It was a man in his fifties or sixties with a mustache, glasses, and bushy gray hair.
“Oh, she just left,” Sylvia said. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“So, she does work here?” he said, giving away a hint of an English accent and clasping his hands together.
Sylvia frowned. Why would he come here if he didn’t know she worked here, she wondered. Something wasn’t quite right.
“By any chance do you know which way she went?” he asked.
“No, I do not,” she said firmly, not about to give the location of her—dare she say—friend to a complete stranger who was clearly not from around here.
“I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry. Would it be possible to get a message to her, or for me to come back at a later date, when she might be available?”
“What is this regarding?”
He looked from the receptionist to Sylvia. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”
Sylvia eyed the gentleman. “Come this way.”
She led him to the restaurant, which wasn’t open for lunch for another half hour, and gestured for him to take a seat at the corner table. She sat down opposite.
“What did you say your name was?” Sylvia asked.
“Right,” he said. “I haven’t had the chance yet to properly introduce myself. I’m Jonathan Rutherford. I’m a senior reporter and host for a television show calledLives & Stories, and I’m interested in interviewing Adeline for a segment I’m working on. I saw her photo in the paper, something to do with a Ferris wheel malfunction, and I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. She hasn’t been seen in nearly two decades.”
Sylvia didn’t follow—Adele on a television show? And why was he calling her Adeline? She wanted to hear more. “Go on,” she said.
“Well, when I realized she was in the United States, in this area, and then I heard about this relatively new tennis club, I put two and two together, and I thought she must be here. In fact, I felt it in my bones. I knew she would be here. You must be thrilled.”
Not wanting to give away her ignorance on the subject, Sylvia tried to keep her expression neutral and prompted him to keep talking, hoping she might be able to piece it together if she knew more.
“And what exactly do you want to interview her about?”
“Well,” he said, his eyebrows raising, causing his forehead to crease, “her past, of course.”
“I see,” Sylvia said, her stomach clenching.
“I’ve been on the lookout for Adeline Léglise for years, years,” he said.
“Adeline Léglise? That’s not her name.…”
“My mistake. I hear she goes by Adele Lambert now, understandably so,” he added, looking a bit ruffled. “But to interview her, after all this time, would be an absolute coup for me. I suggested the story to my network, and they want it as much as I do. They’ve given me carte blanche to tell her story.”
Adeline Léglise. Sylvia repeated the name in her head. She knew that name. She was the tennis champion who nearly took out her opponent’s eye at Wimbledon. My God, Sylvia thought, she was once a star. When Sylvia was a teen she had idolized her, had followed her in the papers. She was a glamour girl and a fashion icon. This was crazy! How had she overlooked the similarities between her then and now? And yet of course she hadn’t pieced it together. Adeline Léglise had been glamorous then, so outspoken and sassy. The Adele she knew had been closed off, cantankerous, and rude—until recently. She couldn’t believe they’d both lived on the island for so long as neighbors and as strangers. How could this be? One thing was certain, Adele Lambert wasn’t who she said she was at all. Adele Lambert wasthetennis champion of the twenties and thirties. Unbelievable. Adele Lambert was Adeline Léglise.
Suddenly the wheels in Sylvia’s head were spinning. Once this got out, she would have women lined up around the island, intrigued, wanting totake lessons, and men too. Adeline Léglise had won Wimbledon and just about every other world championship in her day. This was astounding. If it came to light that she was working at her club, this could change everything. This could help save them. Adele had protested when Sylvia had suggested running an advertisement in the local paper, but this was different. This was a reporter who had come to her—she hadn’t sought him out—and he clearly wanted to shine a light on her achievements.
“Mrs. Johnson?” The gentleman interrupted her thoughts. “Do you think you might be able to make the introduction?”
“Yes,” she said, thinking it through. “Yes, absolutely I can.”
