Chapter Nine
MILLY
Milly felt a little ridiculous when she walked onto the court in tennis shoes and a short white collared dress with a green cardigan over her shoulders, as if she were dressing up for a costume party, but she was also excited to take her very first lesson.
She and Lloyd had loved to watch the college tennis team together when they were first going steady, and while she suspected half of the appeal for him had been the girls in short skirts, they both grew to love and appreciate the athleticism and finesse that the players had on the courts.
It was silly, but as she dressed that morning, she hoped that lessons might bring out some natural talent she didn’t know about.
She might be able to impress Lloyd with her newfound aptitude.
Lord knew she had followed all the rules for excelling at housewifery, and that hadn’t impressed him; maybe tennis would offer the spark that would surprise him next time they made an appearance at the club.
She held a borrowed racket in one hand and ran her fingers along the smooth wooden handle, not quite sure what to do with it. Her first practice session with Sylvia had been embarrassingly bad, but she hoped with some instruction she could improve.
“Ready?” Sylvia called out, bouncing the white ball in front of her, eager to begin.
“I think so,” Milly said.
The ball flew past her, but before she had a chance to apologize, Sylvia was bouncing another, ready to serve. This time Milly stuck her racket out and managed to hit it back, but not over the net. Sylvia tried again.
“Do you want to serve?” Sylvia asked.
“Oh no,” Milly said. She didn’t even know how.
“It’s all right.” Sylvia bounced the ball in front of her again, and when she tried to serve, it hit the net. She tried again and sent it over.
Milly was terrible, but her friend was no Bobby Riggs either.
“Well, well, what have we here?” A man in an all-white sweater-and-trouser ensemble grinned as he looked Milly up and down and up again. “A doubles partner?”
“Robbie, this is my friend Milly Kincaid. She’s new here.”
He took Milly’s hand and kissed it, letting his lips linger too long.
“Milly, this is Robbie, the best coach we have.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Robbie said, finally releasing Milly’s hand.
“I’m not very good,” she said spinning the racket nervously. “I can barely hit the ball.”
“Well, you certainly look the part,” he said, eyeing her again.
“She’s married, Robbie,” Sylvia called out as she jogged to the other end of the court.
“They all are,” Robbie said and laughed. He walked to the side of the net, where he had a metal cart full of balls. “I’ll feed, you hit,” he said. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Hitting the ball was easier with a coach feeding her the balls exactly to her forehand and at the correct height and speed.
But she still managed to hit them sideways, even backward, with just a few heading in Sylvia’s direction.
It was frustrating and humbling. He asked them to try a few underhand serves to warm up, but Milly’s were so soft and slow they didn’t even make it to the net.
“You need to work on your strokes,” Robbie said. “And grip that handle, really grip it hard,” he said. “No limp noodles.”
He turned his attention away from Milly toward Sylvia. “That’s it. You’ve been doing your homework; your wrist is getting stronger.”
Everything he said seemed to have some kind of sexual undertone, Milly thought, or maybe she was imagining it.
It had been so long since she’d been intimate with Lloyd.
Four months, to be exact, and it hadn’t gone well.
He’d said he was too exhausted from work to finish.
And now with his latest disappearing acts, she wondered if they’d ever have relations again.
Their whole marriage they’d always been kind to each other, sweet even.
He always kissed her good night. Sometimes he’d reach for her hand under the covers and she’d think he might reach for her waist, pull her close, even though she was tired and wanted sleep, but he didn’t.
Almost never. Instead, he’d fall asleep, and when she heard his breathing slow, she’d gently ease her hand out of his and roll over to her side of the bed.
Robbie fed them more balls, but Milly consistently missed them or sent them where they weren’t supposed to go, and Sylvia seemed distracted, as if her mind were elsewhere.
It felt hopeless, and Milly wanted to give up, go home.
Maybe there was nothing she’d be good at, nothing to make her worthy or lovable.
She hated to descend into self-pity but as the thoughts involuntarily ran through her mind, her eyes watered.
Oh, stop it, she told herself, just stop it.
When the next ball came her way, she swung at it so hard, she made contact and sent it up and over the fence.
“Well, at least you went for it,” Robbie said, shrugging his shoulders. “Maybe try to keep it in next time.” Their half hour was soon up. Milly paid Robbie, and he moved to another court to coach some men who seemed far more experienced.
“Are they all like that?” Milly asked.
“Like what?”
Milly tilted her head toward him.
“Who, Robbie? He’s harmless,” Sylvia said. “And no, they’re not all like him. We only have a few coaches, and they all like the attention of a beautiful woman, but he’s the best if you want to learn fast.”
“I do,” Milly said, but her hope of uncovering some hidden talent now seemed unlikely, very unlikely—embarrassing, even, that she’d had the thought to begin with.
That night, after she got the kids to bed, Milly started tinkering with the guest cottage, getting it ready in case she found renters for Bal Week, when she heard a soft thumping coming from outside.
Looking out the window across her small yard to her house, nothing appeared to be amiss.
The noise seemed to be coming from the alley behind the cottage, and when she unlatched the window that opened onto it, she realized she was right.
Thump, pause, pause, thump, pause, pause.
It wasn’t an insistent rapping on a door as if someone needed urgent help; it was more rhythmic.
Milly unlocked the door that led to the alley and stepped out into the dark.
At the end of her street she could see someone moving in and out of view.
As she came closer, Milly recognized the figure.
It was her aloof neighbor Adele, whose house on Onyx also backed up to the alley.
Racquet in hand, she was whacking a ball against a wall next to her house with such force that it made Milly step back into the shadows of her neighbor’s house.
Adele’s was the second home from the end of the street.
The last house on the block was one of Walter’s recent investments—run-down, vacant, and, according to Sylvia, soon to be torn down to make room for a larger house.
Adele was clearly taking advantage of the fact that she had no neighbors on one side, because if anyone else were to hear or witness this display of aggression, they would most certainly call the police.
What astonished Milly the most as she watched Adele move was not just the power with which she hit the ball, which was something she’d never witnessed before, but also her grace and composure.
After she shot the ball at full speed toward the wall, she shuffled gracefully backward, racket looping around behind her, then she’d leap forward like a ballerina, meeting the ball mid-flight, only to slam it toward the wall in exactly the same spot, repeating the motion over and over again.
It was grace and power, strength and beauty and precision all unfolding before her in the most unusual way.
How did she know how to hit a ball like this, and why was she doing it here, so late at night in a dark alley?
Milly thought she should get back to the house where her children were, hopefully, sleeping soundly, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the dance going on in front of her.
Still watching, she began to back away but cursed as she almost turned her ankle on an uneven part of the alley.
Adele stopped hitting, caught the ball on the strings of her racket, and turned to Milly.
“Can I help you?” she asked, curtly.
“Oh, hi, hello. I just heard you playing and I came out to see what all the commotion was about.”
“Commotion?”
“Not commotion, really, just, wow, you hit the ball with such power and grace.”
Adele picked up a pitcher of water and a glass she had placed at the side of the alley and took a long drink. She then wiped her brow with her sleeve. She was wearing a bandanna tied around her short brown bob, but it wasn’t enough to catch her perspiration.
“Is there something you want?” Adele asked, sounding irritated. “Because if not, you’re interrupting my rhythm.”
“Oh,” Milly said, slightly terrified by her demeanor. “Sorry, I was just leaving. But how did you learn to play so well?”
“My father,” Adele said, tapping the ball impatiently against the ground with her racket.
“It’s mesmerizing to watch you.”
Adele snorted sarcastically. “Do you make a habit of watching people?”
“No, gosh no, I just heard you, that’s all. You could be a professional or something.”
Adele glared at her, then started up again, hitting the ball gently against the wall, and Milly knew this was her cue to leave.
“Well, if you ever need someone to practice with, I’ve just taken up tennis.”
“Are you good?”
“No,” Milly said, “definitely not.”
“Then no,” Adele said. “I play alone.”
“But it’s tennis. How can you play alone?”
Adele gestured to the wall.
“That house is getting torn down, you know,” Milly said.
Adele shrugged. “I don’t need to practice with anyone. I already play just fine.”
“All right.” Milly put her hands up in defense and backed away. This woman was not neighborly at all. First the Ferris wheel and now this. “I was just trying to be friendly,” Milly said.
But Adele had to have the last word. “Well,” she said. “I don’t need friends either.”
Milly shook her head in stunned disbelief; no one had ever spoken to her so bluntly before. Then she turned and walked back to her house.