Chapter Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six
Annie appeared just after nine in the morning, puffy eyed and groggy. In a great tribute to their friendship, she trundled up to Meg and offered to help with the grunt work. And in an even greater commentary, she deigned to appear in a T-shirt and—here Meg’s brow angled upward—were those sweatpants?!
The fence’s muted blue foundation didn’t fit Meg’s new vision, so together they began the arduous task of stripping the paint and applying a gesso primer. Side by side, they worked for three hours, and when Annie left to get them some lunch, Meg remained immersed in her work.
She traced guidelines in a muted yellow that she would paint over another day. Finally , she thought. A project that sang to her. The electric current of her creativity hummed in her veins, her hangover a forgotten fog. Meg’s instinctual brushstrokes swept wheat-colored lines and swoops onto the close-set pickets of the fence. A voice in the back of her brain whispered: Right here. Right now. This is me. Inside her chest, she felt a garden blooming.
The morning sun did its work and dried the paint in five pickets’ time, and before the spell of her enthusiasm wore off, she had finished the circuit of guidelines. Beads of sweat trickled down the back of her neck and, satisfied, she relished them as proof of her hard work. The sketch was laid out.
On a roll now, she drove into Winslow on a paint run. Meg strolled through the rainbowed rows of paints, dragging in the pungent scents of oils and new paper. She loved an art store. Picking out supplies was a treasure hunt, a precursor to endless outcomes. Up and down the aisle she wandered, holding the bottles at arm’s length to check the colors. No flat-bodied mural paints for her. And even though she was going for a contemporary vibrance, she avoided the too-flashy brilliance offered by spray paints. Vivid acrylics would allow for the glossiness of spray paints, plus she could apply the paint with a brush to blend and distinguish her hues. Yes. Those would work perfectly.
With her cart brimming, she snapped Mayumi’s credit card on the counter. For the first time in a long time, Meg had free rein both financially and creatively over her artistic vision. Satisfied with her purchases, she folded the receipt into her wallet.
When she returned, as she lugged the new paint supplies to the shed, she spotted Annie on the lawn. “Admiring our handiwork?” Meg asked. But as she neared, she noticed her friend had been staring at the departing figure rounding the bend down the beach.
“ He came by looking for you.”
Meg’s heart ka-thunked against her rib cage. She wanted to call out his name and break into a run after him. Leap into his arms and kiss him. Or kick him in the nuts. She wasn’t sure which. Instead, she said, “Oh?”
Planting her hands on her hips, Annie jutted her chin. “I told him to get lost.” Then, seeing Meg’s stricken expression, Annie groaned, “Oh no. I said the wrong thing.”
“No. No. You said the right thing. He’s a conniving rat.” But her insides folded up like origami. Dagnabbit. Why did she still have such a soft spot for the guy? Against her better judgment, she asked, “What did he want?”
“Said he just wanted to talk to you.” Taking in her friend’s mute reaction, Annie scrunched up her lips. “Dammit. I did say the wrong thing, didn’t I?”
“No. No.”
“If you have to say it twice, it means yes. Aw, Meg. He looks miserable. I mean, he looks great, but he seems miserable. Maybe you should…you know…hear him out.”
A current of conflicting emotions tumbled through Meg. Even catching a glimpse of Ethan like this made her pulse skip with hope. On the other hand, Meg’s patience for the ups and downs of Ethan’s behavior was growing thin. It was like playing with one of those light-up yo-yos that’s supercool until the string gets tangled and the battery dies.
“You know what? Forget him,” Meg said. “I can’t keep stressing out about that…situationship. I could use a break from him and all the—”
“Sulking?” Annie finished.
“Yeah. That. We need a pick-me-up. And I’ve got an idea.”
“Does it start with p and end with ickleball ?”
Meg could already feel her spirits lifting. “Yah. You betcha.”
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Annie may have painted a fence that morning in sweats, but there was no way she intended to show up to the courts in less than a black tennis kit with fluorescent orange piping. Visor and shoes to match. As Meg dragged her through the silver arch at the Founders Courts, Annie grumbled, “Remind me. Why are we doing this?”
Meg shrugged. “For fun.” Just because neither of them had a partner for the tournament anymore didn’t mean they couldn’t have a good time hitting it around.
“For fun, huh.” Annie tugged her high-end paddle from its protective case. “Hmm. That’s new.”
They made quick work of their stretches and warm-up. Eager to play, Meg set her stance. Her serve came off the paddle without a thought for grace or style. It felt good to throw all her conflicted emotions about Ethan into walloping the ball, rushing the net, and returning Annie’s smokers. Meg danced on her feet, hot-coals style. She raced to cover the half-court as they cracked the ball back and forth, both of them slugging the ball harder than usual. Meg kept up, returning everything Annie could give her. And in an instant of clarity that surprised even her, Meg lobbed one to the back corner while Annie waited helplessly at the net. Both of them stopped, mouths agape, to watch the ball hit the baseline paint.
“Did you just win that point?” Annie asked, incredulous.
“Don’t act so shocked. I’ve been taught by the best.”
Annie marched to meet her friend at the net. She screwed her face up into a curious expression. “I was thinking.”
“Oh. Good. I thought maybe you were farting.”
“Nope. That was right before I got out of your car. I left it in there to miasmatize.”
“I’m certain that’s not a word.”
“It is now.” Annie grinned and placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I just had an idea. Why don’t you and I play together in Picklesmash?”
Touched, Meg soaked in the comfort of Annie’s kind proposal. But the fact was, Meg’s basic game was a long escalator ride down from Annie’s sophisticated play. “I would have to play up. That would put you at a disadvantage.”
“So what? So we don’t win. I would be okay with that,” Annie said, shrugging. “You said yourself we should play for fun. And it would mean you would get to play your first tournament. You don’t have to decide right now. Just think about it.” Annie stepped back behind the kitchen line and tugged a 2Win tournament-quality ball out of her pocket. She dropped it onto her paddle and sent a perfect dink over the tape.
As they tapped the ball in a kitchen drill, Meg considered Annie’s suggestion, wavering back and forth each time the ball arced over the net. It would be fun, but it would mean she would have to move up to Annie’s advanced status and play against an A-level team. They would enjoy partnering, but they would lose every match. That wasn’t pessimism, it was the way the odds stacked up. Not to mention that Jeannie the rabid school counselor would have a conniption if Meg stepped into Michael Edmonds’s place—a spot that should go to one of her minions. As much as Meg would enjoy having a shot at playing in the competition, she shook her head.
“It really is sweet of you. And I appreciate it. But I don’t think it would be fair to either of us, not to mention to Lakeview.”
“Okay. Something will work out. We just have to be open to the possibilities of the universe.”
The afternoon cooled, and they paused in their play to don light jackets and to scarf down handfuls of peanuts and raisins. In the distance on the converted tennis courts, they watched Coach Chad, fully recovered, instruct a crew of seniors in the art of the drop serve. Plastic balls sailed in all directions except over the net. Chad, on his guard, thrust his arm toward his head anytime a ball came within three feet of him. Meg’s gaze traveled beyond the lessons to the pickleball courts in the distance.
At first, she did not register anything unusual about the pair of players. Just two men sharing a wildly uneven game.
Hold on. Meg let Annie’s shot bobble past her. What?!
She couldn’t be seeing what she thought she was seeing. Could she?
Stepping to Annie, Meg nodded her chin toward the far court. She heard her friend’s sharp intake of breath.
Their attentions locked on the pair. They stared, unspeaking, their suspicions rising. With a glance of agreement, Meg and Annie left their paddles on the picnic table. Drawn to the strange, uneven ballet playing out on the court, they wandered toward the two players engaged in a singles match.
When they were close enough to make out the players’ faces, Annie threw her hand out to stop Meg’s advance. “Oh my god,” she gasped.
“Oh my god,” Meg repeated.
“Is that?”
“It is.”
There, on the court, playing his A game against some underskilled C-team benchwarmer, was that snake Michael Edmonds.
Meg’s ire threatened to explode out of her ears. “I am going to lose it with that guy. Hold me back before I bust his 2Win tournament-quality balls,” she said, although she had no intention of allowing herself to be restrained. Speed-stepping, Meg marched to the courtside bench. Annie followed cautiously, as if approaching an unfriendly dog or a tax auditor.
Michael Edmonds continued to strike the ball, oblivious of his impending ass-kicking. He swooped and struck and outplayed his lesser adversary with clean technique and practiced finesse.
Meg balled her fingers into fists. Her rage flared and she turned to Annie. “That ‘I’m a beginner’ bullshit is ending now. Look at how he’s creaming that poor guy.”
Michael Edmonds did not notice the ladies’ approach. He was focused on his play, hitting easy gets to his opponent, drawing him in for a bigger kill. After a few weak crosscourt attempts, Michael’s opponent blundered his lob, sending the ball directly to Michael’s forehand slam hand.
Wham! Michael smashed the hard plastic ball into the weaker player’s chest. Meg winced sympathetically. That was exactly why she always wore a padded bra while playing.
“Oof!” Michael’s opponent groaned.
Michael Edmonds rushed the net. “Oh shit. I swear I was aiming at your feet.”
“You’re supposed to be helping me, not beating the crap out of me. Ow!” The injured man rubbed at his sternum and lifted his head.
Meg gasped.
“Michael Edmonds!” Annie exclaimed.
The two men, mirror images, answered to the name.