Pickleballers

Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty-Three

Last night, dizzy with the residue of desire, they pad-footed along the rough earth and climbed into the tree house. Without the gymnastics necessitated by the hammock, they took their time, relishing the luxury of drawn-out pleasure. Afterward, beneath the cozy comforter, she snuggled against Ethan and dropped into a sleep so satisfying and luxurious she wished she could bottle it and save it for a restless night. Now an Ethan-shaped indentation lay beside her, the bed so recently abandoned that his scent still hovered. Making slow circles with her ankles, she enjoyed the texture of the smooth sheets.

On the rustic nightstand, Ethan had left her a folded, fresh T-shirt. Smiling, she dressed and skipped down the cabin steps, looking forward to pouring boiling water into a pouch of dehydrated scrambled eggs. What a brilliant invention. Perhaps she should switch to buying all her food dehydrated. She hoped Ethan had coffee; then again, if he traveled with pasta Bolognese, he surely stocked up on the roasted beans. A Northwest morning without coffee was like an air sandwich.

She found him reading in the hammock, and when he noticed her, the sly lift of his lips brought back the memory of last night’s intimacies. Meg reached for his paperback. “Check the page number,” she said, and gave him an instant before she snatched the book and tossed it to the ground.

“Mmm.” His hand slid down her side until he reached her hip. Yanking her toward him, he murmured, “Good morning.”

More than a little aroused, she coiled her arms around him, hammock and all, and slid on top of him for a kiss that would have shocked her former self. The wind picked up and set the hammock swinging. Coming up for air, Meg caught a flutter of paper in her peripheral view. “What’s this?” She hadn’t seen it in the darkness last night. Meg unclipped a deck of laminated cards from the suspension rope.

Ethan sat, as best as he could, and peeked over Meg’s shoulders. The back of each card read Hammock Fun at the Mountain Love Shack .

“What is this?” she asked again. This time it was a mock accusation. She flipped through the first few cards, her eyes widening. Each card featured a racy cartoon image complete with captions and instructions. “This is your family’s cabin?”

Ethan had turned an adorable shade of red. “This is…I have not seen this before. This was not here the last time I was here,” he protested.

She sifted through the cards. Pigs in a Blanket: Self-explanatory. Night at the Improv: Anything for a laugh. Zipper: Has teeth. The Candelabra: One foot on the floor and the other limbs raised to the sky. Brace Yourself, Franny: See details in image.

“This is like the hammock Kama Sutra ,” she observed.

He reached over to keep her from flipping to the next card. “This looks interesting. I suggest we try the Cheeky Chipmunk.”

“Oh, do you?” Shifting, Meg straddled him. She cradled his face in her hands and kissed him.

His hands glided down her backside and he squeezed two handfuls of Meg. “You are cheeky, aren’t you?”

“I am,” she smirked, and pressed herself against him. “Ooh. Paddle up.” Their kiss, soft and playful at first, quickly devolved into a sense-obliterating crush of passion.

“Oopsie! Don’t mind me.”

Meg jumped at the approaching voice and swiveled to see a round-faced, cheerful woman in her sixties.

As he bolted upright, Ethan tipped Meg from the hammock. He grabbed her arm, steadying her landing. “Mom!” Ethan gasped.

Her eyes crinkled in apology. “So sorry. So sorry, sweetheart. Hope I’m not interrupting.” She set down a stack of sheets on the picnic bench and gave Meg a friendly wave. “Hello,” she sang before reaching out her hand. “I’m Babs. Babs Fine. Ethan’s mom.”

“Ma. What are you doing here?”

Meg’s head whipped back and forth between the pair. Now it was her cheeks that she knew were sprouting a pink blush. His mother?

Babs smiled and nodded at the linens. “Changing the sheets. Do you think they change themselves?” Turning her attention to Meg, she asked Ethan, “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Meg, and we were just packing up—”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Babs’s lips lifted with her sidelong glance. “I’ve made you your breakfast, pumpkin, just like you like it. I wasn’t expecting company, but there’s plenty for the both of you. Let me just get these sheets on.” Still mastering her surprise, Meg moved out of Ethan’s mother’s path. “Meg, do you want a latte? A half-caf? I’ll call Henry and let him know. He likes to be prepared.”

“Henry’s Mom’s boyfriend,” Ethan clarified, as if that was the part of this scenario that needed explaining.

A latte? In the wilderness? Meg stuttered, “Um. A mocha? Soy if you have it.”

“You got it.” Turning to her son, she said, “You should get a move on. We have our appointment at ten, remember? And Ethan, honey?” She waggled a finger at her son’s boxers. “You might want to put on some pants.” Babs trundled into the cabin, humming the theme from Star Wars .

With an apologetic glance at Meg, Ethan wriggled into his jeans.

“Oh my god,” Meg whispered. “Your mom…” Her eyes flew wide as she listened to the rustling of the bed-making inside. “Oh no! The garbage can…”

“She’ll leave that for me—”

“Ethan, sweetheart, where do we keep the spare trash bags?”

“Oh god,” Meg murmured. “I might die of embarrassment.”

“Never mind. Found them,” Babs called from within. “Three! Good for you. Always a good idea to use protection.”

Ethan cocked his head. “Burial or cremation?”

“Just chuck me off the cliff, please.”

“All set,” Babs announced, emerging from the cabin a few minutes later. Apprising Meg and Ethan’s readiness, she nodded her approval and headed off into the hemlocks. Meg followed, too dumbstruck to wonder where they were going. In the span of minutes, Meg had gone from feeling like a grown-up taking charge of her sexuality to a teen caught with weed in her sock drawer. She did not ask if they were headed toward the main trail or back down the route she came. In fact, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find a helicopter waiting behind the ridge.

As they trod the worn trail, Ethan placed a hand on the small of her back. They walked for several minutes along a widening path, and Meg noticed a subtle change in her surroundings: the chirping of the birds was replaced by the noise of…what was that? Cars? With a mounting sense of the surreal, Meg heard a car horn, then spotted a telltale sign of civilization: the peak of a cell tower.

Steps later, they emerged from the woods to a subdivision and marched through the backyard of a contemporary home. “Casa, sweet casa,” Babs declared.

Catching on to Meg’s confusion, Ethan explained. “The cabin and the maple stand, that’s all part of my mom’s property. This is Olympic Heights.” He directed her up the porch steps of a colonial craftsman. A golf cart sat parked in the driveway. Her mouth dropped and she resisted the urge to hit herself upside the head. The goat, the cliff crossing, the fear of freezing to death with gummy worms stuck in her teeth. She had been so close to civilization and had not even known it.

Bewildered and feeling not just a little awkward, Meg allowed herself to be led to the dining room. A breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast graced the table.

“Wow,” Meg managed. “This looks amazing.” Babs and Ethan dug in, and Meg twirled the fork in her hand. She nibbled at the eggs. They were fluffy and rich. “These might be the best eggs I’ve ever had.”

“They’re fresh from Ethel Mae. She’s our best layer,” Babs said. She ruffled her son’s hair and beamed at him. “Speaking of laying, that reminds me—” She nudged Ethan. “What did you think of my Love Shack cards?”

“Mom—” Ethan started.

“Henry and I got the idea when we were enjoying a little campout in the hammock one night and…Well, never mind. In any case, Pigs in a Blanket comes with very high reviews.” She winked theatrically at Meg, who glanced to Ethan for help.

“Didn’t you say something about coffee, Ma?”

On cue, a fit older man approached from the kitchen. His wavy long hair was wrangled into a ponytail beneath a cap that read I Speak for the Trees . He carried a delicate teacup balanced on a saucer. “A soy mocha gal, huh?” he said, setting the piping cup on the table. A chocolate syrup heart was swirled into the foam. “Shoulda guessed. For Ethan, it would have to be that or an almond milker.” Meg did not know what to make of that, so she made nothing.

Ethan chuckled uncomfortably. “Can we try not to scare off my friend in the first few minutes, please?”

Henry guffawed. “She don’t seem the type to scare easy.” He arched a bushy brow.

Ethan told Meg, “Mom met Henry on the Founders Courts. Actually, he was the one who taught me and Mom how to play.”

“Are you a pickler, too?” Babs scooted onto the chair beside Meg and rested her chin on her clasped hands.

“She is,” Ethan answered. “She’s good.” Meg beamed, flattered.

Henry said, “In that case, you’ve come to the right place.”

Henry motioned for her to join him at the kitchen window, and he directed her attention to the backyard. There, a portable net sat over a sport court neatly painted with pickleball lines. Her laugh spilled out. Seemed everybody and their uncles were turning parking lots and driveways into pickleball courts.

“What a wonderful coincidence,” Babs exclaimed, sipping from her cappuccino, which was more foam than coffee. “We could use a fourth this morning. I’d rather sit out. My back could use a rest after last night.” She and Henry exchanged a lewd glance.

Ethan hung his head. “I’m gonna need some more therapy.”

“What do you say?” Babs asked. “Can you sub in? Henry and you against Ethan and his Picklesmash partner.” She looked down at her watch. “We’re supposed to play at ten.”

“I’m in,” Meg said, nodding. “And it will give me a chance to meet this mysterious pickleball partner of yours. What’s his name?” she said, turning to Ethan.

“My partner?” he said, taking a bite of eggs. “His name’s Michael Edmonds.”

The name tunneled into her like a freight train. Or a sock to the gut with a bowling ball. Or the blow of a safe tied to a piano and chained to an elephant and dropped from a twelfth-story window. Michael Edmonds, the advanced player from Lakeview, planned to ditch Annie to play at the beginner level for Bainbridge? With Ethan Fine. Her Ethan.

At last, sound sputtered from her lips. “Your partner is Michael Edmonds? Michael? Edmonds?”

“You know him?”

“Wait.” Her hands flew out in front of her. “Are you saying that you and Michael Edmonds are practicing so you can compete in the beginners’ slot at Picklesmash?”

“Oh, so you do know him,” Ethan said. “Then you get it. It’s our sneak attack plan. It’s going to take some work to make a convincing beginner out of him.”

Meg gaped, flabbergasted. Bainbridge! How dare they cheat with such impunity? And Ethan! How could he willingly participate in this charade? She struggled to get her fury under control. This was the same guy who, just last night, she’d bared her soul to. The guy she’d trusted with her private truth. How could he dare to pose an A-lister as a beginner for the sake of a tournament win? Was this some kind of April Fool’s prank? In July? Her heart begged for a misunderstanding.

But then, look at him, all smug with his half-caf breve perched between his hands, untouched by guilt. That conniving, smarmy, pickle-partner-stealing jerk.

And poor Annie. Meg had been holding out hope that maybe she was wrong about the partnership. But here was more evidence of his betrayal. How would she break the news that Michael not only did not want to date her, but he would not even play with her? That Michael was jumping ship to pickle with the enemy? It would break her friend. She balled her fingers into fists and dug her nails into her palms. The pain did little to stanch her fury.

Michael Edmonds is Bainbridge’s secret weapon. Marilyn had spilled those beans out on her backyard court. But Michael wasn’t just helping the Bainbridge folks with his experienced advice. Michael Edmonds was playing down to ensure that Bainbridge would bring home the Picklesmash trophy—and therefore a bucketload of cash. Which, Meg noted, the Founders didn’t even need! That double-crossing, two-timing creep.

The wheels of her brain spun so furiously she could smell the burning rubber. Did Michael plan on lying in wait until tournament time, just so he could pull out his A game against Lakeview’s weakest team? What a phony! A charlatan. What kind of jerk screws his own league out of a fair shot? And what kind of asshole trains a guy to look like he’s crap at pickleball in order to attain nefarious ends?

Ethan Fine, that was who.

The sound of tires on gravel interrupted her thirst for revenge. Babs waddled toward the front door. “Here he is. How ’bout you all warm up together while Henry and I clean up in here?”

There had to be an explanation. Maybe this was a different Michael Edmonds. It was a common name, right? Both Michael and Edmonds. Meg inched toward the window and lifted the curtain to the side.

Her breath caught. Yep. No doubt about it. It was him, all right, the same man who shouted his own name in victory after a winning point. The same guy whom Annie had finally mustered the nerve to kiss. The same Michael Edmonds who was faking his beginner’s status to help Bainbridge win. Michael Edmonds in the flesh.

That two-timing skunk parked his car in the cul-de-sac and began moseying toward the house.

Meg fumed, lumping Michael together with Ivan the Terrible and Vlad the Impaler. And Ethan the Untrustworthy! She should have seen this coming. Now she could see how he had reeled her in, only to stomp her beneath his laterally stabilized pickleball shoes. All along, Ethan had known she played for Lakeview, but had hidden his own pickleball expertise. And now this! How easily she had fallen for him. How well he had hidden his true nature.

She had to get out of there. Now.

Meg looked left. Henry was offering her a paddle. To the right, Babs had refilled her mocha and was spooning in extra foam. Ahead, Ethan smiled, pleased with himself at his cruel deception.

Her thinly maintained veneer cracked, and her venom erupted. “I can’t believe you,” Meg fumed. Her whisper was more an indictment of herself than of him. “I can’t believe I trusted you. I am so outta here.”

Ethan’s brow dipped as he was caught in his dastardly betrayal. “Meg. Wait!” he cried, leaping up from the table and knocking a wave of breve from his cup.

Oh, he was good, pulling off that innocent-guy act she had bought all along.

But she would not wait. She threw on her pack, knocked into a chair, banged her knee on the end table, opened the closet, realized it wasn’t the exit, and finally managed to storm out the back door without glancing behind her.

With no plan in mind, she strode past an unflinching Michael Edmonds, out to the gravel road, and down the hill. She could feel the flush in her face and the hot wetness stinging her eyes.

Damn him. She really liked Ethan. What a jerk. She would march all the way down the mountain if need be. Or better still, she would hitch a ride down and get the hell away from there as fast as possible. If only there were any cars at all passing by on the top of this miserable mountain.

At last, she heard the rumble of an engine ahead. Meg picked up speed, jogging to catch up with the vehicle. Spotting her in the rearview, the driver slowed to a stop. Meg was panting by the time she reached the truck. “Can you give me a lift to Port Angeles?”

It was unconventional, but, judging the state of her distress, the driver acquiesced and passed her a vest. “We can’t fit you in the cab, but you can hang on to the back and we’ll take it slow.”

And that was how Meg Bloomberg endured her ride of shame: wearing a fluorescent vest and a hard hat. As she bumped down the mountain cursing her lack of sports bra, Meg clung to the rail of the recycling truck and thanked her stars it wasn’t garbage day.