Adele served, then rushed the net, volleyed the ball to Margery’s feet, where she reached down to return it but could only pop it up over Adele’s head and out. Adele was ahead in the second set, 5–4. At the next point, though, Margery changed her strategy. She lobbed the ball over Adele to the far-right corner. Adele managed to run far enough back to return it, but Margery hit a fast forehand with topspin to the baseline. She had Adele running from one side of the court to the next. Adele could outrun anyone in her day, but now she was winded—back and forth, back and forth—as Margery crept back up the scoreboard. Adele hit a high backhand but not hard enough. It fell into the net. Margery took the second set. Now it was anyone’s game.
In her old life this was the point at which Adele would confer withher father, absorb his anger and insults, his way of igniting her rage and setting her game on fire. She had thought this made her stronger, meaner, tougher, but it didn’t ring true anymore. She took a deep breath and tried to slow down her racing heart.I love this game, she repeated in her head.There’s nowhere I’d rather be; I may have lost that set, but I’ll win the next.Just saying those words made her feel calm and more in control. She wondered how much energy her negative thoughts had consumed in her younger days, how much her own self-debasement had sapped her strength.
She couldn’t play tennis without thinking of her father and feeling all those swirling emotions in the pit of her stomach. Why had he done it? Why had her father pushed her so hard? She’d seen the way Milly treated her children, firm when she needed to be, but mostly loving, gentle, and encouraging. She’d witnessed Sylvia navigating the challenging teenage years, heightened and even more emotional due to their move, but she too handled her daughter with grace. She was sure there were times, behind closed doors, when both women lost their tempers or said things they didn’t mean, but it was obvious that they loved their children whether they succeeded or failed. But maybe it had been the only way her father knew how to love. Maybe tough love was all he had known himself, and it was the only way he knew how to teach her. What if he’d been doing the best he could?
She took a long drink of water and wiped the sweat from her neck between sets. Milly and Sylvia rushed to her courtside.
“You look amazing out there. You’re so graceful, so precise. It’s like watching a fast and furious dance,” Milly said. “Keep going.”
“It’s astounding,” Sylvia said, leaning over toward her. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. It’s an absolute honor to watch you.”
“Thanks,” Adele said. “I won’t let you down.”
The rest of the women cheered and clapped as Margery and Adele took their positions.
The third and final set started fiercely. Margery clearly wanted the win. Her serves were on fire, acing Adele twice in the first game, butin the third game she double-faulted twice in a row, putting Adele in the lead. Adele’s next serves were equally fast and searing, but then, in a surprise move, Margery came to the net and crushed ball after ball. Adele had to adjust. She came up to meet her, but Margery managed to send the ball up and over her, landing it in. Margery was in the lead.
There’s no place I’d rather be, Adele said to herself.I love this game.Slam. She shot it down the line, record speed. Margery missed. Then Margery took the next point and won that game. She was ahead 7–6.
“Merde, merde, merde,” Adele said through gritted teeth, furious that Margery was ahead. But instead of making her shake, crumble, and search for anyone’s approval to leave the court, give up, act out, it gave her razor focus.
Match point. They rallied back and forth, back and forth, speed and power erupting each time the racket made contact with the ball. Corner to corner, no one wanted to change it up, no one wanted to make the fault. Adele knew she had to end it, but the force of these shots was so great. Next one she’d change course, catch Margery off guard, and then she noticed the tiniest change in Margery’s stance. Adele tried to move closer to the alley, but she was a second too late: Margery ripped the ball down the line, and it hit just inside the white line. Adele lunged for the ball, but the match was over.
Margery Horn had won.
Adele watched as her opponent dropped to her knees, put her hands together in prayer, and kissed the clear blue sky above her. Adele couldn’t believe it, and yet she could. She hadn’t trained enough to win, yet somehow, she had thought a win might still be possible.
She wouldn’t get the prize money. The club would be repossessed.
She had let Sylvia down after all.
Sick with disappointment, she forced herself to look up to her cheering section, expecting her feelings to be reflected back in the women’s faces, but instead they shot out of their seats and ran to her, more of them now—Milly, Sylvia, Joan, Maureen, Susie, Sadie, Faye, and Betsy—rushing from the bleachers onto the court, throwing themselves at Adele,hugging her. She could barely breathe and had to resist the urge to push them away. She’d lost—didn’t they know this? But the women started jumping up and down, taking her with them, a pulsating, vibrating force.
“What are you doing?” she asked, almost laughing, as they began to loosen their grip. “Don’t you know I lost the match? I lost!”
“Who cares, you were incredible!” Sylvia said.
“You’re back,” Milly said.
“Hardly.” Adele tried to suppress her smile.
“You’re back in the game, and you’re a star,” Milly said.
Adele couldn’t quite believe it. She’d lost, and this was the reception she received. She peered over to Margery, where she too was being hugged and congratulated.
“Excusez-moi,” Adele said to her friends. “Just a moment.”
She walked to the net, and when Margery saw her, she approached. Adele held out her hand.
“Congratulations, Margery. That was a tough match.”
“Congratulations to you also. You are still a force to be reckoned with,” Margery said. “But I knew I could beat you if I had another chance.”
It stung, but Adele nodded. “You won fair and square, and you have not lost your touch.” She looked at the small scar, close-up now; it had a white sheen to it. Margery’s fingers reflexively touched the spot. “I must apologize, Margery, for my terrible actions at Wimbledon. I am so sorry for the pain I caused you and for what happened to your career,” Adele said, her eyes watering in spite of herself, as she heard the apology that she should have spoken years ago.
“Thank you,” Margery said. “I appreciate that. I knew it was an accident, but I was too angry at the time to correct the reports. I should have spoken up.”
Adele dropped her head. “And I want to say, I’m deeply sorry about the sleeping pill. I had completely lost my way. I would never—”
