CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 16
No One’s Ever Been Murdered on a Tennis Court, Right?
“Are you sure that’s what you heard?” Harper asks me as we walk up the path to the tennis courts later that morning. “You were pretty far away from the docks.”
I put my hand on the black metal railing that leads the way up the steep stairs. I stopped counting at twenty. “You think my mind’s playing tricks on me?”
She glances over her shoulder. “It’s possible. Or it’s just filling in the blanks. There’s a lot of threats going around...”
“What do you think, Oli?” I look back at him. He’s red in the face, which makes him look cuter, especially since he’s in tennis whites.
We’re climbing these stairs because we’re going to the exhibition tennis match Emma arranged between us. The courts are above the villas and the spa pool/hot tub thingies that maybe tried to kill us yesterday.
What’s trying to kill us right now are these stairs. My calves are screaming and I’ve got a cramp in my right shin, which is a pain I’ve never experienced before.
This game is going to go great! 61
Especially since we’re all dressed like we’re about to play at Wimbledon.
When Emma had suggested this match—she and I were on the tennis team in high school—I’d made a joke about doing it in our “dress whites” to be on theme for the wedding, and she’d cooed and said this was a great idea and she was going to make it mandatory.
Oliver hadn’t been too pleased when we’d gotten the wedding invitation with the list of clothes we were supposed to bring, like one of those lists you get when you go away to summer camp. He’d hated wearing tennis whites at the snotty New England country club he’d had to attend as a kid, and said he felt like a six-year-old when he put on the shorts and polo shirt I’d found him on Amazon.
“I don’t know what to think, honestly,” Oliver says with a note of strain in his voice. “Seems like a lot is going on here that we don’t have a handle on.”
“That, I agree with.”
He lifts his foot over a rock and grunts.
“You okay back there?”
“Yes, yes.”
“We can’t lose this match.”
“So you’ve told me.”
“El’s super competitive at tennis,” Harper says.
“I’m aware.”
“No, Oli, like I mean seriously competitive. Like I stopped playing the entire sport because if I played one more match with her, we probably wouldn’t be speaking today.”
“I’m not that bad, guys.”
“Oh, really? Have you seen the dance, Oli?”
“The dance?”
Harper stops in front of me and spins around on the stairs so she’s facing us. Then she does some version of what I think is now called the backpack kid dance, but back in the day, it was just the dance I did to celebrate a good point on court during a match.
I want very badly to be able to tell you Harper’s version is an exaggeration, but that would be a lie. And though I might be a liar in certain circumstances—have I told you that yet?—I’m choosing the truth in this moment.
I did do that dance.
And I loved it.
“I was trying to teach you resilience,” I say to Harper.
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t blame quitting tennis on me. You hated it from the beginning.”
“You say so. All I know is, it’s a shame I quit because I look fabulous in this outfit.” She does a twirl, and the skirt on her white tennis dress flares out. Like everything about us, our matching outfits look slightly better on her.
Plus, wait, is she wearing more makeup than usual?
Is this for Connor?
Harper’s never dated anyone I thought was good enough for her. I wish she had higher standards for herself. But she seems okay with coasting along in her romantic life.
That’s probably my fault.
It’s definitely my fault she knows Connor.
“So, you’re saying I shouldn’t play with her today?” Oliver asks.
“I wouldn’t.”
“Hey! It’s not up for negotiation. It’s for Emma . And it’s just for fun.”
“You’ve never played tennis just for fun in your life.” She puts air quotes around those last words to drive her point home.
Sisters can be the worst .
“I’ll have you know that—”
“Is this the way?” Allison says, coming up behind us. She’s wearing a cute Lululemon tennis dress and looks like she should be starring in a movie about a woman making a tennis comeback in her forties.
“Almost there, I think,” Harper says. “Hey, Allison. Hey, David.”
“Why is it up here, anyway?” David asks, out of breath and redder in the face than all of us. I guess he doesn’t work out that much, what with the (re)writing and all.
“Only flat area, I guess,” I say, but my tone says, well, duh .
“Ah, yes. Even so...”
“There you all are!” Emma says, appearing at what I pray is the top of the path with her hands on her hips. “Let’s get a move on!”
“And you think I’m the bossy one,” I say to Harper under my breath.
“I heard that! And that dance is banned , El. Like, seriously, the umpire is docking you a point if you do it.”
“What umpire?”
“Get up here and see for yourself.”
I take a few more steps and get to the landing. In front of us is a beautiful tennis complex, with two red clay courts surrounded by a green chain-link fence. There’s stadium seating to one side that must have an incredible view of the ocean. Much of the cast and crew are seated there, all in some version of white tennis clothes, and it’s a bit blinding.
Simone’s sitting in the front row with Shawna and Mr. and Mrs. Winter, and Ken the stand-in is sitting just behind them. The photographer from People is off to the side with his camera aimed at the stands, taking shots. Fred’s on the court, holding a racquet and bouncing a ball up and down on it.
There’s a white umpire chair up on a platform like a lifeguard sits on in between the two courts, just like at a professional tennis match.
And I should’ve seen this coming, and you should’ve, too.
Because Connor’s sitting in the chair looking down on us with a devilish grin. He’s wearing a white bucket hat and a whistle around his neck.
He picks it up and blows a short, shrill bleat. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
Oliver shoots me a look, and I hope my tennis shoes can grip this surface well because if I know one thing it’s this: I’m skating on thin ice.
There’s a saying that football is life. Okay, it comes from Ted Lasso . Whatever. But I think the better analogy to life is tennis. And not just because I think soccer is boring, because, hello , that’s just watching people run back and forth on a grass field pretending they’re going to kick the ball into that enormous net.
Tennis covers all the phases . When you’re single, I mean playing singles, everything is on you. You have to make each shot and cover the entire court. There’s no backup. If you win, you did it. If you lost, you did that, too. No excuses. But when you play doubles, it’s like being in a couple. You have to work together. You have to share the court. You have to consider the other player and be there for them. You can’t make all the shots, but you have to be ready to. You can share your wins and console each other over your losses.
You get the idea.
And if this wedding happens, that’s what I’m going to say to Fred and Emma during my speech.
I’m going to tell them to treat their marriage like a doubles match. And even if it sounds corny to you right now, I promise there won’t be a dry eye in the house.
But right this minute, I’m not sure I’m going to need this speech. I mean, is this wedding even going to happen?
And not just because of the potential murder.
Let me set the scene:
We’re halfway into the first set. The cast and crew are into it—cheering and waving these little placards on popsicle sticks of Fred and Emma’s faces that got passed out by Shawna. Some friendly wagers are going on, too—a few twenties changing hands over who’s going to come out on top—and you can tell who’s gambling by the groans and cheers depending on who wins a point. The sky is mostly still clear and blue, the sunlight washed out and warm enough to be comfortable but not hot. It’s windy, and the ocean is sparkling but choppier than it was this morning, and with us in our whites, surrounded by the lush greenery, it all looks like a postcard.
Which should make you feel like something bad is about to happen.
You’d be right about that.
We’re tied at three games apiece. Only the score really should be 5–1 for Oliver and me. But Connor, out of some perverse pleasure of his own, which he’s calling “being kind to the newlyweds,” keeps ruling against us. Every ball that touches a line is out. Serves that are clearly in the box are out, too. Oliver and I have to make our winning so obvious he can’t call the game against us. Which is hard while the wind is swirling the ball around every time I toss it up to serve, but not as hard as Connor’s making it.
And while I’m frustrated and upset—which I assume is the point of what Connor’s doing—Fred is losing it. Maybe it’s the residue of whatever happened on the dock this morning with him and Tyler, but it feels like something more than that.
That or he’s just psycho on a tennis court, like some people are behind the wheel. Which happens. And no, I don’t mean me.
Emma keeps asking him what’s wrong, but he shakes her off and tells her to focus. I’m not sure anyone else is picking up on it. They’re too busy cheering for every point like it’s a US Open night match.
All but Simone.
She looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here. She’s not even wearing white, just one of her director’s jumpsuits in Barbie pink with her name embroidered over her left breast.
But her attitude is nothing new. I bet she can’t wait till this whole shit show is over.
And me? Well, I just want to win this game.
So I can do my backpack kid dance in my head, of course.
Not in front of this crowd.
I mean, probably not.
“Out!” Connor yells as Oliver’s beautiful serve hits the service line and bounces into Fred’s chest. He adds a burst of whistle for emphasis.
“It was in!” I yell.
“Are you challenging the call?”
“Yes!”
“It was out, Eleanor,” Fred says.
I glance at Emma. She looks embarrassed. Emma was and always has been the fairest person on court. I can’t remember the number of times she overruled my line calls if she thought there was any chance the ball was in during our matches.
Oh, wait. Yes, I can.
Every. Single. Time.
ANYWAY.
“What do you think, Emma?”
She struggles, but she can’t bring herself to lie. “It was in, hon.”
“It was out.”
“I was looking right at the line...”
Connor blows his whistle again. “I saw it out.”
“Why do you even have that whistle, Connor?” I say. “This isn’t basketball.”
“The umpire makes the rules.”
“No, the umpire enforces the rules.”
We glare at each other. Connor’s wearing white pants and a white cable-knit sweater with the Wimbledon logo on it, because of course he is. He probably ordered away for them special the minute he got his invitation.
“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” Inspector Tucci says, shuffling out of his seat and onto the court. His white pants are ballooning around him, two sizes too big. “I have an innate sense of, how do you say, fairness.”
“No!” Connor and I say in unison.
Inspector Tucci backs up with his hands in the air.
“Fred,” I say, “let’s play fair, all right? You know Emma always tells the truth.”
“What a reputation!” Simone says from the sidelines.
“It’s true, Simone. Right, Fred?”
He nods grudgingly.
“What’s up, mate?” Connor says with a laugh. “You have money riding on this game or something?”
Fred’s face turns very red.
“Oh, no, Fred,” Emma says. “You promised me you’d stopped all that.”
Connor sits up straight in his umpire chair as David leans in to make sure he doesn’t miss a beat of this conversation. “Stopped all what?”
“It’s none of your business,” I say.
“Oh!” David says with anticipation. “That’s what it is, right? It makes sense.”
“What do you mean, David?” Allison says.
David turns to Allison with an excited look in his eyes. “He was asking me about Connor’s motivation. You know, for When in Rome . Like what the backstory was about why he got involved with Cecilia in the first place, and he wondered if it might be because he had a gambling problem, and—”
Fred’s making a slashing motion at his throat, but it’s too late. David’s got Mrs. Winter’s attention now.
“What’s this? Fred? Is it true? Are you gambling again?” She’s wrapped in head-to-toe white cashmere including a massive wide-brimmed hat that has flowers around the rim.
Fred’s face dissolves into panic. He looks to Mr. Winter for help, but he just shrugs his shoulders and pats Mrs. Winter on the arm gently.
The chatter in the stands has stopped. Some of the cast and crew look uncomfortable, but most of them are reacting the way you’d expect.
Like they’ve stumbled into a live taping of their favorite TV show.
But the person who I care about here is Emma. And she’s not doing well.
“Fred?” she says, her voice shaking.
He wheels around. “Just a friendly wager on the game, that’s all, sweetheart, I swear.”
“With who?”
“Some of the cast and crew...You know, just the guys.”
“But you promised.”
He steps toward her, letting his racquet drop to the ground. He takes her hands. “It’s okay, I promise it’s going to be okay.”
“Is that why you won’t repay Tyler? Because you don’t have the money?”
“No, I told you, it’s not that. He’s just being a jerk. Look at the way he’s treating you.”
“Speaking of which...Where is Tyler?” Connor asks.
“I think he got on the ferry,” I say. “Took the last boat out of here.”
“Sounds like a Taylor Swift song,” Allison says, humming a little. “We took the last boat out before the perfect sto-or-mmm...”
“Should we be recording this?” Simone says.
Allison raises her left shoulder to her ear, then laughs. Maybe someday Allison will take serious situations seriously, but not today.
And she and David are a perfect match because: “I can see it, Alli. A montage, over the sea...” He stands, holding his hands out like a camera. “The storm is on the horizon, and he’s standing on the prow of the boat looking melancholy. Meanwhile, the wedding is in full preparation, quick cuts—”
“Why would you be cross-cutting him with the wedding?” Simone says with disdain. “You should stick to writing.”
David drops his hands. “It was just a suggestion.”
“Are we playing this match or what?” I say.
“Yes!” Fred says emphatically.
I point my racquet at him. “You’re going down, Winter.”
“El, you promised you’d play nice.”
“Sorry, Em!”
I walk back to the baseline and get ready for Fred’s serve.
It has a wicked twist on it that looks like it’s going wide but then spins unpredictably, and it’s hard to prepare for even when you know what’s coming.
I told you tennis was like life.
61 I want to make sure that my sarcasm is pulling through here. Yes, right? You get the vibe.