“Outgoing pro? You’re only going to be ‘out’ for six weeks. I’m not after your job here, if that’s what you’re worried about. Let’s skip the match. You don’t have to piss on the corners of your territory because of me.”
“My job is not at issue. I said it was tradition.”
“Am I supposed to lose? Is that tradition, too?”
“Don’t insult me or you will not be working at this club.”
“Sorry, I was just asking. What time’s the match?”
“Eight o’clock. Best of three. I hope you’re not nervous playing in front of crowds.”
“Look, Philippe, I’m very nervous. I didn’t know we were playing so I didn’t even bring my tennis things with me. It’s an hour to my place in this summer traffic, and an hour to get back here. I haven’t played a serious match in quite a while. I’d like to hit a few serves, maybe find someone to rally with. So how about being a good sport and rounding me up some shoes, clothes and a racquet?”
“There’s a pro shop downstairs. If you don’t have enough money, you can charge against your salary.”
“Thanks, mate. I’ll make the trip.”
***
Nicole hadn’t been planning to watch the match, but a tiff with their housekeeper, Françoise, had given her all the incentive she needed to get out of the villa. Now she was glad she had come.
It had been hot that day, but the evening was splendid. A light, shifting breeze carried the smells of the sea when it blew up from the south, and of wild sage and thyme when it came down across the dry mountain slopes. It was a pleasant change from the diesel fumes of Paris. The lights above the tournament court seemed to attract cigarette smoke and insects, but where she sat in the center of the grandstand, Nicole was bothered by neither. She was actually enjoying being alone when Jules and Luc, her two cousins from Grenoble, spotted her and came charging up the bleacher seats.
Jules had just turned sixteen and Luc was twelve. They could drive anyone to despair, including Nicole’s unflappable aunt. The boys always wanted to be with her, though she had no idea why.
They squeezed themselves in beside her, kissing her politely on both cheeks. “Hey, guess what?” Luc, the younger, said. “That new guy hasn’t even shown up yet. He’s probably afraid to play Philippe.”
“Afraid of Philippe?” Jules said. “Philippe’s not worth a bag of monkey turds. Sorry, Nicole. I hear you’re dating him.”
“What? I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Hey, just kidding. Don’t get all pissed off.”
“Not funny. And watch your mouth, please. If you two can’t behave like gentlemen, I’m going to send you down there with Father Raoul.”
“Send Jules,” Luc mumbled. “I didn’t say anything bad.”
“I didn’t either. I just repeated what father said. Philippe couldn’t beat his grandmother.”
“Oh, yeah? Luc said indignantly. “When did you ever see him lose?”
“He never plays anyone decent.”
“No? What about that slugger from Italy? What do you think, cousine?”
“I think Philippe is a solid player with exceptionally good form.”
“You think so?” said Jules. “I think he’s a phony.”
The debate was cut short by the roar of a motorcycle on the pedestrian path. The boys and the entire murmuring crowd of two hundred spectators fell silent.
The new arrival, who was wearing a black helmet, a wildly colored shirt that violated all of the club’s dress codes and tennis shorts, parked his bike beside the court entrance and got off. He exchanged his helmet for a New York Yankees baseball cap and grabbed two rackets without covers from his saddle bag, then walked casually over to the group of club directors, linesmen and ball boys who were waiting impatiently around the referee’s chair.
“Hey,” Jules said, “that’s the guy we saw up at Sospel, the guy who promised us a ride. When the newcomer took off his baseball cap, Nicole recognized the good-looking foreigner who had spoken to her in the restaurant. She hadn’t heard that Philippe’s replacement wasn’t French. It would be interesting, she thought, to see how he got along with these snotty haut-bourgeois.
One of the officials introduced the new pro to the crowd. There wasn’t much clapping, people were still trying to make up their minds about him. He seemed to sense this, leaning over to speak into the official’s microphone.
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologized. “I didn’t know the traffic downtown was so heavy. But I’m glad to be here, now that I’m finally here. This is a beautiful club.”
That’s all he said, though he spoke nearly perfect French. He bowed his head, ran his fingers through his blond hair and put the cap back on.
Philippe entered the court to subdued applause, wearing a beautiful designer warm-up suit. He carried an enormous Sergio Tacchini racket bag from which at least a dozen racket handles protruded. Nicole saw him look condescendingly at the new pro’s shirt, which she rather liked, and walk around him so he wouldn’t have to shake hands. He conferred with the officials and took off his warm-ups. He removed the rackets from his bag, tapped the strings to check tensions and appeared to make an informed choice. Then he nodded.
The referee climbed the chair, the linesmen and ball boys took their positions, Monsieur Denis du Péage strode to the mike and addressed the crowd.
“Messieurs, Mesdames, I apologize for any inconvenience caused you by the delay. Monsieur LeConte assures me he will not be tardy for any other club functions during his stay with us. I know this match is being played late for many of you. Because of Monsieur LeConte’s tardiness, I am requesting that the players forego their warm-up. Philippe, do you have any objections?”
“Of course not.”
“You’ve been warming up all afternoon!” Jules shouted. “Let the other guy warm up.”
“Jules!” said Nicole. “It’s quite nasty what they’re doing, but you must be quiet.”
“Any objections, Monsieur LeConte?”
“No. I had a match last year.”
Subdued laughter rose from the stands.
“Then let us begin.” Monsieur Denis du Péage passed the mike to the referee.
“Quiet please,” the referee said. “Monsieur LeConte, please serve from the south court.”
Steven walked up to the chair and spoke near enough to the mike that his words were amplified. “You ask me to forego a warm-up and then you ask me to serve first without even a toss of the coin? Whatever happened to sportsmanship? I’d like to ask my opponent, who’s had the entire afternoon to warm up, to consent to a reversal of this order. Philippe?”
“I can’t consent to that. The incoming pro serves first. It is tradition. Perhaps you have no tradition in America.”
“He’s an American?” said Jules.
Nicole felt vindicated for liking the shirt. People might make fun of it now, but they were short-sighted. All of these California styles sooner or later became the rage in France.
Steven LeConte stretched and took a few practice swings behind the baseline.
Luc said, “Hey, Nicole, it’s a good thing your dad went back to Paris. I heard him saying some things about Americans. I don’t think he would like this guy.”
“Quiet,” said Jules. “The cowboy’s about to serve.”
“Look, he’s right-handed,” Luc said. “I thought Yanks were all lefties.”
Steven hit a slice into Philippe’s forehand corner.
“Out!” called the linesman.
“It was ten centimeters in!” yelled Jules. “Are you blind?”
Nicole put a finger to his lips. “Shhh! It looked good to me, too, but we’re not supposed to yell.”
He served the second ball harder. The “out” call came as Philippe dubbed the return. There was a murmur from the crowd.
“Love-fifteen. Quiet please.”
Steven hit a grandmother serve square in the middle of the backhand court. Philippe teed off, trying to hit a winn
er. His ball carried a good foot behind the baseline. There was no “out” call.
“See,” cried Luc. “Philippe’s killing him. I told you.”
“Quiet please. Love-thirty.”
Steven hit another granny serve, obviously worried about the call. Philippe teed off again. The ball would have carried six feet long, but Steven took it in the air. He smiled, the crowd laughed.
Philippe hit his first good shot of the match, a cross-court forehand deep, and came to the net behind it. Steven tapped a dink up the center that landed at his feet. Philippe scooped it up and kept coming in behind his short approach shot, leaving himself open for a lob. Steven hit a topspin beauty. The ball just cleared Philippe’s racket and came down too far inside the baseline to be called “out.” A few subdued cheers rippled through the crowd.
“Fifteen-thirty. Quiet please.”
Steven scorched a serve up the middle. Philippe got off a weak return that looked like a wounded duck.
“Foot fault!” shouted the linesman.
“I told you,” Luc repeated. “Philippe is killing him.”
“Dammit,” said Jules, “don’t you see what’s going on? They’re calling balls ‘out’ that are in and ‘in’ that are out – and foot faults if the Yank hits a good serve. If this was a fair fight, he’d blow that pédé off the court.”
Nicole said, “Jules, your language!”
“He would not, would he, Nicole?” Luc asked.
“Sorry, Luc, I have to agree with your brother. Now be quiet. Let’s watch.”
***
The first set was close, with Philippe winning 6-4 on a late flurry of outrageous calls. He led the second set 5-2. Steven was playing well but had been penalized an average of two points a game for his antics. Jules particularly liked it when the Yank marked where Philippe’s ball landed in the alley about a foot and a half outside the line with a mound of chalk from the line machine.
Even Luc had recognized by now that the match was rigged, and he stopped taunting his brother. Some of the serious players in the crowd had grown bold with their comments about the officiating.
Nicole felt so sorry for the American, and so ashamed of the way he was being treated by these jerks, that she felt like going out onto the court after the match and apologizing to him. She was trying to decide if it would be appropriate for her to take her cousins along and do just that when things got even more out of hand. Philippe was serving for the match. His first service was six inches wide and hit the net but neither a fault nor a let was called.
At that point Steven walked to the net. Nicole thought he was going to blast the referee, and she wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. But it was Philippe he wanted to talk to, and talk he did. He spoke in a booming voice she could easily hear above the warnings the ref shouted into the mike.
“Okay, Philippe,” he said, “I was going to let you win this match as your going away present. I’ll still let you win if you have a chat with your buddies and get the remainder of the game officiated properly. Otherwise you’ll force me to play you left handed and embarrass you in front of all these people.”
“This is an abomination,” Philippe complained to the chair. “This man has no tennis etiquette.”
“Monsieur LeConte, you are penalized one point. The score is forty-love, which brings us to triple match point. Monsieur Denis du Péage, serve please.”
“Look at that!” shouted Jules. “He’s switched hands. He is a lefty!”
Impossible, thought Nicole. He was going to lose anyway so he was poking fun at these people who had rigged the match. Maybe he was carrying things a little too far.
Philippe threw the ball high, arched his back in picture perfect form and hit his best serve of the match. He took two steps toward the net and watched open-mouthed as the left-handed return whistled by him, sank with ferocious top-spin, hit near the service line and ricocheted like a bullet toward the backdrop.
Nicole ended up on her feet, jumping up and down with Jules and cheering so loudly she was embarrassed when she caught herself.
“Quiet, please. Forty-fifteen. Double match point.”
Philippe smiled, arched his back and hammered his service into the corner. Steven’s return, a sinker, came sizzling right at his body.
Philippe spun to get out of the way, slapping at the ball with his racket and popping it up toward the stands.
Nicole couldn’t believe what happened next. The American was taking no more chances on calls! He went after the ball though it was a good 20 feet out of play, climbing the bleacher steps and smashing a winner dead into the center of the court while he stood between two elderly women. The shower of chalk that went up from the service T dusted Philippe’s razor-cut hair.
The American stopped at the chair on his way back to the court. “If you don’t call them out, I play them. Those are the international rules of tennis, aren’t they?”
Steven had the crowd behind him now, and Philippe seemed to sense that if he didn’t win his third match point he would be in trouble. He took too big a swing and connected poorly.
Nicole could see that Philippe expected a passing shot. He knew he had to gamble and lunged left. But the American must have known he would lunge to one side or the other, so he dinked a short soft return up the middle. The ball landed between the service courts. While Philippe watched helplessly, it made a leisurely bouncing journey across 15 feet of clay before it crossed the baseline.
“How are they going to call that one out?” shouted Jules.
“They can’t!” cried Luc, having come full circle in his change of allegiances.
Now the left-handed slaughter began in earnest. It took Steven seventeen minutes to finish out the second set and a mere nineteen minutes to conclude the third and final set, during which he treated the crowd to a breathtaking display of smashes, topspin lobs, sinking backhands and scorching aces. By the end of the match, Jules, Luc and Nicole were hoarse.
Nicole was glad to see what looked like grudging admiration for the American’s game from the linesmen and ref, and even from Monsieur Denis du Péage. When he presented the trophy he had no doubt planned to give his son, he patted the newcomer on the back, a rare display of humanity from the club director.
“Aren’t you taking lessons from this guy?” Jules croaked.
“Tomorrow,” Nicole whispered, feeling a tremor of anxiety. She had found the stranger attractive when he spoke to her in the restaurant the other night, and she had smiled at him very openly, not once but twice. She hoped she hadn’t given him the wrong idea. She certainly wouldn’t have smiled at him that way if she had known she would be seeing him again so soon, and at such close quarters.
Chapter Eleven
Wayne Jenkins polished the wine glasses with a paper napkin and, satisfied there were no more water spots, returned them to the table. He conducted one last survey of his work, making sure he had remembered all the little essentials he didn’t want to be jumping up for during a romantic dinner – salt, the corkscrew, matches for the candles, Lori’s wooden salad spoons. Everything was ready.
When she came home from taking Sean to his party, he’d put the salmon on the grill and open the wine. From then on it would be clear sailing. He wasn’t much of a cook, but how could you go wrong with hors d’oeuvres from the gourmet shop around the corner, two bottles of expensive Chardonnay and a salmon that had been alive a few hours ago?
He knew Lori would appreciate the effort. His promotion last year to Manager at the Spares Distribution Center had meant a lot of time on the job. She definitely got the short end of the stick when it came to work around the house. It shouldn’t be that way, he thought. She worked full-time, was the mother of a spirited 15-year-old, and her job at the brokerage house, while it didn’t bring in the $127,000 a year of his Boeing gold mine, was probably a lot more demanding.
Now, finally, he had gotten smart and made the only ethical choice: he was coming to the rescue. Starting with this meal, he was going to s
hare equally in the cooking and cleaning. He would break it to Lori over her favorite dessert, Haägen Dasz chocolate ice cream.
The way he saw it, tonight marked a real milestone in their relationship. They had been through hard times together, toughed it out and endured. He was giving up the siege mentality that had served its purpose but was no longer needed. He was going to start relaxing and enjoying family life. There would be some quality time with Lori in the bedroom, too, reminiscent of those peaceful afternoons before Sean was born and his troubles at Boeing began.
On the balcony he lit the grill and lingered at the railing to appreciate the fine view of Seattle. The clouds had broken to the west. It was incredible, he thought. After weeks of rain and sagging gray overcasts, there would be a proper sunset tonight at dinner. It was almost as if God were rewarding him for his efforts at self-improvement.
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