Good Luck (22 page)

“Hey, Ian,” Mal called out. “Bring Lucy a glass of water, will you? We need to get her hydrated for her tennis lesson tomorrow morning.”

I laughed and accepted the glass of water Ian brought me. And it only then occurred to me that the last half hour, which I’d passed talking to Mal, was the first time all day I hadn’t spent obsessing about Drew.

Fifteen

         
I WOKE SUDDENLY THE NEXT MORNING, ALERT AND
uneasy. And then I remembered the plans I’d made the night before. Tennis lessons! What had I been thinking? I didn’t even have the equipment to play tennis. I had an old racquet rattling around somewhere at my house in Ocean Falls, but I wasn’t sure where it was, not that I could get to it. And although I now had a wardrobe to rival Nicole Ritchie’s, I didn’t have anything appropriate to wear on the tennis court.

But that’s what money does, I remembered. It solves problems.

The thrill this realization brought me was still fresh. I wondered if I would ever get used to the idea that I could buy whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted.

I drove to the Rushes Tennis and Country Club in Hayden’s car. I was going to have to arrange for my own car soon, I thought, and spent a pleasant ten minutes daydreaming about whether I should opt for a high-tech luxury car or one of the gorgeous old vintage ones I kept seeing parked along Worth Avenue. I thought briefly of my old yellow Volvo, which was probably still languishing in the mechanic’s shop in Ocean Falls. I’d have to do something about that. Arrange to pay the mechanic, have the car sold. And at this, I felt an unexpected pang. I’d miss that car, even if it had been clunky and unreliable.

But I quickly shook off this regret. Who wouldn’t prefer a sleek new Jaguar to an old, worn-down Volvo? I had to stop thinking like a teacher on a budget.

The Rushes was gated with a security checkpoint. I gave my driver’s license to the uniformed guard at the gate, and for a tense moment I worried that he might recognize my name. But he just checked that I was on the approved visitors’ list, wrote down the car’s tag number, and then with a courteous nod waved me in. I exhaled gratefully, only then conscious that I’d been holding my breath.

The country-club grounds were immaculate. The grass was very green and precisely cut. The bushes were trimmed into twisting topiary shapes, and white and lavender snapdragons and purpled-edged petunias bloomed in artistic clumps. Golf carts zipped around, their drivers calling out and waving to one another as they passed by. I followed the signs directing me toward the clubhouse and parked in the visitors’ lot. The clubhouse was very modern looking from the outside—two stories of pink stucco shaped like a hexagon, with a glass-domed roof—and decorated tastefully on the inside, from the patterned sage rug, to the muted cream walls, to the sconces with black shades that glowed next to oil paintings of the various golf-course holes.

The pro shop was just to the right of the entrance, and I headed straight for it. There were a few men browsing half-heartedly through a selection of sorbet-hued golf shirts. The sales clerk led me over to the tennis section.

“What are you interested in?” she asked. She flourished a hand toward the racks. “We have just about everything you could possibly need. Racquets, clothing, accessories.”

“I need it all,” I said. “I need something to play in, sneakers, a racquet. I even need socks. Do you have everything?”

If the clerk was surprised, she had the grace—or the training—not to show it. She selected a few outfits for me: a white dress with black stripes down the side; a shirt and skirt in a bright ocean blue; a cherry-red skirt with a white sleeveless top.

“I’ll take them all,” I said, without bothering to try them on. During my brief yet intense tutelage under Hayden, I’d quickly learned how to eyeball what cuts and colors best suited me.

The sales clerk proceeded to help me pick out tennis sneakers—these I had to try on—socks, tennis underwear, and a simple white Lacoste visor. The clerk was young and bubbly and was giggling as I kept exclaiming, “Oh, I want this! And this!” And she’d pull the items down and add them to the growing pile on the glass display counter.

Picking out a racquet was a bit trickier. It had been so long since I’d played that when she questioned me about what brand and style I was interested in, I had absolutely no idea.

“What sort of surface do you normally play on? Is there a particular brand you’re interested in? How important is spin to you?” The young woman peppered me with questions, none of which I had a ready answer for.

“It’s okay, Dana, I’ll take over from here,” a male voice said. I turned and saw Mal standing there. He was wearing a white polo shirt and white tennis shorts, which made his tan look even deeper. His hair was damp with sweat and pushed back off his face, and there was another day’s worth of stubble spread over his jaw.

Because I have a genetic predisposition to humiliating myself, I said the first inane thing that popped into my head: “You still haven’t shaved.”

“Why are you so obsessed with my personal grooming habits?” Mal asked. His expression was quizzical, but his voice was edged with humor.

I could feel my face go hot and red. “I’m not,” I muttered, looking down at the last racquet Dana had given me to try. I swung it around a bit, wondering if a racquet found its owner in the same way that wands did in the Harry Potter books.

“It’s just something you comment on with alarming frequency,” Mal continued, although he smiled at me.

“I…well. Can we just forget that I said that and start again?” I asked sheepishly.

“Okay. Are you in the market for a new racquet?” Mal asked.

“Yes. I think. I mean, if I’m going to take tennis lessons, I’ll need a racquet, right?”

“It usually helps. I don’t think that one’s a good fit for you, however. Look, the grip is too small.”

Mal plucked the racquet out of my hand and replaced it with another. The grip on this one felt a bit better, but Mal frowned at it, shook his head, and handed me another racquet to try. I held it, but he shook his head again and, holding my hand in his, turned the racquet to adjust the grip. I had a brief but intense reaction to his touch, which vividly reminded me of when I was a flat-chested thirteen-year-old with a crush on a lifeguard at the beach who was six years older than me and didn’t know I existed. Every time I saw the lifeguard—even after he began dating a curvy, bikini-clad beauty—I’d feel a hot rush flood through my body.

“That grip looks good. How does it feel?” he asked, seemingly unaware of the physical flutterings his touch was causing me. I wondered how many times he had held a woman’s hand while he adjusted her grip and how many women had responded to his touch with the same breathless excitement I was feeling. This thought—that I was one of many—annoyed me. I abruptly pulled my hand away.

“Fine,” I said shortly. “Shall I buy this one, then?”

Mal’s eyebrows rose. “Is that lottery cash burning a hole in your pocket?”

“Shhhh,” I hissed, looking around. Luckily, Dana was at the register totaling up my haul and too far away to eavesdrop. “What if someone hears you?”

“They would probably think I’m joking.”

I considered this. He was right; I was overreacting, which made me feel foolish.

“Look,” I said. “Just tell me which racquet to buy, and I’ll buy it. It’s as simple as that.”

Mal regarded me for a long moment. I didn’t know what was going on behind those pale eyes and found it unnerving.

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you try this racquet out today, and if you like it then you can buy it,” he finally said, taking it from me.

“Oh. Okay,” I said. I gestured to the stack of tennis clothing, socks, underwear, and accessories piled up on the glass display counter. “I have to buy all of that stuff, though. And change clothes.”

“I’ll meet you on court three when you’re ready,” Mal said. He left, carrying the racquet tucked under one arm. I noticed the sales clerk’s eyes following him until Mal was out of her sight. She sighed.

“Isn’t he gorgeous?” she said to me.

“I hadn’t noticed,” I lied.

“Oh, my God, are you serious? I always get tongue-tied when I’m around him. I can’t say hello without sounding like an idiot.”

“I’ll pay for this in cash,” I said abruptly.

“What?” The girl was still so caught up in her Mal-induced reverie that she stared blankly at me for a moment. “Oh, right. Sorry.” Then, with an apologetic smile, she turned to ring up the items I was purchasing. But the smile lingered on her lips.

And for some reason, this made me all the more irritated with Mal. I stared down at the pile of tennis gear, the pleasure of buying it suddenly dried up.

“What have I gotten myself into?” I muttered to myself as I swung—and missed—the tennis ball Mal had just lobbed over the net at me.

“What did you say?” he called out.

“Nothing,” I said.

The weather was idyllic: sunny and warm without being too hot, and the sky was such a pure and brilliant blue, it was hard not to stare up at it. The outdoor tennis courts at the Rushes were red clay, the kind that leave a rust-colored residue on everything that comes in contact with them. The courts were enclosed with a metal fence painted a tasteful shade of green, to blend in with the perfectly manicured golf course just beyond. Flowers and shrubbery were planted along the outside borders of the fence. I’d never played tennis anywhere so lovely. And I’d never played worse.

“Damn it,” I said through clenched teeth, as another ball bounced lazily past me. It wasn’t even as if I could blame it on Mal slamming the balls at me in a play of macho domination; everything he hit gently arced over the net in my direction.

“Just relax,” he called out. “Take a deep breath, draw your racquet down and back like I showed you, then follow through.”

He demonstrated his perfect technique as he hit another ball to me. This one I managed to hit, but in my frustration I swung too hard, and it ricocheted over the fence.

“I suck at this,” I commented. “I don’t remember being this bad. I guess it’s been so long since I’ve played, I must have forgotten my degree of suckage.”

Mal laughed and shook his head. “You’re doing fine. Just a bit rusty.”

He lobbed another ball at me. I swung, hit it, and—amazingly—the ball bounced back into Mal’s court.

“Good!” he said encouragingly. He hit it back at me. I swung and missed.

“Hold on, I’m coming over there,” Mal said.

I glowered at him, in case he was even considering laughing at me, but Mal didn’t tease me the way he might have if we were hanging out at the Drum Roll. Instead, he was in professional mode, his expression pleasant and not at all mocking.

“What I want you to work on,” Mal said, when he reached me, “is bringing your arm down and then following through. Don’t worry about hitting the ball. That will come. Just keep your focus on getting your swing right.”

And then he stepped behind me, reached his arms around me, and, holding his hands over mine on the racquet, demonstrated the proper swing. I recognized it for what it was—an effective teaching device. Now my arms would hopefully retain the memory of how they were supposed to reach down and then swing through. But, unfortunately, the rest of my body immediately disconnected from the process. Instead, all I could focus on was Mal’s chest brushing my back and his hands gently clasped over mine. He wasn’t pressing against me, and his touch was as nonsexual as that of a gynecologist. But my body didn’t seem to understand that. My throat suddenly felt thick, my skin flushed and tingled, my nipples hardened under my sports bra.

“You lower your arm and then swing through,” Mal said, repeating the movement. “Think of it as drawing a question mark in the air with your racquet.”

Please don’t let him notice my nipples,
I thought desperately, all too aware what fresh mortification this would bring.
I have to think of something else. Something nonsexual. Like…Harper Lee. Or features I’d like in my new car. Or Elliott, since he’s the last person in the world I’ll ever imagine sexually again.

Unfortunately, thinking of Elliott caused me to flash to the scene of his infidelity, standing and thrusting into the blonde with the concrete tits. And then my thoughts rebelliously jumped to an image of Mal standing naked and thrusting—

My arm spasmed, and I dropped my racquet. Mal looked down at me quizzically.

“Are you okay?” he asked. Mal picked up my racquet and handed it to me. I reached to take it, but he didn’t let go right away.

“Something’s percolating in that head of yours,” he said.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. I attempted a smile but then worried that it would look like I was leering and stopped. “I’m just frustrated with how badly I’m playing.”

“How long has it been since you played?” he asked.

I thought about it. “Five years? I can’t remember exactly. It could be longer.”

“That’s a long time to be away from the sport. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. You’ll pick it back up again. You just need practice,” Mal said with an encouraging smile, releasing my racquet.

I’d have preferred it if he reverted back to the smart-alecky Mal of the Drum Roll. It was easier to resist the crinkle-edged gray eyes and devastating smile when he was mocking me.

Before I could respond, I heard someone—a male someone—calling out my name.

“Lucy?”

I turned in the direction of the voice, my stomach clenching nervously. Was it someone from my old life who’d recognized me, despite the new hair? But then I saw who it was, and my entire body went rigid.