Yoko said she’d been with him for many years. “We are both from Osaka,” she explained. “I’ve trained with him since I was a teenager.” She hoped she was getting all the words right.
“The thing about coaches is, sometimes, they can only take you part of the way there,” the man explained. “I sensed today that your coach doesn’t know how to push you where you need to go.”
“Where do I need to go?” Yoko asked, initially confused.
The man leaned toward her, his eyes glinting. “You need to go all the way. It should be you up there with that trophy. It should be you at the top of every list. Don’t you feel that?”
Yoko did feel that, but she’d begun to believe it was impossible. She took another drink but was unable to look away from this strange man. His energy was like fire.
“I’m a tennis coach myself,” he explained. “I spent years coaching Maria Ramford, Cynthia Walters, and Jamie Anderson. But your talent is far and away the best I’ve ever seen.”
Yoko recognized the women’s names. Many of them had gone on to secure championship titles. She’d seen many of them interviewed on television. But she’d never played any of them, which meant she couldn’t fully gauge their talents.
“My name is Carson Reynolds,” the man said, extending his hand to shake hers. Yoko did, trying not to laugh at how silly itstill felt to shake hands like this. It felt overwhelmingly Western. “I live in the United States full-time, so if you wanted to train with me, you’d have to move.”
Yoko’s ears rang with alarm. Move? To the United States? She imagined that glorious country of purple mountains and lakes the size of oceans, glowing white deserts, movie stars, burgers, and wealth. Could she really move there? Could she leave her beloved Japan and forge a new path for herself? It was true that Americans were known as the world's brash go-getters. Maybe her longtime coach didn’t know what it took to be a champion. Perhaps this strange Carson Reynolds was the key to championships and glory.
And wouldn’t it be nice to get out of Osaka? Akira lived there, part-time, when he wasn’t off making movies. Himari lived there as well. Their love felt like a direct assault against Yoko’s potential happiness. Maybe if she stayed in Osaka, her game would dry up along with her heart.
“I will have to talk to my parents,” Yoko said, although she knew that conversation would be a dead-end. Her mother would never go for it.
“Let me talk to them,” Carson said, delivering that sinister yet gorgeous, big-toothed American smile. “I’m sure we can work something out.”
He said it like he always got what he wanted. Yoko figured he probably did.
Chapter Seven
Present Day
Lily drove out to Mick Hamilton’s art studio on a chilly day in mid-September. After a brief phone conversation, Lily suggested they meet to discuss how he visualizes his future partner. He’d invited her all the way out here, to his ornate and interesting wood-and-glass studio and house that reflected the sky, sea, and sand. Lily walked up the steps to the porch, her heart thudding in a way that intrigued her. She guessed it was because she hadn’t gotten much sleep. Liam hadn’t called her immediately after leaving the set last night, and she’d let her mind get the better of her, imagining scenarios in which he was head over heels with someone else. Eventually, he’d texted that he was running lines with all his scene partners. He’d messaged: I love you; get some rest.
Now, Lily knocked on Mick’s door. A split-second later, it opened to reveal a chaotic-looking yet handsome man of twenty-eight, his dark hair shaggy and messy, his apron flecked with paint. He had a dark beard and eyes the color of the NantucketSound. Somewhere behind him, a speaker system played a Radiohead song. Already, Lily’s mind started to work overtime, trying to imagine what sort of woman would fall for Mick Hamilton—and what kind of woman Mick Hamilton would want to invite into this beautiful, artistic world.
“Lily!” Mick reached out to shake her hand. “Welcome.”
Lily couldn’t help but smile back at him as they shook hands. He led her through the foyer and into a kitchen lined with Portuguese tiles, where he poured tea and offered her a plate of oatmeal cookies.
“Do you bake?” she asked. It was rare to meet a man who baked in Manhattan.
“I do,” he said. “It’s a stress reliever for me. I can’t say if they’re good or not.”
Lily took a bite and had to fight not to moan. The cookies were soft and buttery and nutty, everything she wanted in a midday dessert. But a split-second later, she put the cookie down, remembering. Mick frowned.
“You don’t like them,” he said.
Lily’s adrenaline spiked. “It’s not that,” she assured him. “It’s just, I’m going wedding dress shopping after this. Everyone will be there. My mother. My future mother-in-law. My grandmother…”
Mick waved his hand. “Say no more.” He hurried to the counter, removed a large Tupperware container, and filled it with freshly baked oatmeal cookies. “You can have them after you try on your dresses. Stress-free.”
Lily watched as he secured the plastic top on the Tupperware and felt utterly cared for. She swallowed the lump in her throat and held her elbows. Someone would fall for Mick Hamilton in no time. In fact, she couldn’t believe somebody wasn’t already here, dizzy with love for him, eating cookies and watching the birds through the large windows.
Lily reminded herself to remain professional and to remember that Mick had invited her here for matchmaking purposes. She proceeded to outline her strategy. “I want to get a sense for how you live, what you like, what your habits are, and how you visualize the next few years of your life,” she explained. “And of course, I want to get a sense for what type of woman you’re attracted to. Who could you imagine spending your time with? Do you want children? That sort of thing.”
Mick’s cheeks were fiery. He sat down and nibbled at the edge of a cookie thoughtfully. “It’s a lot to consider,” he said, his eyes far away. “I guess, well, you can see that I’m not the most organized person. But if she’s really organized, that isn’t a deal-breaker. I can force myself to pull it together.” He laughed at himself. “Most days, I spend anywhere from six to ten hours in my studio, which is just over there. Attached to the house.” He gestured vaguely behind him. “I travel a decent amount for work, showing in galleries and selling my paintings to various collectors and so on. So I’d like someone who enjoys traveling. Someone funny and sharp and…” He squeezed his eyes shut and laughed again. “I feel so foolish right now. Am I imagining a person who even exists?”
Lily urged him to keep going. “Seriously, everything you say helps.” She was making a list on her phone and mentally considering the women who lived on Nantucket and whether any of them would be a good fit for Mick. “Do you want to date another artist?”
“I think it would be cool if she used her creativity in some way,” he said. “But she doesn’t have to be a professional artist. I want her to be able to feel deeply, you know? To appreciate sunrises and sunsets and good cups of coffee and great conversation.” He pressed his heart with his fist and made a funny face. “Is this when you award me with the ‘lamest man in the world’ trophy?”
