Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Annie, dressed in her pickleball skirt, was ready to go, but there was no leaving the hotel room until she got Meg to unload the details. With her fine-tuned lie detector on high, Annie said, “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying that guy this morning, the gardener…Let’s call him Shirtless Wonder. Sits down next to you and helps you get started on painting a mural on the fence. And then you get in his car with him and go to Winslow to buy, what was it, a weed whacker?” The last part, Meg realized too late, was clearly pushing it, and Annie wasn’t even half buying the tall tale.
Annie sighed. “All right. Let’s go with that and say that happened even though you’re doing that thing where you bite the side of your tongue and your eyes are all shifty. Say it is the landscape guy. I guess a shirtless gardener is a step up from caulking gun Vance. Or court-killing Ethan.”
“You know. Maybe Lakeview is being too hard on Ethan. And the wetland project. There are benefits. I mean, the birds were there first, right? And can you imagine how cool it would be for the high school science program to have an active research site right at their front doorstep?”
For a moment, Annie simply stared. “No.” Annie shook her head. The wheels turned and the cogs clicked into place. “Nuh-uh. Oh. My god. There is no gardener. Shirtless Wonder…is Ethan Fine!”
Meg threw her hands to her face and groaned.
“Aha!” Annie cried. “I was right. I knew it!” With all her prelaw and medical school training, Annie had missed her calling as a detective. Or a mom of a teenager. She was way too good at bullshit detecting. “What is up with that guy’s chest? Does he bench-press pianos?”
“Oh, Annie.” It was a relief to be found out. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” She sighed. “I want you to be happy. It’s just…” She scrunched her lips to the side. “Be careful, okay?”
“Okay, Mom.” Smiling, Meg threw her pickleball gear into the hatchback. Just loud enough for Annie to hear, Meg added, “Did I mention we kissed?”
“Come on, now.” Annie punched her shoulder. “Spill it. We’re not leaving for the courts until I get all the tea. Was it as steamy as the tied-up-with-a-seat-belt snog?”
Reliving it, Meg enjoyed the retelling. “It was different than the kiss in my car. That was all handsy and hungry.” Meg turned to her friend and let out a dreamy sigh. “Annie. I had no idea a kiss could be like that. It was…a lava kiss.”
“Ooh. A lava kiss. Do tell.”
“Yeah. Like when our lips met, it felt like magma. Like my body was made of liquid fire, just ready to explode.”
“You mean like an orgasm?”
“Oh my god. Enough. You took it one step too far. Just stop now.” She smiled as she spoke, not at all offended. It had been a fantastic kiss.
“Me, stop? You’re the one who’s all moony-eyed and can’t stop talking about Ethan Fine. Blah, blah, Shirtless Wonder. Blah, blah, lifting a piano. Blah, blah, orgasm. ”
“I’m pretty sure you were the one who said all those things.”
“I think we should move on to what brought us here.” Annie fished in the glove compartment and yanked out the shiny trifold brochure that Meg had picked up on the ferry. “Let’s see what we’ve got in our Bainbridge bag of tricks.”
Pointing, she exclaimed, “Aha! The commemorative Founders Courts at Battle Point Park. Where pickleball went public! I’m so excited! Rooster’s gonna join us so you two can get some practice in. I bet I can find a practice partner out there, too, until I locate Michael Edmonds. Whaddya say we go vay-cay cray-cray?”
“I don’t know,” Meg said, suddenly daunted by the prospect of playing on the famous courts. She tried to refold the brochure, but managed only to crumple rather than crease it. “I mean, what am I practicing for? Vance and édith are going to end up getting—”
“Hey.” Annie snatched the glossy flyer and whipped it into submission with a couple of deft movements. “Listen to me. Stop that. Here we are in one of the most beautiful places in the world, with nothing to do but enjoy the fresh air and do the things we love to do. Right? Come on. What do I always say?”
“Vinegar makes an excellent surface cleaner.”
Annie glowered.
“Put lemon juice on apple slices to keep them from browning? Wait. Use soda or beer when trying to kill garden slugs because they can’t fart out the carbonation and their stomachs explode.”
“You’ve learned so much from me, but no.” She gave Meg her sternest glare. “You’ve picked up a new sport. You’ve kissed a hottie. You are on the right path, my friend. But now you need to get out of your own way.”
Meg’s nostrils flared, but then she shook off her negativity like a wet dog. It was true. How long had she put her life on hold? It was time for Meg to do something for Meg for once. “You’re right,” she agreed. “You are right.”
“What did you say?”
“You’re right.”
Annie bathed herself in Meg’s words. “I don’t think I can ever hear that enough.”
As Meg steered the blue hatchback onto the quiet road toward Battle Point Park, she glanced at her copilot and smiled. Get out of her own way. How hard could that be?
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“Whoa. Holy Swiss cheese in a gift basket!” Annie uttered as they drove into the lot. They slammed the car doors and rushed to admire the sight. Tilting their heads toward the metal arch, they gaped, wide-eyed, at the entrance to the sport courts. At the top of the archway, a metal banner sparkled in the sunlight, emblazoned with the words Founders Courts . A pair of pickleball paddles added to the elegant design, splashed against the backdrop of a gleaming net.
Annie shook her head in wonder. “This is where it all started. Right here on Bainbridge. We’re standing on the steps of history.”
The courts sprawled before them in all their splendor: newly painted, navy blue courts delineated by crisp, white lines. The playing surfaces beckoned, blue islands in a sea of green asphalt. Six dedicated courts. Beyond them, four converted tennis courts. This was pickleball Valhalla. As Meg neared, the ticktack noise of the bouncing plastic filled her with anticipation.
On the closest court, players warmed up by tapping the ball lightly, sending it over the net in low, arcing dinks. At the far courts, a ripped pickleball coach in a muscle-revealing tank engaged a group of white-haired players in a third-shot drop drill. The notice posted on the fence claimed, Beginners’ Lessons. Come join the fun. All are welcome. —Coach Chad . Deep in her brain, a long-unused competitive spirit lifted its head from its hibernation. Lessons could be fun, and if she upped her skills, she’d have a better chance of winning the beginners’ spot.
Annie had moved on from gawking to stretching. “Come on,” she said, her body bent into downward dog. “I’ll hit with you till Rooster shows up.”
They set up on opposite sides of the well-maintained court and warmed up, dinking crosscourt. Annie’s shots skipped over the net in perfect, low arcs, while Meg practiced her backhand dinks. Every second or third shot, Meg smacked the ball into the net, but at least she was keeping them low. It was an improvement over her “towering inferno” shots, as Rooster liked to call them.
“Enough stalling,” Meg joked. “You ready to get whupped?”
Annie laughed good-naturedly before serving with little mercy. Playing skinny singles taught Meg aim—the ball could only bounce in half the court. Although she stretched herself and concentrated on returning Annie’s wicked drops, as expected, Meg got pickled. The game ended at 11 to donut.
“Well, that was fast,” Meg mourned. “You couldn’t let me win? Just once.”
Annie shrugged. “It’s not in my nature. You know how competitive I am. Luckily I won’t hold you to the tradition: when you get pickled, you have to walk home naked. Fortunately for you, you can’t walk across the Sound.”
“Not without a really long snorkel.”
“Hey! Meg made a funny. That’s the spirit. Come on. We’ll go again. Maybe I’ll let you have a chance.” She wound up a serve but stopped short before the paddle made contact.
“Hold up.” Annie pointed with her paddle. “Do you see that guy in the parking lot? Is that…Michael Edmonds?”
Narrowing her gaze, Meg spotted the man. It was true, there was a strong resemblance. At least from a distance. The guy had the bearing of Michael Edmonds, but doubt built when he climbed into a white SUV. Everyone knew Michael Edmonds drove a silver sports car.
“Never mind,” Annie said. “Looks like him though, doesn’t it? Weird. Did you know that in earth’s entire population, there’s only a one in one hundred thirty-four chance that a pair of exact doppelg?ngers exists?”
“I did not know that.”
“That’s a pretty low percentage compared to the birthday paradox percentage. Did you know that in any group of twenty-three people, there is a fifty-fifty chance that two of them will have the same birthday?”
“Did you know,” Meg countered, “that seventy-six percent of people who quote statistics still have a stash of Pokémon cards stored in a closet at their parents’ house?”
“Now that you mention it, I bet I could get good money for those.” Annie deflated. “I really thought it was him.”
Meg tucked her paddle under her arm and marched to the net. “I think it’s time you and I had a little talk about the Michael Edmonds in the room,” she said. “Admit it. You are obsessed. You need to do something about it.”
Annie sighed. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Anyhow, the whole point is moot. I can’t even think about having a relationship. I can’t even believe I took time off to go on this vacation.”
Meg glared at her friend. “Weren’t you the one who just told me to get out of my own way?”
“Yeah. And you should. But I prefer to set up a friggin’ obstacle course in my own path.”
“Nope. Not happening. If you want me to move on, you need to do the same.” Meg shook her head. “?’Cause I have to say, Banannie, I don’t really get it. What do you see in him? You hardly know him. You said so yourself. No one really does.”
Everyone on the Lakeview courts had their guesses, but the real Michael was a man of mystery. Rumors circulated: That he was married. That he spoke fluent Thai, Russian, and Arabic. That he could look at a jar of marbles and tell exactly how many there were. That he was helicopter rich off an app he’d developed that let you swipe right to find pickleball partners. That he had won a chimpanzee in a poker bet. Meg believed all of it, and Annie, none. Or so she always said.
“I’m gonna tell you something super embarrassing. I can’t explain it, but you’re totally right. I am…fixated. I have this recurring fantasy about him.”
“Really…” Meg asked, waggling an eyebrow.
Annie swung her paddle, smacking Meg on the back of her arm.
“Ow!”
“Not that kind of fantasy.” Annie shook her head in mock disgust. “We go on dates and eat fancy dinners together in nice restaurants and we both love opera, and we get married and have three dogs and two very good-looking and clever children. Serena and Gabriel.”
“So…you’ve thought this through.”
Annie’s expression was guilty with the confession. “I know he’s just my partner on the courts. But he’s always so helpful, and he gives me tips about my swing, and he’s so handsome. All right. I think about him all the time. I guess I’ve pretended that we were this couple.” She sighed. “I don’t know if he likes me, too, or if he’s just being…” She searched for the word. “Cordial.”
“Annie.” Meg’s tone was kind. “You have to talk to him. How will you ever know if he feels the same?” In all the time she had known her, Annie had always kept her heart in check. Meg honestly couldn’t remember the last time she had even gone on a date.
“I know. I should ask him, right? But I want him to say something. I want it so much,” Annie said, pouting. “I keep thinking he’s going to give me some kind of sign that he’s interested in me. The real me. Not just my awesome backhand.”
“Why don’t you ask him out? See if he’s interested?”
“And ruin our perfect fantasy relationship?” Annie’s lips quirked up. “Besides, who am I kidding? I don’t have time for a social life. I’m at the hospital all the time. And when I’m not, I’m playing pickleball. Otherwise, I’d never leave the hospital or my bed. Every day, when I’m not working, I go through the same decision angst. Which do I need more—sleep or pickleball? Pickleball usually wins.” She grinned. “There’s not much room for anything else, ya know?”
“No rest for the pickleballers.” With a friendly bump to the shoulder, Meg jostled Annie, who listed sideways into the net.
When Annie righted herself, she shook off the fantasy and morphed back into her no-nonsense norm. She waved Meg off, pointing her back to her corner. “Okay. Enough talking. Zero–zero, start,” Annie called, and hit the ball crosscourt to Meg.
“Oh. Are we starting?” Meg swung her paddle and returned with force.
The ball traveled back and forth, an easy volley. “Tell you what. Let’s make a pact.” Annie whacked the ball, keeping up her patter as she hit. “No more talk about Ethan. No more Michael. Today, it’s Meg-and-Annie time. Pure vacation.”
Annie must have been taking it easy on Meg, letting her return the ball time after time. “Sounds good to me,” Meg agreed. “So what does pure Annie-time look like? Say you could do anything. Anything at all. What would you want to do?”
“I wanna pickle. And I wanna sleep.” Annie smacked the ball with fervor to punctuate her passion for her two favorite verbs. “What do you want?”
Meg thought. Something about the rhythmic plick-plack of the bouncing ball steadied her thinking. “I wanna paint. And I wanna pickle.” The ball came faster now, speeding up with their growing energies.
“We have overlap,” Annie noted. “We could make a Venn diagram. Call it pickle in the middle,” she said, striking the ball with a power punch. It zipped past Meg and skidded behind her, right to the baseline. Annie punched the air. “Yes! Man, that felt good.”
“Nice shot.” Both women turned at the sound of Rooster’s familiar voice. “Sorry I’m late. I made some new friends my own age,” he said, waving his paddle toward the repurposed tennis courts, where the raucous shouts and laughter of septuagenarian athletes echoed across the pavement. “How ’bout you let the old folks challenge you to a few games…if you’re not scared of getting your heads handed to you by people twice your age.”
During the two hours that followed, they joined in with the friendly members of the Bainbridge crew, and the hours slipped by like minutes. Pickleball had a way of cranking up the bass on Meg’s energy until there was nothing left to do but dance.
“You played well,” Rooster said when they finally stopped. “But remember. Paddle up,” he demonstrated. “And keep the ball lower. If you move your feet and bend your knees, you’ll have better aim and leverage so you don’t pop it up.”
Annie nodded. “Yeah. Get to the net faster. And in between each shot, reset.”
“Get your feet under you,” Rooster advised.
“And then slide right back into position after you hit.”
“Should I be writing this down?” Meg asked, a twinkle of snark in her voice.
Rooster shrugged. “You’re a smart cookie. You can remember it.” Rooster tapped a finger against his temple. “The noggin and the body work together. Use ’em while you still got ’em.”
It was good advice, all of it. But nothing she hadn’t heard before. The problem wasn’t knowing what she was supposed to do. It was managing to actually do it at the same time as a plastic sphere was hurtling at her paddle. All in all, though, she and Rooster had built their teamwork skills today, and she was beginning to think they really did have a shot at Lakeview’s beginners’ spot.
Too pooped to pickle any longer, Meg plopped down on the bench beside a well-put-together lady in her fifties. White stripes traveled down the seams of her lavender tracksuit. The sun glinted off the gemstones on her beringed fingers as she reached out to shake Meg’s hand.
“Marilyn,” the woman said by way of introduction. “You’re joining us from Seattle, is that right?”
Meg nodded. “Are you looking for a game?” She could muster the juice to squeeze in one more. Maybe.
“Oh, no. I’m done for the day.” She leaned toward Meg in a way that gave Meg the impression she was inspecting her. “You and your friend Annie look like you know your way around the courts. Are you here on vacation? Or are you Picklesmash players, spying on the competition?” she asked, joking but not joking.
“Annie plays in tournaments, but I haven’t before. This will be my first—” Meg’s voice stopped hard on the last word. If they thought Annie and Meg were there on a mission to check out their Picklesmash competition, they would be iced out in no time and wouldn’t get the court time. Why did she have to be so transparent?
“I mean. We’re on a pickle-cation.”
“Mm-hm,” Marilyn hummed, her tone thick with suspicion. Luckily, Meg was saved from further scrutiny by the pinging of Marilyn’s phone. The older woman glanced at the screen and then raised a neatly manicured finger. “Excuse me a sec.”
Marilyn turned her back. “Michael, darling!”
Michael? Meg’s ears pricked up. There were lots of Michaels out there, she reasoned. But still…“At Winslow Vineyards? Tonight?” Marilyn asked. “I’ll try. You guys get started without me. I’m not sure I can make it in time.” Meg twisted her neck to peek over Marilyn’s shoulder at the image on Marilyn’s phone.
Pipin’ potatoes with all the fixin’s! There he was peering out from the screen: none other than Michael Edmonds! If Meg didn’t bruise like ripe fruit in the tropics, she’d pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
“All right then, dear. If I don’t see you, we’ll catch up soon.” Meg bent to tie her shoelace just as Marilyn turned back in her direction.
“My word!” Marilyn declared. “Is it five o’clock already? Sorry to jet, but we have some rec club business here on the courts. If you’ll excuse me…” Cupping her hands over her mouth, Marilyn shouted. “Yoo-hoo. Everybody. It’s five o’clock,” she called, and offered Meg a sphinxlike smile. “So nice to meet you and your friends.”
She watched as Marilyn marched off to conspire with her pickle peeps. As they huddled together, Meg had the distinct feeling they were plotting something. But what? Pickleballers were generally welcoming to newcomers, but Meg suspected that joining in with Bainbridge’s crew required a secret handshake and a six-digit passcode.
With no one left on the court, Annie waved Meg toward the hatchback. Meg puzzled over Marilyn’s phone conversation, wondering where Michael Edmonds fit into this curious jigsaw. Maybe she should mention her suspicions about Michael and Marilyn’s connection to Annie. Or better yet, she should try and get more intel before crushing Annie’s dreams. Was Marilyn and Michael’s connection a pickleball threat, or a romantic one as well? Marilyn might have a few years on Michael, but it wasn’t out of the question that their relationship might extend beyond dinks and drinks.
Lost in her own thoughts, Meg almost ran into Annie. Her friend had stopped in her tracks, one hand holding her phone and her other arm shooting out and blocking Meg’s path.
“No. Way,” Annie fumed. “That…jerk!” she exploded, shaking her head. “This goes beyond acceptable. I knew we couldn’t trust him. I could just—” She finished off the threat with a sound like a squirrel choking on a nut, while shaking her fist at her invisible foe. Annie’s eyes blazed as she scrolled up her phone screen.
“What happened?”
“What happened?” Annie spit out the words. “Your cutthroat Romeo, Ethan Fine, happened. That’s what happened.”
The blood in Meg’s hands drained toward her fingernails. “Ethan?”
Annie pointed at her screen. There, in a post from Jeannie, captioned with enough expletives to kill a nun, Meg saw the photo of the court’s front gate. It was secured with a padlock. A placard with the Plan It Earth logo was clipped to the chain-link fence beside it.
Meg’s blood simmered when she read the sign. Courts closed until further notice.