Chapter Thirty-Four #2
Adele felt something bloom inside her, an unfamiliar sensation—maybe love, gratitude, happiness?
She wanted to win so badly. She wanted this for her friends.
She wanted this for Sylvia so she could stay on Balboa Island and keep the club.
She wanted this for Milly, whose confidence had surged since she started playing, and who, though she’d never told her this, showed a lot of potential, with good coaching, of course.
She wanted it for herself, for her own pride and sense of accomplishment, to redeem herself, but strangely that mattered less now.
She wanted the win for her friends and for the women who didn’t abandon her when they learned her truth.
Early that morning, as she had sat on her living room floor stretching her calf muscles and hamstrings, she’d momentarily slipped into her old ways and begun reciting familiar phrases, the way she always had in the hours before a match, phrases that she’d believed helped to get her fired up, angry, and ready to demolish: You are superior.
Kill them. Slaughter them. Winning is everything.
All those years ago, her father’s words had become her thoughts.
Then she began to hear other words seeping in: Tu es un idiot.
You’re slow. Tu joues comme un enfant. What are you thinking?
You play like you’ve never picked up a racket.
But now it all tasted sour in her mouth.
It didn’t fire her up. It didn’t fit her anymore. Arrête, she told herself, arrête.
Adele served, then rushed the net, volleyed the ball to Margery’s feet, where she reached down to return it but could only pop it up over Adele’s head and out.
Adele was ahead in the second set, 5–4. At the next point, though, Margery changed her strategy.
She lobbed the ball over Adele to the far-right corner.
Adele managed to run far enough back to return it, but Margery hit a fast forehand with topspin to the baseline.
She had Adele running from one side of the court to the next.
Adele could outrun anyone in her day, but now she was winded—back and forth, back and forth—as Margery crept back up the scoreboard.
Adele hit a high backhand but not hard enough.
It fell into the net. Margery took the second set. Now it was anyone’s game.
In her old life this was the point at which Adele would confer with her father, absorb his anger and insults, his way of igniting her rage and setting her game on fire.
She had thought this made her stronger, meaner, tougher, but it didn’t ring true anymore.
She took a deep breath and tried to slow down her racing heart.
I love this game, she repeated in her head.
There’s nowhere I’d rather be; I may have lost that set, but I’ll win the next.
Just saying those words made her feel calm and more in control.
She wondered how much energy her negative thoughts had consumed in her younger days, how much her own self-debasement had sapped her strength.
She couldn’t play tennis without thinking of her father and feeling all those swirling emotions in the pit of her stomach.
Why had he done it? Why had her father pushed her so hard?
She’d seen the way Milly treated her children, firm when she needed to be, but mostly loving, gentle, and encouraging.
She’d witnessed Sylvia navigating the challenging teenage years, heightened and even more emotional due to their move, but she too handled her daughter with grace.
She was sure there were times, behind closed doors, when both women lost their tempers or said things they didn’t mean, but it was obvious that they loved their children whether they succeeded or failed.
But maybe it had been the only way her father knew how to love.
Maybe tough love was all he had known himself, and it was the only way he knew how to teach her.
What if he’d been doing the best he could?
She took a long drink of water and wiped the sweat from her neck between sets. Milly and Sylvia rushed to her courtside.
“You look amazing out there. You’re so graceful, so precise. It’s like watching a fast and furious dance,” Milly said. “Keep going.”
“It’s astounding,” Sylvia said, leaning over toward her. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. It’s an absolute honor to watch you.”
“Thanks,” Adele said. “I won’t let you down.”
The rest of the women cheered and clapped as Margery and Adele took their positions.
The third and final set started fiercely.
Margery clearly wanted the win. Her serves were on fire, acing Adele twice in the first game, but in the third game she double-faulted twice in a row, putting Adele in the lead.
Adele’s next serves were equally fast and searing, but then, in a surprise move, Margery came to the net and crushed ball after ball.
Adele had to adjust. She came up to meet her, but Margery managed to send the ball up and over her, landing it in. Margery was in the lead.
There’s no place I’d rather be, Adele said to herself. I love this game. Slam. She shot it down the line, record speed. Margery missed. Then Margery took the next point and won that game. She was ahead 7–6.
“Merde, merde, merde,” Adele said through gritted teeth, furious that Margery was ahead. But instead of making her shake, crumble, and search for anyone’s approval to leave the court, give up, act out, it gave her razor focus.
Match point. They rallied back and forth, back and forth, speed and power erupting each time the racket made contact with the ball.
Corner to corner, no one wanted to change it up, no one wanted to make the fault.
Adele knew she had to end it, but the force of these shots was so great.
Next one she’d change course, catch Margery off guard, and then she noticed the tiniest change in Margery’s stance.
Adele tried to move closer to the alley, but she was a second too late: Margery ripped the ball down the line, and it hit just inside the white line.
Adele lunged for the ball, but the match was over.
Margery Horn had won.
Adele watched as her opponent dropped to her knees, put her hands together in prayer, and kissed the clear blue sky above her. Adele couldn’t believe it, and yet she could. She hadn’t trained enough to win, yet somehow, she had thought a win might still be possible.
She wouldn’t get the prize money. The club would be repossessed.
She had let Sylvia down after all.
Sick with disappointment, she forced herself to look up to her cheering section, expecting her feelings to be reflected back in the women’s faces, but instead they shot out of their seats and ran to her, more of them now—Milly, Sylvia, Joan, Maureen, Susie, Sadie, Faye, and Betsy—rushing from the bleachers onto the court, throwing themselves at Adele, hugging her.
She could barely breathe and had to resist the urge to push them away.
She’d lost—didn’t they know this? But the women started jumping up and down, taking her with them, a pulsating, vibrating force.
“What are you doing?” she asked, almost laughing, as they began to loosen their grip. “Don’t you know I lost the match? I lost!”
“Who cares, you were incredible!” Sylvia said.
“You’re back,” Milly said.
“Hardly.” Adele tried to suppress her smile.
“You’re back in the game, and you’re a star,” Milly said.
Adele couldn’t quite believe it. She’d lost, and this was the reception she received. She peered over to Margery, where she too was being hugged and congratulated.
“Excusez-moi,” Adele said to her friends. “Just a moment.”
She walked to the net, and when Margery saw her, she approached. Adele held out her hand.
“Congratulations, Margery. That was a tough match.”
“Congratulations to you also. You are still a force to be reckoned with,” Margery said. “But I knew I could beat you if I had another chance.”
It stung, but Adele nodded. “You won fair and square, and you have not lost your touch.” She looked at the small scar, close-up now; it had a white sheen to it.
Margery’s fingers reflexively touched the spot.
“I must apologize, Margery, for my terrible actions at Wimbledon. I am so sorry for the pain I caused you and for what happened to your career,” Adele said, her eyes watering in spite of herself, as she heard the apology that she should have spoken years ago.
“Thank you,” Margery said. “I appreciate that. I knew it was an accident, but I was too angry at the time to correct the reports. I should have spoken up.”
Adele dropped her head. “And I want to say, I’m deeply sorry about the sleeping pill. I had completely lost my way. I would never—”
“Adele,” Margery said, pausing until she looked up, “I didn’t drink it.”
“What? Yes, I saw you.”
“I drank yours, the Perrier. You hadn’t touched it.”
Adele looked at her, confused. “But why?”
“You had an edge to you that day, a wild look in your eye. I don’t know, I just had a strange feeling as I reached for the glass, and besides, I prefer sparkling water. I should have ordered that instead.”
Adele put her hand to her mouth. Relief flooded her. “Dieu merci,” she whispered.
“I’m so glad you asked me to play today,” Margery said. “We should have done this a long time ago.”
Adele nodded. “It reminded me how much I love this sport.”
“Maybe we’ll play again sometime. When you come to London next, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Adele said.
Walking back to her friends, Adele was filled with humility and gratitude, but something nagged at her, a slightly unsettling feeling that told her she wasn’t done with Margery just yet. She turned back.
“Margery, would you have lunch with me?”
Margery paused and looked at Adele for a moment.
“At my place tomorrow, before you leave?” Adele said.
Margery seemed to consider it. “All right. Why not?” she said. “For old times’ sake.”
“Bien,” Adele said.
“Oh, but Adele,” Margery said, “I’ll bring the beverages.”