Katia glanced at the bouncing ball and then smiled at Austin. “Come on, Olivia’s here.” She raced across the court and hugged Olivia. “I’m so glad you could come. You’ll save me from being annihilated.”
Austin walked up, took Olivia’s hand and air-kissed her cheek. “Don’t mind her. She’ll do anything to get off playing with me. I taught her to play when we were kids, but she never really took to it.”
Katia shook her head. “Listen, this is going to be a disaster. All three of you play like champions, and I’m just a novice. But I do love the sport,” she confessed.
Olivia splayed her hands apologetically. “I’m not sure I’m going to be any good at this. I haven’t played in years. I don’t have my old racket...”
“Oh!” Rafe strode over to the outdoor table, which was strewn with towels, cans of tennis balls and several rackets in zippered cases. Rafe picked up three rackets and jogged back to Olivia. “You can have your pick. Depending.”
“What are my choices?”
“I figured a Wilson juicer since we’re just playing doubles and it’s only for fun. No real competition going on here. It’s a shorter handle and since we’re playing doubles, most likely you won’t be shooting from the baseline or hitting a lot of powerful ground strokes.”
Olivia looked at the familiar rackets. She reached for the Wilson racket in his right hand. “This is a Burn. I used to use a racket like this because I am a baseline player.” She peered at him suspiciously. “How did you know that?”
Rafe glanced at the racket sheepishly. “I looked you up online after Mrs. Beabots told Katia that you could have gone to State.”
Olivia turned to Austin. “You didn’t tell him? So that means you didn’t know, either?”
“After I went to New York for prep school, I didn’t keep up on much of anything going on in Indian Lake. By the time I went to college, my tennis competition days were over.”
Olivia nodded. “I truly get that. I was the same way. As far as I was concerned it was just a part of my teen years.”
Rafe handed Olivia the Burn. “Let’s volley for a few minutes and work out the kinks. Just you and me. How’s that?”
“Good idea,” Olivia said.
Katia nudged Austin, “We’ll get some lemonade. Then we’ll play.”
Olivia walked toward the clay court. “I’ve never played on clay. This is the real deal, isn’t it?”
“Nothing like it, if you ask me. I joke with Austin all the time that the main reason he’s my friend is because of his clay courts.” Rafe laughed as he bounced a tennis ball off the face of his racket. “Try that racket and let me know if you like it. You can use mine if you don’t.”
Olivia spun the racket and checked its balance. The grip was perfect and the leather grabbed her fingers in just the right grooves. She swung it with a wide downward stroke and then pivoted and took a practice backhand. “This racket is brand-new,” she said as she went to meet him at the net. “You didn’t buy it just for...?”
He twirled his racket in his hand. “I had a feeling we might want to play more than once. A lot, maybe.”
Olivia couldn’t stop the smile that burst from her heart and found its home on her lips. “Oh, you did?”
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Rafe took his stance and readied to serve the ball to Olivia. “You ready?”
“Sure,” she answered, leaning forward, feeling her calf muscles tense as she lifted each foot, making sure she was ready to pounce in whatever direction he sent the ball.
Rafe’s serve was perfect. When Olivia swung, the ball hit the edge of her racket and fell straight in front of her as if it had deflated. “Rats,” she groaned and picked up the ball. “I told you I was rusty.”
“It’s okay. You serve it back to me. You’ll get your sea legs back.”
“I hope so, for your sake,” she joked as she stepped behind the baseline. Olivia threw the ball up in the air a couple of times before she got the feel of the racket, the ball and the clay court under her feet. Everything about it felt familiar, yet foreign at the same time. The ball seemed to descend in slow motion. She waited for it to drop to the precise point it needed to occupy for her to hit it with her racket’s sweet spot. The muscles in her biceps tensed with determination, and she swung at the ball, delivering one of the most textbook-accurate serves of her life.
As Rafe lobbed the ball over the net, every subtlety of the game came back to her. She remembered the sound of her high school tennis coach’s voice. She remembered that she had a tendency to pull short when she should follow through with her swing. She hit the ball back to Rafe. He volleyed back to her.
Olivia dashed to the left side of the court, where Rafe was trying to make a point, but she shot low from near the baseline and scooped the ball back to him, short and just over the net, where he almost fell to catch her return.
Rafe missed the shot.
Victory jolted through Olivia like lightning. Raising both arms in the air, she jumped and shouted with glee.
Austin and Katia applauded her from the corner of the terrace. Rafe stuck his racket under his arm and did the same.
“Great going, Olivia!” Rafe came around the net to where she was standing. Without any warning, he put his right arm around her waist and pulled her close.
“That’s my girl,” he said proudly and kissed her soundly. With a wide smile and his arm still around her waist, he turned to Austin and Katia. “Want to wager who’s going to win this match?”
Olivia went stiff in Rafe’s arm. His comment was a simple, ordinary social witticism. She knew he had no hidden agenda. He didn’t intend to bet his life savings on this tennis match; he probably didn’t even mean it literally. She should take a vote of confidence from his comment. She should realize that he was impressed with her skills. Instead, she’d let her fear take over.
Olivia beat back her phobia as if she was delivering a smash serve to her opponent. She softened her shoulders and allowed herself to feel the comfort of Rafe’s strong hand as he massaged the back of her neck. She smiled at him and when he looked at her, she brightened with the wink he gave her.
He seemed so at ease with her. How she envied that. Whenever she was around him, she felt like a bottle rocket about to blow. Rafe was conscientious, a hard worker and loyal to his family and friends. She liked to think she possessed these qualities, as well.
The difference was that Rafe was born into a strong family unit, or at least as strong as one could be. Olivia’s life had been exactly like Rafe’s until her father had betrayed them. The schism in her family had scarred her deeply.
Her growing feelings for Rafe made her realize she had to find a way to confront her past, conquer and bury it. Olivia didn’t want to spend even one more day of her life bracing against an invisible foe whose only purpose was to kill her joy. No matter how reassuring and kind Rafe was, Olivia alone was responsible for her own happiness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
IT WAS NINE o’clock when Olivia got home, which for most people was an early evening, but they all had work the next day. Olivia put the new racket Rafe had given her in the closet next to her front door. Though she and Rafe had lost the match by a single point, the game had been fun. Olivia thought she’d performed quite well, considering her long absence from tennis. Rafe talked about playing again in the near future, though he hadn’t actually set a date.
Of the four of them, Katia seemed the most enthusiastic about Olivia’s participation. Olivia chalked it up to the fact that Katia had recently returned to town and was still making new friends.
Olivia took off her tennis clothes, put on a robe and started to run a hot bath. While the tub was filling, she turned on her laptop to quickly check her emails. She was expecting an invoice from a butcher in Three Oaks, Michigan, who made exceptional sausage, w
hich they featured on the deli’s breakfast menu.
She scanned several emails from camera stores; they seemed to send three ads a day, each, but she often succumbed to perusing them, especially if there were any deals.
Then she saw the email from Veranda Magazine.
Olivia cringed before she opened it. It was far too soon for a reply. This could only mean one thing. Rejection.
She clicked on the message and read the boilerplate refusal note.
We are not accepting submissions at this time.
Olivia checked the time and date of the response. It had been sent in the middle of the night, which likely meant it was a computer-generated response. She seriously doubted that a human being had seen anything other than her cover letter.
Glumly, she rose and walked to the bathroom. Just as she reached the door, she heard the click on her computer signaling another incoming email. It was late on a Sunday night. The only messages she’d be getting would be more advertisements. She shut off the water and untied her robe.
Curiosity forced her fingers to retie the robe. She went back to the computer just as two more emails came in. One was from Golden Retriever Magazine and one was from Lexington Magazine.
More rejections. Golden Retriever Magazine at least sent her an actual reply from a real person who commended her work, but stated they had already filled the position. They would keep her photos and application on file if the need arose.
Olivia dropped her chin to her chest and didn’t dare look at the screen as she pressed the key to open the email from the Lexington Trophy Magazine.
Dear Ms. Melton,
We were quite impressed with your breathtaking photographs of the horse race you sent. You show an uncanny ability to catch action and emotion in your shots. We would like to interview you for an opening we have.
Please contact our office on Monday morning to set up an in-person interview here in Louisville.
Best,
Albert Allen Simmons III
Olivia read the email three times before the words sank in. “This isn’t for real. It can’t be.”
She rose from her chair and went to the window that looked out on Lily Avenue. “Can this really be happening? Am I finally being the master of my own fate?”
Her stomach rolled and flipped, and chills shot down her back. She pressed her palm to her forehead and she realized her hand was shaking. “Louisville. An interview. Face-to-face.”
Louisville was the center of horse racing for the entire country. The Kentucky Derby was the one race that every Thoroughbred owner, trainer and jockey aspired to run, let alone win. Rafe’s father had spent most of his lifetime dreaming of the Kentucky Derby. Rafe knew better than to dream that big. When Angelo died, so had Rafe’s goal of going to Louisville.
The irony of it all burned Olivia’s heart like battery acid. She had no idea what Albert Allen Simmons III had in mind for her. Would she be a stringer? Would she work out of their offices? Would she have to move to Louisville?
Would she have to leave her life in Indian Lake?
The night sky was clear and awash in stars. A sliver of a waning moon hung above the newly budding treetops. Olivia had never known any life but what she had in Indian Lake. A lot of it had been a struggle, but a bigger part had been filled with true friends who cared about her and whom she loved back.
And now there was Rafe.
She was falling in love with him and though she sensed that he felt the same about her, he hadn’t even told her that he cared for her; they hadn’t said the words aloud. Perhaps he also felt that their attraction to each other was happening at warp speed. She didn’t expect him to make any declarations yet. In some ways, she was glad he hadn’t because she wasn’t ready.
Olivia was determined to explore her own goals first. That was what all this was about, wasn’t it?
There was no denying the fact that she and Rafe fit comfortably together. Even their tennis game had been executed as if they’d played together for years. He was teaching her how to ride and she’d drawn back the curtains on her world of photography for him. They fell into sync so easily it was almost frightening.
They’d only had one disagreement since they met, about her sharing the photographs of Rowan with Sarah. Now she’d done almost the same thing again, she realized.
He’ll never forgive me a second time. This couldn’t possibly be any worse.
She raked her fingers through her hair. I need to calm down. I’m really getting ahead of myself here. First, I have to get the job. Heaven only knows how many people are applying. And Rowan’s photographs were just part of my portfolio. That doesn’t mean the magazine wants to publish them. And if they do, I can withdraw them and take others. Rafe won’t ever have to know that I sent pictures of his horse—er—horses as part of my application.
Feeling her nerves untangling, she walked back to her computer. She skimmed the email once again to make sure she’d read it correctly.
Then she hit Reply and sent Albert Allen Simmons III an acceptance. She explained that she would have to arrange for a day off to drive to Louisville for the interview. She told him she would await his reply.
She hit Send and sat back and left everything in the hands of fate.
* * *
ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Olivia entered the office of the sister publication of the Lexington Magazine, the Lexington Trophy Magazine.
Olivia had been told the magazine was in its start-up phase, and that much was clear. The building was old but located in a newly renovated part of downtown Lexington. The area was scattered with chic restaurants, bars and offices in old three-story brick buildings that sat next to half-demolished structures that were being made into parking garages.
There was no elevator to the second-floor magazine offices, only a creaking staircase with a shaky handrail in great need of bolts and screws. Inside the offices, Olivia found pandemonium. Telephones rang incessantly. Half the furniture looked as if it had come from a garage sale, the other half was inexpensive, modern-looking chairs, bookcases and desks that came from a chain store.
Olivia introduced herself to the receptionist, whose hair was the color of cherry bark, her nails painted with black-as-an-eight-ball polish.
She smiled broadly, smearing her fire-engine-red lipstick on her teeth, and instantly shot to her feet. “Hello, Olivia. I’m Marcie. Mr. Simmons is waiting for you.” She motioned for Olivia to follow her.
As they threaded their way through a dozen desks and stacks of boxes, Olivia noticed that all the writers and editors were quite young. No one glanced at her as she passed; they were all working intently on their laptops.
Marcie tapped on the door, opened it without waiting for a response and motioned for Olivia to sit in the chair opposite the antique walnut desk scattered with an impossibly disorganized slew of papers, magazines and photographs.
Mr. Simmons held a cell phone to his ear and didn’t look up. Olivia sat in the chair and waited for him to finish his call.
Albert Allen Simmons III, the managing editor, was not at all what she’d envisioned. He was tall, scrawny and pale-skinned, with a thatch of medium brown hair that was straight on top and bushy on the sides. He looked like a clown to her. Olivia had always hated clowns; clowns were terrifying, ugly and clearly hiding something sinister. The man made her shiver.
He didn’t notice. He ended his call and immediately shuffled through the papers on his desk without a word. Long minutes ensued. Olivia didn’t know what to do.
With his elbow on the desk, still looking down, he snapped his fingers. “You brought a portfolio like I asked?”
“Yes.” She unzipped her portfolio, opened it and slid it on top of the pile of papers under his nose.
He might have said thanks, but it could have been a cough. Still, it was a reaction.
<
br /> Olivia didn’t know quite what to make of him. She hadn’t had many interviews in her life, but she was certain this was odd. He hadn’t displayed any sense of social courtesy since she walked in the door. No greeting, smile or handshake. She was amazed anyone had hired him, much less appointed him to his elevated position.
“These are exceptional,” he mumbled but didn’t raise his head, which caused Olivia to stare at his skull and notice he had dandruff.
“Thank you.”
With an abrupt jerk, he lifted his head and leveled his large brown eyes at her. His face was completely devoid of expression. “I apologize that my regular HR person isn’t here to interview you. We’re incredibly understaffed this close to Derby week. Everyone is doing double and triple duty. Including me.”
“I understand.”
He tapped the portfolio with his forefinger. “Where were these race photos taken? I don’t recognize the track.”
Even if the man had never smiled in his life, Olivia refused to match his sour demeanor. For years she’d dreamed of what it would be like for professionals to admire her work. Now it was happening. This was real. She wasn’t about to tamp down her own enthusiasm. Even if she didn’t get the job, she was halfway to the finish line. “This was a charity fundraiser for our hospital in Indian Lake. The track has been used for harness racing in the past. This was the first Thoroughbred race conducted there.”
Albert shuffled through several pages of her application. “Yet you say here that the track was the same length as Churchill Downs.”
“It is. Apparently, the designers had high aspirations when the fairgrounds was built back in the sixties.”
“Interesting that they never pursued horse racing, then,” he grumbled. With a cluck of his tongue, he lowered his head again and continued looking at her photographs.
He flipped from page to page, then went back and scrutinized a particular shot and then moved forward again. Forward and back. Olivia wished she could take photographs of him as he worked. He was so strange.
“You stated in your email that you’ll be attending the Illinois Derby?”
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