Pickleballers

Chapter Thirty-One

Thirty-One

“Megs!” Vance announced. His teeth gleamed like piano keys. “Fancy meeting you here.” He leaned in close. “Pickling for the enemy, are you? I like it. That’s spunky. I’m jumping with nerves.”

She breathed in through her nose. “Hello, Vance,” she said evenly.

He chuckled. “Playing it cool, eh?” He smoothed his hair with his fingers. “Looks like we’ll settle things on the battlefield.” He winked. “Not to worry. We’ll take it easy on you.”

Her jaw moved to speak, but she had no response. No clever comeback that would put him in his place. Like a Pacific banana slug camouflaged by nerves, she remained unmoving in the perfect spot to be stepped on.

“All right. Well. No hard feelings.” Vance petted her shoulder patronizingly.

“No hard feelings?” She knew it was pointless, but she had to say something. Her voice shook with pent-up anger. “You broke off our marriage on the back of a Home Depot receipt. What the hell, Vance?”

“Yes. Well. In my defense,” he confessed solemnly as he stood to leave, “I did look for a notepad.”

That. Was. It.

The straw broke with such clarity she heard it snap. “Wait,” she enunciated.

He halted at the sound of her voice. A smirk formed on his lips at being called back. Typical Vance. He believed he still had some hold on her. “I’ve been practicing,” she said, keeping it together. “You better bring your A game.”

“That’s the spirit. And good on you for making it this far. You never were much of an hand-eye-coordination person, right?” Meg swallowed hard. Logically, she knew he was taunting her on purpose, trying to get into her head, but still, it hurt. She knew exactly where he could put his $7.99 caulking gun right now.

He tapped the table. “See you on the courts. And best of luck, buttercup.”

Meg raised her voice as he departed. “And good luck to you. Butter—” No. It didn’t make sense to call him buttercup. She glanced around at the smattering of picnickers, but the few remaining at the table paid her no attention.

Meg popped the last of the tuna sandwich in her mouth just as Ethan sat down across from her. “Butter?” he asked wryly. But then, following her line of vision, he turned back, and his voice was gentle. “That’s him, huh? Your ex?”

“Yep. That was Vance.” Over the last few weeks, as their relationship had strengthened, Meg had outlined the silhouette of her brief marriage. In the telling, she had been generous, taking responsibility for her gullibility and permissiveness. She couldn’t blame her participation on na?veté. She had made a choice to be with Vance, but at least now she was out of it.

Ethan shook his head. “Well. Good riddance to that loser. Puts everything in perspective, though. I don’t even need to beat him on the court. I already got you.” The light in his brown eyes showered her with affection and washed her clean of her past.

“Cheeseball. How do I put up with you?”

“Don’t worry. I still plan to kick his ass on the pickleball court.” Starting suddenly, he said, “I almost forgot!” Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a business card. The simple text was embossed in neat block letters that read The Welcome Inn . “For you.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s from Mayumi. She told me they’ve been getting crazy publicity: in the local news, on the hotel’s social media. Your mural is blowing up on Bainbridge.”

Meg felt the warmth spread across her chest. “Really?” She reread the name printed on the card. “Welcome Inn? What happened to the Outlook Inn?”

“She’s changing the name. ’Cause of your fence. I’m telling you, you should see it. Tourists are checking it out like it’s a Picasso. And…” He turned the card for her to see the writing on the back.

“Who’s this? Jim Loeb?” she asked, scrutinizing the name. WSDOT. The Washington State Department of Transportation. She read Jim Loeb’s hastily scribbled note. Saw your work. Impressed. Please get in touch.

“Mayumi says he’s the marketing guy for the ferries.” He smiled. “I think it’s a commission.”

A commission! She played it cool. “You think? Hmm. That would be something to consider.”

He saw right through her guise. “Are you kidding? Meg. The DOT. You know what that could mean?”

She did. The ferries weren’t just transportation. They were symbols of Seattle. And to an artist, ferries offered yard after yard of flat canvas. Wouldn’t that be something? Meg contained it, the hope, the possibilities, because what if the job didn’t pan out? What if she was letting her dreams run away with her?

Ethan wrapped his arm around her shoulder and shook her. “Meg’s gonna paint the ferries!”

His optimism was contagious. Why not grab ahold of that kite tail and fly with it? The sheer happiness of being seen and recognized for her talent brought a huge grin to her cheeks. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

“It would.” He tipped his head toward Vance and édith, who had attracted a small crowd of gawkers to watch them stretch. “What kind of name is Vance, anyway?” Ethan asked. “It’s like his parents couldn’t decide between Vince and Lance, so they split the difference.”

“There you are.” Meg heard her friend’s chirpy voice before she spotted her. Jogging toward them, Annie was pointing at the sky and panting, “Have you seen the clouds?”

They followed her finger. Overhead, dark clouds gathered and pressed toward the courts.

“They’re starting the final games early to beat the rain. Marilyn just told me. They’re making the announcement.”

“What do you mean?” Meg asked.

“Your attention, participants,” Carl Dewitt announced, poking his cowboy hat off his forehead. “I hate to cut your lunch short. Vittles are vital, y’all, but pickleball calls. Due to the threat of rain”—he gestured at the darkening sky—“we’ll be skipping the rest of the break and jumping right into the final matches.”

“The last match!” Panic lit Meg’s face. “Now?”

Ethan squeezed her hand. “You and I are gonna do great. Don’t let them get in your head.”

Behind them, a gruff voice cut into their conversation. “You got that right. They should be the ones worried about you .”

Meg spun to find the shiny glint of her favorite bald head. “Rooster! You made it. I was worried…”

She paused midsentence, silenced by amazement. Cradled in Rooster’s arms was the teeniest, pinkest, purest bundle of baby that Meg had ever seen. The eensy-weensy fingers curled like flower petals; the fingernails glinted as delicately as a minnow’s scales. The sleeping three-week-old’s creaseless eyelids expressed an impossible level of peacefulness.

“Meg Bloomberg. Meet Zoe Gardner. Ain’t she beautiful?”

“Oh! She’s perfect!” Meg’s face opened with genuine happiness for her friend. “And I’m so relieved to see you. When you texted that you were having issues, I thought…”

“Oh, that!” Laverne rushed toward them, toting a diaper bag packed for an escape from civilization. “That was only a temporary disaster. Would you believe Rooster bought toddler-sized diapers? For an infant! Poop was everywhere.”

“How was I supposed to know they came in different sizes?”

“Where’s your goddaughter?” Meg asked.

“Lulu? She’s napping in the car.” Rooster smiled the relieved grin of a tired parent. “Papu and Nam-nam get Zoe all to ourselves.” He chirped at the sleeping baby. “Right, pumpkin? Are you my little pumpkin-wumpkin?”

Meg laughed at seeing big, tough Rooster turned to mush by a girl the size of a football.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, not taking his eyes off his precious charge.

Carl’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “We’re ready for the games to resume, ladies and jujubes. The scores are as tight as a belt after Momma’s Sunday brunch; a couple of the clubs are neck and neck. I sure am excited to see which team comes home with this very generous prize. Good luck to all. Now…let’s get ’er done!”

Meg placed a pair of fingers against her throat to check the thud of her heartbeat. There was no time to be nervous. Just time enough to get in the zone.

She clasped Ethan’s hands in hers. “We have to win,” she said, and she squeezed his fingers for emphasis. “I really want to beat him.”

Ethan lifted his brow, apprising her anew. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of you.”

“The kick-some-butt side?”

He nodded his approval. “I could get used to this butt-kicking version. In that case…” He imitated Carl’s drawl. “Let’s get ’er done!”

·····

Marilyn stormed toward the picnic area. Inching between them, she cuffed Meg and Ethan by their elbows and dragged them toward the court. “We don’t have much time, so I’m gonna give it to you straight. The competition is tight. I’ve been keeping tabs on the matches.”

She halted and pulled out her phone to display a series of organized columns on a spreadsheet. How she had managed to build such a complex document on her cell phone was a mystery, but Marilyn was Marilyn.

“Here’s the thing. Lakeview is ahead, but barely. Just two points overall. It’s up to you to squeak them out. Beat them by three or more points, and we win this whole thing.”

Meg squinted at the phone and gave the teeniest shake of her head. “Three points?” Meg grimaced. “It’s Vance and édith. They’re…they’re good.”

“And so are you. And, you have all of us supporting you. In fact”—Marilyn waved over the woman who had been lingering in the background—“look who I found wandering around courtside. I took one look at that face, and I subtracted thirty years—”

“Twenty-five,” the older woman corrected.

Meg’s face lit. “Mom!”

“So excited for you, darling.” Dina Bloomberg gathered her daughter into a bear hug, and Meg swallowed the happy lump in her throat. “I just arrived,” Dina gushed. “But I don’t want to distract you. We’ll catch up after. I’ll be cheering you on from the stands. You go out there, and you win this.”

“For Bainbridge,” Marilyn said.

“For kids who need sports equipment,” Ethan pitched in.

Dina Bloomberg added, “For your mother.”

“By at least three points. No pressure.” Marilyn squeezed Meg’s arm with a considerable amount of pressure. “Now, go pickle their asses.”

They hightailed it to the appointed court. Already, the stands were crammed with fans. Normally, a beginner’s match would attract little attention, but word of a tight finish had threaded its way through the masses, and now a crowd gathered to watch the spectacle. The weight of her responsibility and the anxiety of proving herself against her ex pinched her stomach. She strode onto the court.

There was Vance, and behind him, édith. Her long legs led her torso like she was a giraffe galloping on the savanna. Her hair bounced behind her like an ad for a creamy conditioner made with minerals from the Dead Sea. They conferred, switching between English and French, before selecting a spot on the court on which to stretch. With more grunting than Meg thought necessary, they tugged and wrestled each other into a pretzeled tantric pose. She tightened her ponytail in determination.

“Hey, guys. Guess what?” Meg’s old pal Peter, dressed to match his wife, Portia, in a neon ref outfit, appeared beside Meg and Ethan. “We’re reffing your game! Well. Portia is. I’m here for moral support.”

Ethan tugged Meg aside. While he rolled a pickleball between his fingers to check for cracks, he asked, “What do you think about that? Peter and Portia play for Lakeview, right? She’ll be biased.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Meg said. “I don’t know any two people who are as fair as Peter and Portia. They’re like King Solomon. And Queen Solomon.”

“Excuse me.” Peter and Portia reappeared, unnaturally close. In a low voice, Portia mentioned, “We just wanted to say that we heard your Bainbridge league plans to donate their winnings to youth sports charities—”

“So,” Peter’s voice trailed off to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’ll be on the sidelines…rooting for you.”

“Good luck, you two.” Portia winked and marched to the net, measuring tape in hand.

“On the other hand, it might be okay if our ref were a little biased,” Ethan amended.

Portia gave a wary glance at the gray-black cloud stomping on the horizon. Then she got to work measuring the net height. She tweaked the crank, adjusting and remeasuring until the tape read thirty-four inches at the center and thirty-six at the posts. Satisfied, Portia waved to all four players. “Players. Approach the net.”

Portia refreshed them on the rules, and all parties nodded their understanding.

“ Bonne chance ,” édith offered, her voice imparting equal parts generosity and smugness.

Sweat collected beneath Meg’s grip as she strode to the baseline. She wiped her paddle hand on her skort.

Portia lifted her hand. “Begin.”