Chapter 4
four
Two days and a quick stop off in Orlando later, I stand before the grand Vizcaya Museum, half an hour from Miami Gardens and Hard Rock Stadium.
Delilah and Harper have made a point this year to put on tourist hats in the free time we get before and during tournaments, dragging me and Sahar with them.
Stucco walls give way to Renaissance columns and ivy-framed balconies. I haven’t necessarily enjoyed all the museums I’ve been forced to visit this year, but I can certainly admit this one’s quite beautiful.
I catch the end of Delilah’s speech. “…and it was built during the Gilded Age.”
Sahar nods, her red cowl-neck spaghetti strap dress providing a canvas of strong tan shoulders that her thick black hair spills across. “Mm-hmm, mm-hmm. And when exactly was that?”
“The Gilded Age,” Delilah repeats, like that’s enough information, and Sahar snorts.
“The early 1900s,” Harper supplies helpfully.
“The whole thing is forty-three acres,” Delilah continues. “Similar to Nic’s parents’ house,” she jokes.
I roll my eyes, though her laugh makes my lips tip up. “They live on the Athenian Riviera. There’s hardly room for that.” What I don’t acknowledge is the many properties they own across the world, which combined, sit on far more.
An incredulous knit of Sahar’s brows. “Didn’t you grow up with a clay court on the grounds?”
I sigh. “Yes. I’m not saying it isn’t massive. It’s just not a sprawling Venetian bayfront villa.” Apparently, I retained more from Delilah’s helpful informational than I realized. She grins, pleased.
“I’d kill for a house with amenities,” Sahar answers, tucking her arm through Harper’s as we walk inside.
“Trust me, most of the property and rooms are untouched.” My parents spend less than two months at home and the rest of the year traveling the world.
Before they moved me to New York, even I didn’t live there much, and when I did, it was by myself, with a nanny, or with a tennis coach.
Most of my memories of Greece are from my yiayia’s house, and later, from a boarding school because it was “easier that way.”
Falling into step beside Delilah, I finish, “If I could give it to you, I would. Or I’d turn it into a museum like this.” At least that way, someone would appreciate it.
We pass through obscenely opulent rooms, most with painted ceilings and many with meticulous stained-glass windows. A music room with a harp, frozen in time. A drawing room with tapestries and oil portraits, air thick with memories the plaques and tour guides can’t tell us.
At one point, Delilah points out the detail of the hand-tiled mosaic flooring and Sahar asks, “Babe, are you sure you haven’t been here before? I didn’t get a chance to listen to any of the audio tour, but if I had to wager, you’d have them beat.”
“They should give you a job as a tour guide,” Harper adds, piling her long dark brown hair into a bun on top of her head.
Delilah throws her arms out, basking in the praise, her blue eyes lit. “If I got to spend all my time in a place like this, with chandeliers bigger than my body and doors carved like this one”—she gestures to the one behind her—“I’d die happy.”
“But then you’d have to live in Miami.” Sahar mimics barfing, and the three of them laugh.
“And where would Matteo be in this fantasy?” Harper asks.
It’s like a game of mental gymnastics trying to find a place to enter the conversation. By the time I produce a worthwhile thought, they’ve moved on. Outside of being asked direct questions, I’m practically hopeless.
“You think my very Italian boyfriend would mind spending his time in a Venetian estate?”
“He’d hate all the people though,” I finally add.
Delilah giggles. “Good point. All in favor of me not quitting the tour to become a tour guide, say aye.”
I roll my eyes again, but my indulging “aye” overlaps with Harper’s and Sahar’s, and we move into the next hallway.
A loud horn sounds from somewhere behind us, startling us closer to each other. For some reason beyond my comprehension, a child of seven or eight stands beside a horrified middle-aged woman, an air horn in hand.
“Tommy, I asked you to leave that in the car,” she says urgently, looking around apologetically and hiding the horn in her purse.
Harper and Sahar exchange a glance, giggling.
“Do you remember the time we were eating dinner at that restaurant in Melbourne and Maya and Ryan were by the river, about to kiss?” Sahar asks.
Delilah joins them, holding her abdomen as her laugh grows quieter.
“You mean when the boat horn scared him so badly, he jumped two feet into the air, nearly hit Maya and then yelled at the guy on the boat who was laughing?” she finally manages after catching her breath, wiping a tear from her eye.
This must have been before I began training with them.
Harper’s practically wheezing. “Yes! I’ve never seen him turn so red.”
Sahar shakes her head. “God, he was the worst. I’m so glad that didn’t work out.”
“Sahar!” Harper admonishes.
“What? Did we want her to stay with that asshole?”
Delilah curls a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, taking stock of the guests around us and leading us into the next room. “Definitely not.”
And I’m back. It’s moments like these that remind me of eating lunch alone at my boarding school in Greece. Of feeling alone in a room full of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. Left out. Awkward.
Entirely superfluous.
The girls are still talking about another time Ryan did something stupid when we step outside. Gravel paths curve between manicured hedges and fountains trickle into basins ringed with moss. The symmetry is breathtaking enough that I forget the painful tug in my chest.
Delilah nudges me, folding me into the conversation. “Ryan was Maya’s almost boyfriend there for a while, until he decided he couldn’t commit to her but could to Anya. It was years ago though. Obviously things have worked out for the best.”
Sahar scoffs. “Yeah. Ryan’s sad and alone and struggling to stay in the top two hundred and Maya is loved up and living her best life.”
“As it should be,” Harper agrees.
“Right,” I add with a nod. Maybe not so superfluous after all. The painful tug turns to gratefulness.
We turn off the main axis to a smaller alcove, which Delilah tells us is called the Secret Garden, before she says, “Speaking of Maya, she told me she’ll be in Charleston during the open. She wants to get food with us.”
Harper claps once. “Oh, yay! That’ll be fun.
I haven’t seen her in ages.” She gets distracted by something down the path and excitedly gestures for us to follow.
Delilah does so overzealously, like a puppy following after her, tail wagging and all.
Sahar glances at me like we’re sharing a joke, and while I’m not sure I understand, my lonely heart preens at being included.
My phone flashes with a call from Nora, who stayed back in Orlando for a few extra days to care for her mother. I show Sahar the screen and point with my chin toward Harper and Delilah. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.” She nods and I swipe to answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hi, Nic. How are you feeling about the tournament?” Nora asks.
“Good.” Putting Indian Wells behind me has been a challenge and a half, but Miami is worth the same number of points. It’s another chance, and I won’t squander it.
“Good, good. I’m glad to hear it.” She’s silent for a few beats, which raises my hackles. Nora has traveled with me to every tournament for the last year and a half, so it’s odd now to be talking to her over the phone. Odder still that she called to check in.
“How are you?” I ask. “And your mother?”
There’s a long sigh on the other end, then rustling.
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. My mother’s condition has worsened.
She didn’t tell me until I got here, but she received some test results last month and…
I just don’t think I can leave her, even with Julia here,” she finishes, referring to her wife.
“I don’t know for how long, but I’m going to have to take time off. ”
“Oh.” I resist the urge to do the sign of the cross, as my yiayia would when she received bad news, instead touching the mati pendant on my necklace.
“Nic, I’m so sor—”
“No, god, no. There’s no need to apologize,” I rush to answer, realizing how inconsiderate my one-syllable response was. “I completely understand. I hope her condition improves soon and she feels better.”
“Will you be able to find someone on short notice? I don’t want to leave you without a strength and conditioning coach.”
I’ve already started trying to piece together where I’ll go from here.
Most performance coaches I know have been working with their player for at least a couple of months.
“I’m sure Karolína and I will come up with something.
I’ll continue the exercises we were doing in California and hopefully come clay-court season, I’ll find someone. ”
“If you want, I can train you remotely. I feel horrible.”
“Nora, really. Take care of you and yours. The last thing you need while helping with your mother is hopping on a video call to tell me to straighten my spine during Bosu ball holds.”
She laughs, though I was being serious. “You’re sure?”
“Of course.”
Another long sigh. “Okay. I’ll be cheering you on from here. And if you need me for the offseason, call me.”
“Will do.”
We say our goodbyes and I type out a quick message to my coach. I know it’s only been a few seconds, but I’m frustrated that I haven’t found a solution yet. I pray Karolína will. She usually does.
Sidling up to my friends, I pretend to listen to Delilah lecturing about the five areas of the garden.
“Nic?” Delilah asks softly, like it’s not the first time.
“Hmm?”
“Is everything okay?”
I glance up, realizing all three of them are watching me. “Nora won’t be joining me for the rest of the tour. Her mother isn’t well.”