Pickleballers

Chapter Two

Two

The walkway leading to the passenger drop-off lot was a trudge from the pebbly beach. Meg picked up the pace, enjoying the stretch in her legs and breathing in the familiar tar-and-sea scent of the Bainbridge Island ferry docks. Even as she marveled at the evergreen-blanketed landscape, she hoped this would be the last—the very last, she promised—Crafty Cat Collar transaction.

Squinting into the thin June sunshine, Meg waited at the appointed spot and watched for the green station wagon. The box of six custom-designed cat collars wasn’t heavy per se, but to her, they may as well have been a box of bricks. Or albatrosses. Leaden albatrosses the size of semitrucks. With this last commission, she would reach her goal in filling the backlog of orders. Meg clung to the hope that maybe soon, with the cushion of the small inheritance she had received from her dad’s trust, she could find more satisfying, or at least more lucrative, ways to waste her college degree.

For the whole of her brief marriage, she had ached to give up the kitschy crafts—a side gig she developed to help bring in some cash while Vance got his dental practice up and going—and return to her artistic calling. And while Vance had wasted no time in filing for divorce, dismantling their marriage as easily as upending a board game, she knew that getting back to painting would take time and patience. Her heart yearned for the smell of oils squeezed onto a palette. How freeing it would feel to unload this final box.

She waited for her customer, alternately watching sailboats bob and rock in the Sound, and peering down the road toward Winslow, where she had ventured earlier this morning for her soy mocha and to take advantage of the island’s peaceful vibe. Cradled by mountains, the seaside island was the opposite of Seattle’s bustle and crowds, although the thirty-five-minute crossing meant the city was only a stone’s throw away. Well…if the thrower had a bionic arm. Or a hydraulic catapult.

Meg glanced at her phone. The buyer was late, but Meg didn’t mind. The ferry waiting area, like the boat ride, was rife with little pleasures—like taking in the vistas over the water and breathing in the cool tang of the salt air. With her painter’s eye, Meg framed her surroundings. In the distance, the green pines formed arrows pointing toward the white sky. In the foreground, the choppy gray water lapped against the ferry pylons. She could shake something creative out of that view, couldn’t she? A throb of doubt answered her and sent her mind sailing back to her latest artistic attempt.

This morning, she had left the canvas, still tacky with fresh paint, leaning against the wall like a discarded flat tire. Gloomy clouds gathering, rain blurring into an undefined splash against the horizon. Uninspired, basic stuff. As soon as it dried, the painting would join its abandoned brethren in the closet. Of course, hiding the canvas would not put an end to Meg’s unspoken fear, the one that had been nagging at her for some time now. What if she couldn’t paint anymore? After such a long break from producing anything meaningful, would she be forever relegated to the land of tacky glue and stud guns? Sure, Annie’s pickleball initiative was a great body-and-mind distractor, but at her core she still craved the sense of accomplishment that came with imagining something bold and authentic: real art.

Beside her, a mammoth station wagon slowed to a stop. Meg straightened and put on her Crafty Cats face. After all, this was a special commission and the buyer had paid extra for personal delivery. But Meg’s view of the driver was impaired by the commotion brewing inside the car.

The glass lowered an inch. Startled, Meg took a reflexive step back. Six piglet snouts poked through the window crack.

So…not cats.

The doors clicked and a woman’s voice rose above the squeals. “It’s open, dear. C’mon in.”

She weighed her options. Skip this, hang on to her dignity, and go home and eat some ramen. Or…just do this.

Bracing herself, she inhaled and slid into the backseat, yanking the door shut before any porky friends could make their escape. Instantly, she was beset.

Yes. This would be it for the pet collars.

“Here you go,” Meg offered, trying to squeeze the box between the headrests. “You can adjust the sizes pretty easily—”

“Oh, no, dear. You go ahead. They’ve been so excited all day!” the driver exclaimed. One piggy’s excitement was so great it stabbed its hoof into Meg’s forearm. “You do the honors,” the woman added, “and decide which one suits which.”

One last time , Meg reminded herself as she made a mental note to stop for wine on her way home. Grabbing a handful of rubbery pinkness, Meg tried to fit a cat collar on a piglet, but, using Meg’s thighs as a springboard, the piggy bolted away. Next, Meg attempted flailing toward a skinny, spotted squeaker, but it, too, ejected from her grasp. By her fourth essay, Meg got the picture.

“So exciting,” her round-faced patron whispered, and clapped her hands in glee.

Enough , Meg decided. There were limits. Even for Meg. Stretching for the door, she tossed the box onto the backseat and flung herself from the vehicle, shivering with the heebie-jeebies.

The woman’s enthusiasm remained undeterred. “Terrific!” she cried. “Look at them! We’re all so excited.” Her head turned toward the writhing mass of piglets at the window. They squealed and grunted and surged at Meg as if she were a fresh bucket of slop. “I’ll Venmo you,” the woman called as the car rolled away.

Meg blinked, shell-shocked. With a brisk shake of her head, she cleared her thoughts and checked the time. Forty minutes until the next ferry departure back to Seattle. She could wait out the two hours until the next one and relax in one of the quaint cafés, but waiting often entailed a wandering mind. And when her mind meandered, it trundled around Lonely Land and Self-Pitytown, visiting famous tourist spots like the Pit of Forever Single and the Valley of the Creatively Mediocre. She had to stay busy to keep her mind off Vance. But the dreadful paintings and attempts at pickleball were like sticking duct tape over the holes in an old garden hose—temporary patches before new leaks sprang up elsewhere.

Pickleball! That was what she’d meant to remember. Meg picked up her pace toward the walkway. She needed to leave Bainbridge on that next ferry, or she’d be late for her pickleball meetup with Annie. When Annie got mad, she turned into an enraged pixie armed with toxic fairy dust. Best to stay on her good side.

But in truth, Meg did not want to miss this afternoon’s games. Each time she stepped on the courts, the adrenaline bump lifted her mood, and the unexpected camaraderie of the sport warmed her spirit. As Annie had promised, pickleball was rapidly becoming an addiction, and she had zero desire to crimp her cravings. The thrill of flinging herself into fresh pursuits felt as central to her core as her zest for her tried-and-true passions—like painting and hiking and her deep-rooted friendship with Annie. Since Vance’s departure five months ago, buds of true Meg-ness had begun to reemerge, unfurling like time-lapse blossoms.

To Meg’s relief, when she rolled onto the pier in her hatchback, a dockhand wearing a wizard hat for no apparent reason waved her onto the ferry. Yay! she rejoiced as she pulled into the final slot in the car line. Every time Meg did not have to bear watching the ferry’s huge form getting tinier and tinier as it chugged away, she felt like she had won the lottery. And even though the ferries ran every hour or two, by nature, Meg was not a waiter. Well, she had been a waiter , a waitress actually, but an artist must make ends meet somehow.

She ambled up the stairs and through the heavy metal door to the interior of Wenatchee . Meg had ridden Walla Walla and Tacoma as well as this ferry, but on each voyage the majesty of the ship made her feel like a tourist. Bright lighting, cavernous seating areas, and comfy chairs gave the open room the feel of a cruise ship. Along the bulkheads, seating booths looked out over enormous, double-paned windows with views to Puget Sound.

As she searched for a seat, she paused to view the old photographs and the artwork exhibited along the ferry walls. Meg lingered, marveling at a series of intricately carved cedar panels and at a lithograph image of a Native American Haida Raven. There were newer works, also, and Meg halted at the perfection of a small painting, a savage scape of a ferry careening across Puget Sound, hounded by the off-kilter form of Mount Rainier. It was the kind of art that delivered emotionally, the kind of art she wanted to produce.

A rush of hope lifted her mood. With the Vance debacle behind her and the last of the Crafty Cat Collar deliveries completed, she could rediscover herself. Meg counted this sighting as a sign. Or at least a push in the right direction. The world wanted her to return to her passion for painting.

When she felt the ferry shift, Meg speed-walked to the rear of the ship so as not to miss the spectacle. The view from a departing ferry never grew old. She pushed the door hard against the outside wind and tugged her hood over her flying hair. Even on this sunny June day, although it was technically almost summer, a chilly bite of wind whipped around the railings. She was glad for her puffy coat.

Seagulls swooped and cawed and the ferry captain expertly avoided bouncing against the pylons as the ship left the dock. For an instant, she thought the pier itself was gliding away, so smooth was their departure; only the bracing wind on her cheeks and the visual cues told her the ship was in motion. She grasped the green metal railing and took in the shrinking Olympic Peninsula—rolling hills and rocky beaches in the foreground; the craggy, snow-topped peaks in the distance. On crisp, clear days like today, the scenery looked like a movie set—too beautiful to be real. Overhead, blue skies prevailed, while the white fog of a marine layer clung to the horizon. She breathed in the wind, the salt, the sound of the gulls, and the gentle rocking of the ferry.

A blast of wind sent her rushing inside to the narrow entry alcove, where Meg came face-to-face with a display rack packed tight with flashy flyers for the Seattle Ferris wheel, whale-watching tours, and 3-D film offerings at Pacific Science Center. She lifted a glossy trifold from the wall mount.

Bainbridge Island , the brochure proclaimed. Destination for Vacation and Industry . And piglet collar delivery, Meg inserted.

In the photos, well-dressed Gen Xers sipped cabernet at a winery. Gen Zers hauled backpacks topped with camping gear up a snowy incline on the nearby Olympic Peninsula. An older couple walked along the rocky shoreline holding hands. When she spotted the image of her millennial cohorts, Meg was surprised to find that the photo boasted a smiling, athletic throng of pickleballers.

Did you know , read the caption, that Bainbridge Island is the birthplace of America’s fastest growing sport? Pickleball!

Right here in her home state? Meg’s interest was piqued. Standing there in the little alcove, she scanned The History of Pickleball with interest.

In 1965, three dads, Joel Pritchard, Bill Bell, and Barney McCallum, repurposed their old backyard badminton court, inventing a sport using wooden paddles and plastic balls. Initially, pickleball was meant to entertain the kids over the summer, but the adults had such fun that they took over the backyard court. Meg could understand the draw. The sport had an addictive allure. She continued reading. Although the game involves no pickles, some suggest pickleball was named after the Pritchard family’s dog, Pickles, who loved to lick stray balls. Forcefully, Meg steered her mind away from the obvious imagery.

Amazing, Meg mused, that so many years later pickleball had at last become such a sensation. And she could see why. Not only was pickleball a great mental distraction from her loneliness, but she felt healthier and stronger physically. Her calves and arms showed the contours of new muscle tone. Each day she played, she improved. If she continued to challenge herself, one day she might even gather the nerve to sign up for a tournament.

She stuffed the brochure in her bag to remember to return to Bainbridge. It would be fun to pickle at the source of it all. Maybe she’d drag Annie along, too, if she could convince her friend to take a day off, Meg thought. And as she wandered past booths and benches teeming with families and snuggling couples, she longed for her friend’s good company. Five months since her ex had up and left, and still, moments like this socked her with loneliness. Not for Vance and his brassy charisma, but for the companionship of being around someone who knew her ups and downs yet still agreed to get on the roller coaster.

Catching a whiff of coffee, Meg followed her nose through the wide doorway where the Wenatchee ’s café gleamed with the stainless steel fittings of a 1950s cafeteria. She hadn’t had anything to eat since this morning’s scone at the ferry landing, and by now she had passed beyond peckish. Joining the end of the line that snaked into the service area, Meg spotted a metal cauldron puffing steam and her spirits flipped like a switch. The contents of that soup pot were a magical mood elixir.

Oh, how Meg adored clam chowder. The rich cream base seasoned with savory herbs, the cooked-just-right cubed potatoes, the chewy, perfect clams. How could such a little crustacean pack such a flavorful punch? Meg wondered as she slid her plastic tray along the counter. Three people waited in front of her while she salivated. Two. Then it was her turn.

“Medium clam chowder, please.”

To Meg’s surprise, her request echoed in stereo, overlapping with a velvety bass.

She smelled him before she turned her head—the man beside her who had ordered the same chowder at the same time. Pine-covered mountain trails blew off him like a sexy breeze that mingled with the clam chowder’s aroma. The scent of heaven.

“You go ahead.”

“Sorry. I didn’t see you there,” she mumbled. “You’re ahead of me. You go first.”

“Go ahead. Please.” Beneath unjustly thick lashes, a pair of golden brown eyes took her in. He grinned a charming, uneven smile.

From behind them, a balding man with a foaming latte on his tray growled, “Get the lady a clam chowder, will ya, and we can all keep moving.”

“I love clam chowder,” Dreamy Eyes said. “Those chewy clam bites and the little potato cubes…” Meg Bloomberg stared at the curve of his shoulders beneath the lightweight T-shirt. Why was she still wearing her puffy coat? And the hood was up! She yanked it down and smoothed her hair.

“I think we’re holding up the line…” He gestured for her to slide forward, but to her mortification, she could not budge, could not speak a word.

“Or,” he said, “I’ll scoot forward.” Nodding his chin, he indicated the buildup behind them. “We don’t want to incur the wrath of the masses.”

“Okay.” After that scintillating bit of genius, her tongue went on strike. Come on. Say something, Meg . She searched her brain for anything besides song lyrics. “I hope it’s hot,” she managed.

“I hope so, too. Enjoy your chowder,” he said, and carried his tray through the doorway.

I hope it’s hot ? Ugh! If she weren’t so concerned about hurting herself, she would bang her forehead against the cash register.

Still. He was supercute, and for a split second, she cheered herself. Yay. She had spoken to a cute guy. And granted, her participation in the conversation fell short of stellar. Four words. And one of them was a contraction. But a gal’s gotta start somewhere.

She wandered the tiled floor, tray in hand, and found a miraculously vacant spot at a booth with a table. Meg took off her bulky jacket and settled herself by the big picture window. She stirred the good stuff from the bottom and blew on the spoonful before sipping. The chowder was, in fact, hot.

Outside, sunlight glinted off the choppy waters of the Sound. The points of whitecaps splashed against the giant ship, but only the sliding scenery and the lightly vibrating bench beneath her thighs reminded her that she was on a boat.

It felt good, that vibration. Soothing. And stimulating, Meg had to admit. She sipped her chowder and let her mind go blank, dimly recalling the beauty of Bainbridge; the lush, green mounds of the peninsula; the long, sturdy pines that drove their thick trunks toward the sky. That man in the café was very good-looking. And it had been a while. How would it feel to run her hands over those pecs? Draw her fingertips down his contoured shoulders? When he pulled out his wallet, her eyes had lingered on his back pockets. His hands were nice, too, especially his neatly trimmed fingernails. Meg loved short, sharp nails that scraped along her back. Her eyelids slipped closed.

Yes. Just like that. Dreamy Eyes moaned in her ear, her reaction to his hot breath traveling along her body right down to the bowl of her hips. His tongue traced the hollow of her neck. With a feathery touch, his fingers slid along her back and skimmed her skin. It felt nice. Really nice. The vibration between her thighs sent a shiver through her, and without warning, an “Ah!” escaped her lips.

Suddenly, Meg became aware of her lapse in decorum. She opened her eyes and pretended to study the empty chowder carton as she burrowed deeper into the cushioned comfort of the booth.

“Did you enjoy it?”

Mortified, Meg startled. Her head snapped up and her cheeks flooded with warmth.

Holy hand grenades, it was him. Mr. Sexy Manicure. For real this time. He leaned over the table, so close that the scent of his skin dizzied her. His shirt fell open over his metal belt buckle.

“Did I enjoy…?”

“The chowder. Delicious, right?”

“I…Yes. Very good.”

“I like the T-shirt.”

What shirt was she wearing? Ah. Sasquatch with a speech bubble that said, I think, therefore I am. His eyes twinkling with mischief, Hot Guy nodded at the caption. “I hear Bigfoot’s got a lawsuit going. Everyone’s using his image, and he’s not making a dime.” Reacting to her grin, he added, “And of course Descartes gets royalties every time someone uses his catchphrase.”

She glanced back down at her shirt. “I had no idea. This shirt’s a marketing nightmare.” His lips pricked up with that lopsided smile.

“ Now arriving, downtown Seattle ,” announced the voice from the loudspeakers. “ Drivers and passengers, please return to your vehicles. ”

“Well. That’s me,” he said. “Take care.”

“I’m Meg,” she said much louder than she intended. “Hi.” She stood and held a hand to him. “Meg.”

“Nice to meet you, Meg.” His handshake was gentle and firm at the same time. The perfect combination. Nothing sexual about a handshake, Meg told herself, but all the while she was noting the smooth-rough combination of their touching skin. “Ethan Fine,” he said.

She remembered herself. “Nice to meet you, too.”

He shoved those hands into his jeans pockets and bent forward in a half bow. She watched his backside for an inappropriately long time before she shook off her daydreaming and collected herself.

Ethan Fine. Meg slipped on her puffy coat. I will never see you again, but thank you for a lovely four minutes.

Her brain hummed, still fizzing with the buzz of awakened desire.