

"How are you getting home?"

"It's only a mile or so. I'll walk."

"What? No, Colin will take you. Colin, Olivia needs a ride home."

Colin stands up. He's wobbling a bit on his feet. "My pleasure."

"I'll take her," Fred says smoothly, his voice deep and steady. "I have an early call."

Lucy looks disappointed, but not jealous. Thirty, she's open and sunny, like Colin, and runs an estate sale and decorating business in East Hampton. She wears her dark hair naturally and on the shorter side, and she's wearing a burnt-orange linen wrap dress that shows off her curvy figure.

"There's no need," I say to Fred, my gaze steady, though my heart is anything but. "It's a lovely night to walk."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm going that way. It's no trouble at all."

Fighting him is only going to cause a scene, so I gather up my things. Sophie kisses me goodnight, and Colin gives me an apologetic smile.

Fred and I walk out of the house together. The night is warm but pleasant. The moon is half full, a few clouds floating across it, the stars out, pinpoints in the night. I breathe in the bougainvillea and lilac that line the parking circle, hoping their scent will calm me.

No such luck.

Fred opens the passenger door to his black Range Rover. I climb in and put on my seat belt, folding my hands in my lap. It's a short drive. I can do this. We don't even have to talk. I need my breath for breathing anyway, which feels like a chore.

"I'm staying at the club," Fred says without me asking as he pulls out of the driveway. It feels strange to be in this confined space with him. Intimate.

I open my window and inhale the night air. The road is dark and not well lit. "I didn't know."

"It's convenient."

"Until you move into the house."

"About that—"

I pull my head back in. "Did it have to be my house? Really?"

He clenches his jaw. "It met all of my criteria."

"Oh my God, are you listening to yourself? ‘It met all of my criteria.' What the hell, Fred?"

"I thought you'd be happy. Grateful, even."

"Why? Because of the money? You know I don't care about that."

He grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles go white. "Your father was on the brink of bankruptcy."

"So, you what? Bought the house as a favor? Out of charity?"

He doesn't say anything, just stares at the dark road.

"That's what I thought." We lapse into silence, my breath coming heavy for the minute it takes to arrive at the driveway to Taylor House. "Drop me here."

"All right." He stops the car. I open the door, but he reaches for my arm before I can get out. His touch scalds my skin. "Olivia, the point is, I'm going to be around. We need to find a way to be civil to each other."

"I don't see any reason why we have to spend any time together at all."

"It's a small town …"

"Which I'll be leaving as soon as I help my father clear out the house and settle in somewhere else."

He releases me, a look of confusion passing over his face. "I thought you loved it here."

"I did."

"What changed?"

"Life, Fred. You've been living yours and I've been living mine, and you don't know me anymore, okay? And I don't know you."

"And you want to keep it that way."

"I think it's best."

"All right, then." His voice sounds sad, but I know that's wishful thinking.

Fred doesn't want to be in my life—he's made that perfectly clear. He just doesn't like scenes.

"Thanks for the lift."

"When I see you on court, I'll keep my distance."

"On court?"

"At the club. Don't you play there every morning?"

A lump forms in my throat because I don't. I haven't played in years. But I don't want to tell him that. I don't want to give him an inch into the person I am now because I can't stand it—not again.

So instead, I open the door and leap down onto the gravel path. I close it firmly behind me, and since I know he's going to wait until he sees me inside, I run into the night and slip into the house before the first tear falls.

"Hey, Coach," I say the next morning as I poke my head through the door of his office.

"Well, well, well. Olivia Taylor, as I live and breathe." Coach Matt walks toward me with his arms extended.

Matteo Fernandez was a long-time journeyman on the Association of Tennis Professionals tour in the seventies who never quite lived up to his potential. Sidelined by injuries and self-doubt, he retired early and took on the coaching position at the club, shepherding the next generation of players through his no-nonsense regime. During the summer months, we played outside on the grass courts, and in the fall we moved to the indoor facility, alternating between hard courts and clay. The program had produced three junior champions, two lower-level tour players, and me, "the best of all of them," he used to say.

He pulls me into a bear hug, his thin frame pressing against mine, then releases me. His face is lined from years in the sun, and there's almost no hair under his ball cap, but otherwise, he looks the same: six feet, on the thin side, with strong forearms and legs.

"You looking to hit?" he asks, motioning to my tennis whites.

I pulled them out of a drawer early this morning, wondering if they'd still fit. They did, and so I wandered over here in a haze, asking myself what I was doing.

"You looking to get beat?"

"Confidence! Love it. You have a racquet?"

"I don't."

"I can rustle one up for you."

"Thanks, Coach."

He checks his watch. "Perfect timing. The others will be arriving shortly."

"The others?"

"The team. I assume you want to go through the whole routine?"

The whole routine is three hours of warmups, hitting drills, serving, then playing a match. "Sure, let's do it. Only, go easy on me, okay? It's been a while."

"How's the rib?"

I twist slowly from side to side. "It's good."

"So, then, no."

"No what?"

"I will not be going easy on you, mija."

I should've known. Matt's philosophy is to play through everything. Injuries, bad weather, the heat. That's how you build the toughness you need to make it on tour. If you know you've done something, then you can do it again and again.

"Let me get you that racquet." He goes into the locker at the side of his office and pulls one out. "This should work."

He hands it to me, and my hand closes around the grip. I slice through the air, once, twice. My arm feels good. Loose.

"Let's head to the courts."

I follow him through the clubhouse. There are seven kids already on court, playing mini tennis, warming each other up.

"Huddle up!" Matt yells. The kids hustle over, three girls and four boys between the ages of eight and fourteen. "This is Olivia Taylor. Some of you might recognize her from the pictures on the wall holding the annual cup. Or the pictures in my office from her tour wins. She's going to be playing with us. Now, Olivia probably wants you to go easy on her because it's been a while, but what do we say to that?"

"No mercy!" the kids yell back, and though some of them are laughing, it's still a bit frightening.

But it also lights a fire in me. The competitive fire Matt saw in me at age six, when my mom brought me to him and said she'd found me hitting tennis balls against the garage door for two hours and maybe he could help me do something a bit more productive with my time.

"All right," Matt yells. "Back to work. Cindy, you'll play with Olivia."

A spindly thirteen-year-old girl with her hair in long, blond pigtails and her socks pulled up to her knees nods with assurance. I'm her mission now. She will not be denied.

But I've seen that expression before. It used to be mine, and this old dog still has a few tricks left in her yet.

I follow Cindy to court one, which faces the back of the clubhouse, where the guest rooms are. I take the far side, so I'm looking right at them as we warm up at the net, then move back to hit from the baseline. Cindy strikes the ball hard and fast with lots of spin, but I can match her. I swing freely, years of training taking over as I get low and flex my knees and twist my body to generate power.

Whack, whack, whack, whack!Our rally is loud, each of us running down balls we might have normally let go in a warmup. She drop-shots me, and I struggle to get to the net on time to put it over, but I do. I'm out of position now, so I sprint across the net to intercept the forehand winner she's trying to put down the line. I get my racquet on it, angling it away from me, and it drops low across the net and spins out of the court. Cindy is fast, and she gets her racquet on it, but not fast enough. She dumps the ball into the net.

"Nice shot," Cindy mutters.

"That was a great rally," I say, out of breath. "Don't worry. No way I can keep up that kind of quality. I'm so out of shape."

Cindy smiles to herself, thinking that I'm stupid to tell her my weakness as if it wasn't already obvious by the way the white polo shirt I'm wearing hugs my no longer flat belly.

We'll see.

I walk back to the baseline, taking my time so I have my breath back before the next ball arrives. I turn, getting into the ready position. My focus is pulled by the twitch of a curtain in one of the guest bedroom windows. It's Fred, watching with a self-satisfied smile on his face.

Whether it's because he thinks he still knows me or he's guessed that he's the reason I'm out here, I can't tell.