CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Saturday, May 5—Match Day
ADELE
Margery tossed the ball high and whipped it into the far corner of the service box. It struck the ground, then shot past Adele like a long, low stream of jet fuel.
“Merde,” Adele said under her breath. 15–love.
She had spent countless hours working alone on her serves, and she’d practiced relentlessly each day with anyone who would play. But no one, not even Robbie, who’d reluctantly agreed to hit balls with her, had been anywhere close enough to the level she needed to replicate the demands of this type of performance.It’s all right, she told herself,I just need to get used to the speed again. She moved to the ad side and took a few steps back from the baseline.Now, she thought,now I’m ready for her.
This time, Margery served the ball to Adele’s backhand, and Adele whipped it right back over and down the line. Margery lunged for it, but it was out of reach. 15–all. The crowd to Adele’s right erupted with applause, and when she looked over, Milly and Sylvia were standing at their seats surrounded by all the women she’d been coaching—Betsy, Joan, Susie, Faye—all of them, all the women she had assumed would be through with her after her confession on live television.
Surprised and buoyed by their support, she crouched in the readyposition. As soon as Margery threw the ball into the air to serve, Adele was on her toes. Racket back,slam!Hard and fast like an arrow into the service box. Margery rushed toward the net but couldn’t get there in time. 15–30.
It suddenly sank in that after all this time, Adele was back on the court, playing an actual match against the very woman she’d destroyed her career over. If it hadn’t been Margery, it would have been someone else who’d been at the receiving end of her wrath all those years ago. Adele’s demise had been building for weeks, months, maybe even years before she broke. Now, standing here, she felt a surreal sensation, almost as if she were levitating a few inches off the ground from the energy and thrill of being back in the game. She was here, actually doing this, getting a second chance.
As Margery tossed the ball, Adele saw it go up at a crooked angle. Bad toss, she thought, but Margery hit it anyway, sending it right onto the net. She’s nervous now, Adele mused, she’d hit a safe second serve.
But she didn’t.
Margery shocked her by spinning the ball hard and fast crosscourt. Adele could barely get a racket on it. She managed to tap it back over the net, but it was a weak shot and Margery rushed the net, then hammered it down, sending the ball so high into the air that Adele didn’t stand a chance. She backed up almost to the fence but couldn’t reach. 30–all.
I’m going to take this point, Adele said to herself. She returned the serve straight down the middle and it hit the very back of the line. 30–40.
Margery served short, trying to catch Adele out, but she was already on her toes and leaping forward. That had always been her specialty. Had Margery forgotten that Adele could leap like a ballerina across the court? Adele volleyed to the left at a short and sharp angle. Margery was ready for her, reached her racket out, and shot it back. Adele sliced a backhand volley this time, a sharp angle to the other side, but Margery thought she was going left again and had already begun moving in the wrong direction. Adele won the first game.
God, I’ve missed this.A vibration buzzed through every inch of her.The intensity, the fight, the desire to win was so strong, and in that moment, the last twenty-plus years of her life flashed through her eyes. Sad, lonely, regretful. She couldn’t go back to that, not now that she’d tasted this.
At the changeover, the women on Adele’s side stood and applauded furiously. Adele kept her head down and sipped her water.Stay focused, she reminded herself, yet a hint of a smile curled in the corner of her lips as she heard them call her name. What on earth? She had never smiled during a match, she had never let the crowd know she appreciated their support. Not until the win was securely in her pocket had she ever allowed herself to enjoy the game. It was her serve, her advantage. Adele took the next game. It was 2–0.
Margery grabbed a towel and wiped her face. She looked angry, and Adele allowed herself a glance. Margery was a few years younger than Adele—maybe forty-four, and still very fit. She clearly still played with some regularity, at least social matches, though Adele knew she hadn’t competed with much success after the incident. She was strong and flexible and moved with confidence, but she wasn’t as light on her feet as Adele; it took her a fraction of a second too long to change course when she needed to. Adele had prepared for the match by recalling Margery’s strengths and weaknesses back when they were young: Did she rush the net? Did she prefer to stay back at the baseline? Her memory was imperfect. It had been so long, and everything was clouded with negativity and vicious rumors back then. They had overpowered her sense of the actual game by the time it began to fall apart.
When Margery turned and looked out at the hundreds of people who’d traveled from all over to see this match, Adele looked for the small white scar above her left eye. The papers said she’d had to have surgery twice after the incident but that her vision was almost 100 percent recovered after the second. Did it still affect her? Adele tried to stem the feelings of guilt that rushed back to her now, the regret for all the pain and heartache she had caused. She loved this game so much. She wassure Margery did too. Even if it had been an accident, Adele had taken tennis away from her, just as she’d taken it from herself.
She adjusted the green silk bandeau that she’d fixed around her hair that morning with her signature diamond pin. She’d been hesitant to wear the outfit that her sponsor, Lacoste, had sent—a white drop-waist dress with a green V-neck and green band at the waist, white socks, and the white lace-up tennis shoes, everything adorned with a small embroidered alligator logo. It was a chic outfit, but it wasn’t her signature outfit, and she’d felt superstitious about wearing anything but her Jean Patou. But Lacoste was paying decent money for Adele to wear its clothes, and she’d earn a lot more if she won. Surprisingly, she felt good in it. The fabric was comfortable and more breathable than her old attire, and the style felt fresh and youthful.
The club had also been transformed. Walter had brought in stadium seating for the match, as he said he would. Adele thought he was crazy when he said it would seat a thousand people, but when she looked around, she didn’t see a single empty seat. Sponsors had come pouring in, and multiple banners surrounded court 1, advertising local businesses too. A camera crew had set up on a platform mid-court. If she won the prize money, there was a good chance that she could help Sylvia and Walter keep this club, which would mean she could keep on coaching, maybe even playing. Not competitively, of course—this was a one-time opportunity—but she could potentially find players at her level. She could really start to live again.
Margery was up to serve once more.
Adele felt the heat in the very first serve as it aced past her. She stood way back for the next serve, but Margery switched it up and served short, too short for even Adele to reach. Then they began to rally, power shots back and forth, back and forth. The ball pounded so hard from one corner of the court to the next that white felt fuzz suspended in the air. Margery took that game and the next, tying it up 2–2. Then she won one more, taking the lead.
Adele began to worry. What if she didn’t have what it would taketo win? What if she lost when the world’s eyes were on her? Had she made a big return to the court only to mess it up all over again and disappoint the very people who had brought her out of the shadows? For Sylvia and Walter, so much was riding on this. She’d gotten their hopes up; she couldn’t let them down now. All of a sudden, it felt impossible and crushing. But, strangely, she had no desire to give up, feign injury, and default. No, she wanted to fight for this win.I love this game, she reminded herself;I have always loved this game.
Adele came back and they were head-to-head, going to a tiebreak at the end of the first set. Neither was able to cinch it. It was 5–5, then 6–6, then Margery was up 7–6. Adele brought it back 7–7. They could have gone on like this all day, but someone had to win by two. Adele served an ace. It whistled past Margery. Margery served and Adele returned and raced to the net, pulled her racket back as if she were going to swing big and hurl the ball crosscourt, but she remembered how to do this, how to fake out her opponent. At the last second, she lifted her racket at an angle in front of her like an ax and sliced down on the ball. Chop. It dropped just beyond the net and died, no bounce. Margery didn’t stand a chance. Adele took the first set.
I remember this feeling, Adele thought as she looked up to her fans cheering her on, calling her name.I remember the intense rush of pleasure when I’m ahead.She also recognized the satisfaction in remembering the right shot in the right moment. This was as much a mental challenge as a physical one. She needed to stay sharp and use her head to think through the consequences of each movement.
The second set went on in much the same way. Painfully close, each woman inching her way up the scoreboard, tying it up, moving up, then tying again. Adele was exhausted. She was in shape and healthier than most women her age, but not nearly as fit as she should be for this kind of endurance competition.
“You can do it, Adele,” Sylvia called out. “We believe in you.”
“We believe in you, Adele,” Milly repeated, and then all the women in that section began to chant, “Adele, Adele, Adele.”
Adele felt something bloom inside her, an unfamiliar sensation—maybe love, gratitude, happiness? She wanted to win so badly. She wanted this for her friends. She wanted this for Sylvia so she could stay on Balboa Island and keep the club. She wanted this for Milly, whose confidence had surged since she started playing, and who, though she’d never told her this, showed a lot of potential, with good coaching, of course. She wanted it for herself, for her own pride and sense of accomplishment, to redeem herself, but strangely that mattered less now. She wanted the win for her friends and for the women who didn’t abandon her when they learned her truth.
Early that morning, as she had sat on her living room floor stretching her calf muscles and hamstrings, she’d momentarily slipped into her old ways and begun reciting familiar phrases, the way she always had in the hours before a match, phrases that she’d believed helped to get her fired up, angry, and ready to demolish:You are superior. Kill them. Slaughter them. Winning is everything.All those years ago, her father’s words had become her thoughts. Then she began to hear other words seeping in:Tu es un idiot. You’re slow. Tu joues comme un enfant. What are you thinking? You play like you’ve never picked up a racket.But now it all tasted sour in her mouth. It didn’t fire her up. It didn’t fit her anymore.Arrête, she told herself,arrête.
