Pickleballers

Chapter Twelve

Twelve

The betrayal threatened to knock Meg’s knees out from under her. A padlock! “What the—” Her voice stuck like a fishbone in her throat. Locking lips with Ethan had blinded her to his real M.O.—locking their pickleball courts!

Poor Lakeview! Her league was supposed to have the whole summer together to play and practice—preparation that was imperative to the league’s success if they hoped to win the money for new courts. Ethan must have locked them up earlier than promised and then escaped the fray to Bainbridge. The nerve. How could she have been so easily taken in by that infuriating Adonis?

It was the boots. She’d always had a soft spot for work boots. Blowing out a shaky breath, she vowed to stand up against this latest affront to her league. When and if she ran into him again.

But for now, there was a more immediate entanglement to tackle. She glanced at Annie in the hotel bed beside her. By seven o’clock, Annie had turned herself off like a light switch and now her bangs hung over her face and her mouth drooped toward the pillow. Sneaking a furtive glance at her sleeping friend, Meg hesitated, one hand on the door. She hadn’t told Annie what she had overheard about Marilyn’s plans to meet up with Michael Edmonds tonight at the winery, but she was determined to follow up.

As she slipped out of the room, she texted Rooster. OMW. Then, remembering it was Rooster, she followed up with Heading to the winery now. Operation Michael Edmonds, Rooster had called it after she filled him in on what she’d overheard. He had leapt at the chance to be her wingman this evening for her intel-gathering mission.

She found the winery in the heart of Winslow’s quaint downtown. Cute café tables dotted the sidewalk in front of a weathered brick building with shuttered windows. Meg wouldn’t have been surprised to see swinging saloon doors or a horse clopping down the street, the scene so resembled the set of an old-fashioned western.

Sweeping into the winery in stealth mode, Meg kept her eyes peeled for any signs of Michael Edmonds. A first glance around the space did not reveal Michael, but her gaze lingered on the atmospheric decor. Overhead, wrought iron candelabra chandeliers hung from the raftered ceiling, while repurposed wooden barrels bound with steel hoops supported the glass dining tables. Meg felt a small pang as she took in the cozy winery. The scene took her back to the pre-Vance days, when she and Annie would hang out in places like this—making up preposterous life stories about the other couples at the tables and laughing until their sides hurt.

She smiled when she spotted Rooster waiting for her. “M’lady.” He pulled out a stool at the bar for her. “You hear about that lock they put on the courts?” Meg nodded her head in dismay, but Rooster lifted a palm to continue. “I’m sure the guy had a good reason.”

Leave it to Rooster to suspect the best in everyone. He’d been a fan of Ethan’s from the moment he guessed at Meg’s affection for him under the rain-soaked school awning. But now Meg pressed her lips into a tight line, berating herself. Couldn’t she, just once, be attracted to a nice guy who wasn’t dead set on crushing her every new hope and dream?

A coaster appeared on the bar and Meg looked up to see a pretty, raven-haired bartender with a sophisticated updo. “Will you be tasting today?”

“Sure.” When on Bainbridge, do as the Islanders do.

Rooster put a hand over the wineglass that she slid in front of him. “None for me, thanks. A sparkling water would be great.”

She poured a thimbleful of white wine in Meg’s glass. “This is our Riesling. Light and crisp. My name’s Lynette and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have about our pours.”

Meg sipped. It was quite nice. But she wasn’t there to just drink. Quickly, she recapped the phone call she’d overheard about Marilyn’s meetup with Michael.

“I suspect you’re right about our elusive Mr. Edmonds hiding a secret up his sleeve,” Rooster said, pulling out his phone. “Check out what Laverne shared with me. Here’s his post, just half an hour ago.” Meg studied the image. Michael Edmonds seated among the wrought iron and repurposed barrels. Yep. This was the place. He could be tucked into any of the dimly lit alcoves.

“Don’t see him here, though,” Rooster said. “He might already have come and gone.”

“I hope not.” Indicating Rooster’s cell, Meg said, “What’s with you and social media all of a sudden? I thought you and Laverne were technology averse. The two of you share a phone!”

“Yes. We did. But things have changed. This is my new phone.” He showed it to her proudly, like a game show host presenting a prize. “Never really needed one; never been away from her before,” he said, a rare blush capping his bald head. “But now I need my own…I’m expecting news.” He let the statement dangle, daring Meg to ask. She bit.

“News?”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything to anyone. Things are still touch and go, but…” He leaned in for the boo-yah. “We’re having a baby.”

Okay. This was news. Rooster was seventy. Not unheard of, but late to be starting out. But Laverne? Either a world record or science gone awry.

“Aren’t you a little…”

“Excited? Of course we are. But nervous, too. My goddaughter Lulu is on bed rest, and we’ve been on pins and—”

“Oh! Your goddaughter. I thought…”

Rooster laughed. “Laverne? That would be miraculous. No. Laverne and I—by the time we found each other, we were a little long in the tooth for childbearing. But bless Lulu’s heart; she’s like a daughter to us. That’s why we came here to Bainbridge. She lives here. This little one’ll be the same as if she were our grandbaby.” His expression clouded momentarily. He recovered, shaking off his daydream. He lifted his fizzy water in a toast. “And damned if I’m not gonna be the best pop-pop around.”

They clinked glasses, and Rooster mentioned, “You played well today.”

“Yeah. Did you see me beat up on those old people?”

“You must be very proud.”

Meg grinned and sipped at her drink. Again, she scanned the crowd at the tables. Where was Michael?

Rooster said, “You keep playing as well as you did this afternoon and pretty soon we’ll kick Vance right off the courts.”

Her jaw tightened.

“You’re making that face again,” Rooster noted.

“What face? This is just my face. It’s what it looks like.”

“No. The face from the pickleball court the morning I took that snapshot of you. That ‘I’m already defeated before I’ve even begun’ face. You make that face sometimes when we’re losing a game.”

Did she? Once, she’d overheard Jeannie call her “the Choker.” Rooster’s words drove it home. The moment she lost a couple of points in succession, it felt impossible to reset, too difficult to wipe away the residue of a badly placed shot. And with that mindset, there was no coming back for the win.

Rooster met her eye. “You deserve someone who treats you with trust. With genuine affection. That ex of yours was an eggshell in the omelet.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“If you say so,” Rooster commented. “But ya know, I used to make a living reading people, and you, Meg Bloomberg, are an open book.”

“You were a psychic?”

“A poker player. And an airport cargo manager. And a Zamboni driver. I worked in the fisheries department for a while, too. And a long time ago, I got myself thrown around on the rodeo circuit. Those were some days I don’t care to remember. But sometimes, I force myself to do so. Just like you should take a good, long look at that photo I took of you.”

The memory pinched at her. “Not something I’m generally in the mood for.”

Rooster considered her. “It’s no fun. But you have to study your mistakes before you can move on. Don’t beat yourself up. Just think about it. Why didn’t you get out of that marriage earlier? What signs did you miss? And once that acceptance seeps in, you can go forward. And next time, use that to set yourself up for the win.”

Yes—that was what she had tried to do. With Ethan’s kiss, she had dipped her foot back into the tidal pool. But the moment she let herself feel invested, she had been knocked over by a rogue wave. The image of Ethan’s padlock clipped to Lakeview’s gate flashed in her thoughts, and Meg groaned. She sank her head toward the bar.

“Was it something I said?” Rooster asked.

Meg was itching to unload her frustrations. Annie would go off the rails if Meg confessed her confused feelings for that picklelocker. But here was Rooster, who had a way of putting things in perspective. She could come clean to him, couldn’t she?

“Can I tell you something? It’s about Ethan Fine.” Rooster lifted a brow and said nothing. Already she felt like she had said too much. “I…like him.”

“Is that so,” Rooster said without an ounce of surprise.

Meg shook her head, disheartened. “Everybody hates him. He locked our courts. He’s destroying our only place to play—”

“That may be so,” he conceded, “but you never know another person’s story until you know that person’s story. And you have to let go of the idea that anybody else’s opinion should alter your faith in your own good choices.”

Rooster swiveled toward her on his barstool and fixed her in his sights.

“Life’s like pickleball,” he said. “You gotta release the bad patterns and habits that are dragging you down before you can make any progress. Remember how last month you thought you’d try going back to that sideways service stance? How’d that work out for you?”

Meg smiled despite herself. She had gone kicking and screaming from that old, useless serve. The new, forward-facing serve turned her game around. Even crabby Jeannie was taken by surprise when Meg’s serve whizzed past her. Then, for no good reason, her stubborn feet and body spent a whole game trying that terrible sideways serve again. Over and over, she hit the ball out-of-bounds or into the net or wide. At the time, Rooster had stared patiently forward.

She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to learn from her mistakes and move on. She would have to tread carefully with Ethan, but Rooster was spot-on when he said she couldn’t control her feelings. If only she could decide what to do with them.

Lynette swooped in with a fresh pour: a finger of red wine. Without fully processing its arrival, Meg downed it in one swallow.

“It’s one of our best sellers,” the bartender said. “The Shiraz is a bold, full-bodied blend with smoky undertones—”

“That’s fine. Could you?” Meg pointed near the lip of her glass. “Thanks, by the way,” she said to Rooster. “For being the designated driver. I don’t think I even offered.”

“No problem. I don’t drink anyway. Eighteen years sober. And counting.”

He flagged Lynette for another sparkling water. His gravelly voice highlighted the confidential quality of his words. “I confront my screwups most every day. They hang around like the smell of old fish, but I keep rolling forward, dragging that part of me. I acknowledge that. The rodeo? Hell. I was so busy drowning myself in alcohol, I was barely living.”

Half consciously, Meg slid the wineglass away with her fingers. She was feeling…What was she feeling? Ungenerous. Incomplete.

“You okay?” Rooster asked. “Don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Let’s get some grub in the belly. Give us some fuel to keep on the Michael hunt.”

Her gaze swept the tables again, looking for the lanky pickleballer with a goofy grin. At Rooster’s questioning look, she shook her head. “Still no Michael. But the mussels look good.”

There was no way to be dainty about eating Penn Cove mussels. Rooster, too, made quick work of digging into his shepherd’s pie. As they devoured the delicious meal, she pictured Rooster, night after night, sitting at the dinner table in comfortable conversation with Laverne. Two halves of the same whole. How was it that so many couples balanced each other, while her marriage had felt so lopsided? “Did Laverne stick with you then?” she asked. “Through all of your tough times?”

“Lucky for me, Laverne met me after I turned myself around. Met her at an AA meeting. She’d come every year on her sister’s birthday to talk to us, and after three years of hemming and hawing I asked her out. By then, Laverne’s niece, Lulu, was a university student, but Laverne had cared for her since she was eighteen, when her parents were killed by a drunk driver.”

“Ugh. How awful.”

“You’re tellin’ me. But you can see why backsliding was never an option. In my head, I still look back at that vision of myself, dead drunk and cussin’ up a storm at the bull that threw me. So wasted I nearly got myself trampled to death. And that would have been all on me.”

She dunked some crusty bread in the buttery mussel sauce. Rooster’s comments loitered in her thoughts. “Doesn’t it make you sad? Or mad at yourself, when you think about the crappy stuff in your past?”

“Absolutely. That’s the point.” He nodded. “Feel it. And then put it aside. The bad choices—those were my mistakes. I can sulk and whine, or I can make a better place for myself: marry an amazing woman and be Pop-Pop to a grandchild I never imagined I’d have. Twenty years ago, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to imagine such a future for myself, but here I am, living my best life, right?”

Meg licked melted butter off her fingers and nodded her agreement. Rooster had opened his heart to her. She could let her guard down a little, couldn’t she?

“You know that photo you took of me? I can’t even look at it. It’s so…” She rolled her eyes at her own folly. The wine and Rooster’s trust had loosened her tongue. “You know what I pictured when you told me to think of the worst-case scenario?”

He tilted his head. She braved forward. “I pictured a future me: alone, and jealous, and unfulfilled,” she said, shaking her head at the table. “And it wasn’t a future without Vance that I worried about. It was— Well. I worry I won’t get back to the me I was before him. How can I ever open myself up to anyone new if I’m scared that the same thing will happen again?”

Seltzer glass in hand, he pointed his index finger and met her eye. “Nobody can take you away from you.” As his words settled, she managed a small smile, grateful to be chastised with such good advice. She planned to stick with herself for the long haul.

“Hey.” Rooster pointed his chin toward the tables. “Isn’t that the woman from the courts? The one who you said was meeting Michael?”

Meg swiveled to see the back of a straight-postured woman with neatly coiffed hair. She was seated alone, a laptop open in front of her. As she peered at the screen, she scrolled with her mouse. Her other hand rolled her nearly empty wineglass between her long fingers, occasionally clinking one of her massive rings against the crystal stem.

Marilyn.