Roxy sits down at the kitchen table, and Amelia joins her. As Ryan and I follow Jamie and Brett out into the warm sunshine, I can feel their eyes on us. They don’t like this, any of it. For once, the three of us agree.
21
Amelia
I stare at the pile of food on Roxy’s plate. “Are you going to eat anything?”
“Not hungry,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Lost my appetite suddenly.”
“Well, you are dressed to play,” I say. “Maybe we should? Or, better yet, we could go on a hike?”
“I’d rather not,” she says. “Excuse me.”
Whatever. I decide to go out to the pickleball court and watch the match. I walk through the lush, mature gardens. Tall, slender palm trees gracefully sway in the gentle desert breeze, casting dappled shadows across the pathway. Cacti and succulents thrive in sunlit corners, their unique shapes and hues adding a touch of desert authenticity to the scene. I must admit, Ryan turned this place into an awe-inspiring home, inside and out. An array of bougainvillea drapes over trellises, their riotousbursts of magenta, fuchsia, and orange providing a striking contrast against the bright blue sky. The fragrance of citrus blossoms hangs in the air, emanating from neatly arranged lemon and orange trees. As I continue walking down the meandering stone pathway, I spot Greer. He’s sitting on a lounge chair outside his room.
“Are you sure you don’t want to play pickleball? Be my partner?” I ask, waving to get his attention.
“Sorry, Amelia. I’m afraid I don’t feel up to it at the moment. I hope you don’t mind, but I ate too much for breakfast,” Greer says, crinkly-eyeing me and patting his ample stomach. “Maybe this afternoon, assuming Roxy doesn’t have other plans for us.”
“Sure,” I say and walk away. I guess I don’t really need to play pickleball. I’ve never been a natural athlete, truth be told. The way I was raised, girls did school and cotillion, boys did sports. I suppose it worked for me back then. My own girls play tennis like pros. I made sure of it. You can’t be well rounded enough these days. Growing up is a competition all of its own. At least it is in the suburbs.
“Oh, hey, lovebirds,” I say as Celeste and Zach appear in front of me on the path. As far as the attractive competition, this couple wins.
“Hey,” Celeste says. “Gorgeous out here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, these gardens are, well, you can tell they’ve been here a long time,” I say. “Are you two playing pickleball with us? I’m looking for a partner.”
“I’d like to play,” Celeste says. “I’ve always wanted to try it.”
“We discussed this. We are not playing today. Today’s plan is to lie out by the pool, work on our tans,” Zach says. “We don’t get many days like this in Chicago.”
“We can get tan playing pickleball,” Celeste says. She has a point.
Zach shakes his head and says, “Come on, Celeste. We made a plan; you promised to sit by the pool with me. You know I hate it when you change things.”
Hmm. Rather inflexible young man. I thought he was a momma’s boy, but now I see he has a little control issue. Interesting. I feel sorry for Celeste. This should be when he is on his best behavior, the time leading up to the wedding.
“Well, now, I don’t suppose you do have days like this in Chicago, to tan or play pickleball,” I say as a chill tingles my spine. It’s justa pool, I remind myself, notthe pool. “Maybe some pickleball later? Have fun and be careful.”
Celeste tilts her head at my warning. I know it sounded odd when it slipped out. As they walk away, I look past them to the pool, sparkling in the distance. And I see her. A woman with long blond hair ducking into the landscape by the pool. Sunny? It can’t be. I hurry to the pool; the crystalline water is beckoning me. For a split second the hair on my arms stands on end. I’m sure there’s some dark shape floating in the water, in the middle of the pool. Oh my God.
I blink and drop into a chaise lounge, dizzy and disoriented. I search the pool again, but it’s gone. It’s my imagination playing tricks on me, trying to take me back twenty-five years to thatterrible discovery. I remember that morning like it happened yesterday.
Ryan slumped down in a lounge chair by the pool at the Desert Sunrise, hungover and miserable and still wearing last night’s clothes. On the other side of the pool, a group of emergency medical personnel were in the process of picking up a stretcher. A stretcher with a sheet draped over the body lying on it. Sunny’s body.
I wrap my arms around myself. I glance at the pool. There is nobody there, dead or alive. I decide I need company and head back to the tennis courts. As I arrive, I see Brett high-fiving a reluctant Jamie after what must have been a fierce point. All four of the players look sweaty already, and they haven’t been playing that long. I guess it is getting hotter outside. My mind keeps drawing me back to the past, to that awful morning.
Pain explodes on my face, snapping me into the present. My cheek and eye sting as I cover my face with my hands and drop to the court.
“What the heck? I have a gala next week! The president will be there! My face!” I yell, tears streaming from my eyes. I don’t really have a gala with the president, but I could. I’m that important.
“Oh crap, Amelia. I’m so sorry,” Brett says, rushing over to me. “Let me see. Are you OK?”
Jamie and Beth are both by my side. I don’t even know who hit the ball.
“Who hit me?” I ask.
“Um, it was Brett. But right now, Amelia, let Jamie take a look at your face,” Ryan says. I reluctantly take my hands away and hope for the best.
