Chapter Twenty-Three
SYLVIA
Tennis was exactly what Sylvia needed—something to get her mind off the move to their tiny, damp-smelling house.
It also gave her a much-needed break from Walter.
She could barely look at him, still furious with him for putting them in this awful and humiliating situation and for standing her up at the beauty contest. She also needed a respite from her daughter’s daggerlike glares.
“It smells like moldy old cheese,” Judith had said to Sylvia that morning as she dressed for school, as if this were all Sylvia’s fault. “And I can’t find any of my things.”
“I know the feeling, Jude, believe me. I’m having a hard time too, but we have to do the best we can with this new situation,” she’d said, having to try very hard now not to throw all the blame on Walter, which she desperately wanted to do.
The situation they were in was still dire.
Walter had paid off his debts, but there was barely anything left in their accounts, and the club still had significant bills to be paid, monthly, with money that they simply no longer had.
Money was so tight and accounted for that Sylvia had to cherry-pick her groceries, opting for what was cheap and on sale, something that reminded her of going to the market with her grandmother in Barstow and seeing her count out her coins at the register, sometimes asking Sylvia to return something to the shelf when they couldn’t afford it.
Walter was constantly anxious, often at the bank or with their accountant, and it was painfully clear now that their days of keeping the doors to the club open were extremely limited.
On the court, though, she was able to put it out of her mind for a little while.
“I’m glad you asked me to join,” Sylvia said to Milly as they stretched their arms over their heads and rotated their torsos from left to right, as Adele had taught them to do. “I haven’t played for a while.”
“Well, you’ve been busy with the move,” Milly said. “Speaking of moves, I’ve got a new tenant moving into my guest cottage.” She stepped into a lunge, then straightened her leg, reaching forward to touch her toes. There was a smile on Milly’s lips.
“You’re enjoying this,” Sylvia said, teasing.
“Enjoying what?” Milly said, her smile growing now.
“Taking in these new tenants, making money,” Sylvia said. “It probably feels good to have money handed over to you and not your husband for once,” she said, lowering her voice. “Making your own money.”
“It does,” Milly said. “I’ve never had a real job. There’s something thrilling about earning some of your own cash, even if it’s just a little.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Sylvia said. “These new women that Adele is coaching now—that was all my doing, not Walter’s.”
Milly raised here eyebrows.
“OK, fine,” Sylvia said. “You were the one who convinced me to let her coach here. I have you to thank, but Adele is coaching seven or eight women now. It’s not a lot of money, in the grand scheme of things, but it gives me a little hope that I could do more to help improve things around here.”
“I hear my name,” Adele said, approaching in her usual white tennis outfit and her headband holding back her short wavy hair.
“I was saying how you’re becoming quite popular around here.”
Adele shrugged. “I’m glad.”
“The ladies seem happy with their lessons,” Sylvia said.
“Good. Now come on, let’s get moving.”
Adele taught them the basics of match play that day, two chances to serve from the deuce side, then two chances from the ad side.
She’d taught them how to score—love, 15, 30, 40, deuce—how many games to play in a set, how many sets to play in a match.
Sylvia knew all this, but it had been so long since she’d attempted an actual match that she was grateful for the refresher.
Milly seemed excited too, despite the fact that she kept counting to 45 instead of 40, claiming that it didn’t make any sense.
She was eager to start playing matches with some of the other women and had a pep to her, Sylvia noticed, an energetic spirit that had come about since she’d started taking private lessons with Adele.
It made Milly seem even younger somehow, more vibrant, and her enthusiasm was contagious.
When the lesson was over, Adele and Milly packed up their bags and headed off the court.
“No more bookings today?” Sylvia asked, trying not to look disappointed.
“You were my last two,” Adele said. “But you are both coming along quite nicely. You’ve got a long way to go, bien s?r, but you played well. Soon you can play a practice match with each other. Maybe I will watch, to see how you do.”
“You’d do that?” Milly asked, excited.
“Oui,” Adele said. “You’re not as bad to spend time with as I once thought.” Sylvia laughed, both at the backhanded compliment and at how Adele was turning out to be quite fun, not at all the sourpuss she’d pinned her for all these years.
When Milly and Adele left the club, Sylvia marveled to think that the two might even be walking home together. “Incredible,” she said to herself. “What a turning of the tide.”
She was on her way to Walter’s office—in a better mood now after an hour on the court, and she decided to make the effort to be pleasant around him, try to be supportive, even, if their marriage was going to survive this—when she heard an unfamiliar voice at the front desk.
“Oh, Mrs. Johnson,” the receptionist said, “there’s someone here to see Miss Lambert.”
It was a man in his fifties or sixties with a mustache, glasses, and bushy gray hair.
“Oh, she just left,” Sylvia said. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“So, she does work here?” he said, giving away a hint of an English accent and clasping his hands together.
Sylvia frowned. Why would he come here if he didn’t know she worked here, she wondered. Something wasn’t quite right.
“By any chance do you know which way she went?” he asked.
“No, I do not,” she said firmly, not about to give the location of her—dare she say—friend to a complete stranger who was clearly not from around here.
“I apologize,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry. Would it be possible to get a message to her, or for me to come back at a later date, when she might be available?”
“What is this regarding?”
He looked from the receptionist to Sylvia. “Is there somewhere we could talk in private?”
Sylvia eyed the gentleman. “Come this way.”
She led him to the restaurant, which wasn’t open for lunch for another half hour, and gestured for him to take a seat at the corner table. She sat down opposite.
“What did you say your name was?” Sylvia asked.
“Right,” he said. “I haven’t had the chance yet to properly introduce myself.
I’m Jonathan Rutherford. I’m a senior reporter and host for a television show called Lives & Stories, and I’m interested in interviewing Adeline for a segment I’m working on.
I saw her photo in the paper, something to do with a Ferris wheel malfunction, and I couldn’t quite believe my eyes.
She hasn’t been seen in nearly two decades. ”
Sylvia didn’t follow—Adele on a television show? And why was he calling her Adeline? She wanted to hear more. “Go on,” she said.
“Well, when I realized she was in the United States, in this area, and then I heard about this relatively new tennis club, I put two and two together, and I thought she must be here. In fact, I felt it in my bones. I knew she would be here. You must be thrilled.”
Not wanting to give away her ignorance on the subject, Sylvia tried to keep her expression neutral and prompted him to keep talking, hoping she might be able to piece it together if she knew more.
“And what exactly do you want to interview her about?”
“Well,” he said, his eyebrows raising, causing his forehead to crease, “her past, of course.”
“I see,” Sylvia said, her stomach clenching.
“I’ve been on the lookout for Adeline Léglise for years, years,” he said.
“Adeline Léglise? That’s not her name.…”
“My mistake. I hear she goes by Adele Lambert now, understandably so,” he added, looking a bit ruffled.
“But to interview her, after all this time, would be an absolute coup for me. I suggested the story to my network, and they want it as much as I do. They’ve given me carte blanche to tell her story. ”
Adeline Léglise. Sylvia repeated the name in her head.
She knew that name. She was the tennis champion who nearly took out her opponent’s eye at Wimbledon.
My God, Sylvia thought, she was once a star.
When Sylvia was a teen she had idolized her, had followed her in the papers.
She was a glamour girl and a fashion icon.
This was crazy! How had she overlooked the similarities between her then and now?
And yet of course she hadn’t pieced it together.
Adeline Léglise had been glamorous then, so outspoken and sassy.
The Adele she knew had been closed off, cantankerous, and rude—until recently.
She couldn’t believe they’d both lived on the island for so long as neighbors and as strangers.
How could this be? One thing was certain, Adele Lambert wasn’t who she said she was at all.
Adele Lambert was the tennis champion of the twenties and thirties.
Unbelievable. Adele Lambert was Adeline Léglise.
Suddenly the wheels in Sylvia’s head were spinning.
Once this got out, she would have women lined up around the island, intrigued, wanting to take lessons, and men too.
Adeline Léglise had won Wimbledon and just about every other world championship in her day.
This was astounding. If it came to light that she was working at her club, this could change everything.
This could help save them. Adele had protested when Sylvia had suggested running an advertisement in the local paper, but this was different.
This was a reporter who had come to her—she hadn’t sought him out—and he clearly wanted to shine a light on her achievements.
“Mrs. Johnson?” The gentleman interrupted her thoughts. “Do you think you might be able to make the introduction?”
“Yes,” she said, thinking it through. “Yes, absolutely I can.”