The Break-Up Book Club

by Wendy Wax

  “If you read enough books, you learn all kinds of things.” She laughs, once again emitting a sound that’s becoming almost as frequent as her smiles.

  We take our seats, and although I’ve been careful to keep my wine consumption to one glass a day since our supercharged Superica experience, I pour us both a full glass, then raise mine in her direction. “Thank you for the meal and the company. This is by far the best thing that has happened today.”

  “My pleasure.” Our eyes meet, and I see a camaraderie in her gaze that warms me almost as much as the first swallow of wine.

  We fill our plates, and I take the first few heavenly bites. For a time, we eat and sip our wine in silence.

  “How was your appointment with the attorney?”

  I study Dorothy’s face. I’m still not sure whose side she’ll be on if and when she’s forced to choose. But I’m too tired to be hypervigilant, and I can’t live expecting betrayal or waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under me. And it’s not as if there’s anything really left to hide.

  “It was a bit of a mixed bag. The good news is that Mitch’s attorney has responded to my petition for divorce,” I say. “The bad news is that Mitch has run up way more debt than I expected, and unless I can find the money to buy him out, we’ll probably have to sell the house.”

  My voice breaks on the last word. I drop my eyes to my plate and push around the noodles I no longer have an appetite for. When I’m able to speak again, I search for a less distressing subject.

  “So,” I finally manage. “I was wondering if you’d like to come to the bookstore with me tomorrow?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Dorothy’s protest is automatic. I listen as she lists all the reasons this isn’t a good idea, but what I’m seeing is Dorothy’s face when we found her cradling the little Holcomb twin.

  “I’m sure Annell would be glad of your help. I know she really appreciated you being there for story hour last time.”

  Dorothy pinkens. “I guess I could come along to help Annell out.” She eyes the glass of wine I lift to my lips. “But if you ever call me Dot again, all bets are off.”

  Somehow, I don’t choke on my wine. I lift one hand and swear as solemnly as I can manage that those three letters will never pass my lips in that particular order ever again.

  On the way to the bookstore late the next morning, Dorothy tries to act as if the whole outing is no more important than a run to the grocery, but her smile betrays her when Annell, who has somehow discerned that Dorothy’s invisible “do not hug” sign has been removed, greets her with an especially warm embrace.

  Moments later, I catch my mother-in-law slipping pieces of paper into the book club name suggestion box. “I hope you’re not padding that thing with blank entries again to try to scare people off.”

  “Whyever would I do that?” Dorothy asks as seriously as a person can when their eyes are twinkling.

  “I have no idea. But it isn’t working,” I declare as I pull out my own wad of folded papers and stuff them into the box one by one, keeping a challenging eye on Dorothy. Never mind that I was up until almost midnight coming up with them. And that I may have googled just a bit when my brain ran dry.

  Dorothy hums happily under her breath while she helps Annell set up the food and drink. She brightens even further when the kids and parents begin to arrive.

  The Holcomb twins are barely through the front door when they drop their mother’s hands and race over to Dorothy with happy shrieks. Lacy, who spent the last story time Dorothy attended in her lap, wraps both arms around Dorothy’s leg and refuses to let go until my mother-in-law picks her up. This is further proof that children can sense those things we try to hide. That little girl knows a “Dot” when she sees one.

  Jazmine

  I don’t know if it’s the size of her personal cheering section—both my parents and Thea and Jamal are with me in the stands of the tennis center where Maya is playing her singles match—or something her grandfather said to her, but my daughter is completely on today.

  She moves in anticipation before her opponent’s racket is even back. Aims deep and devastating forehands and punishing backhands from the baseline. Places the ball with military precision. Charges to the net, where she is a human backstop.

  I hold my breath when she races for a drop shot and manages to tap it back over the net, catching her opponent flat-footed.

  “Lord, that child is on fire today,” my mother says.

  “She surely is,” my father replies with justifiable pride.

  Maya’s up five games to four. It’s her serve. Her chance to close her opponent down.

  Today there is no double-faulting. No hesitation. No letting down. I barely breathe as she fights for and ultimately wins the first point. Fifteen-love. Her next serve spins into the corner of the box and bounces away from her opponent. Ace. Thirty-love.

  My heart thuds in my chest. I know just how important calm is when you’re serving for the match and how hard it is to maintain. This is where the pressure builds. This is where focus is everything.

  Thea reaches for my hand, and I’m glad of the contact. My father always appears calm, but I know from experience that his stomach is churning every bit as much as mine. Come on, Maya. You can do it, I will silently.

  I hold my breath as my daughter bounces the tennis ball on the service line. Once. Twice. The toss is perfect, and as her racket loops behind her head, I know exactly where the ball is going. I squeeze Thea’s hand as the ball zooms in right at her opponent’s feet and skids away. The girl flinches, but that’s the only move she makes. Forty-love.

  “That’s our girl,” my father practically whispers. “She’s in the zone. She’s got this.”

  I breathe but only because I have to. I’ve got a pretty great poker face, a necessity in my profession, but this is not a client I’m watching; this is my daughter. It’s personal. Oh my God. Oh my God. Let him be right. Let her win it right here.

  I watch the bounce. The toss. I keep my eyes wide through the thwack of the racket on the ball. Maya is already racing to the net. Somehow, her opponent manages to get her racket on the ball and whack it down the line just out of Maya’s reach. Forty-fifteen.

  Maya is rattled. This is that moment when a player is most vulnerable. But if she lets the girl score another point, she might become emboldened and tie things up. Maya needs to end this here and now.

  Maya’s serve is hard and deep. It lands in the backhand corner of the box, but her opponent manages to return it.

  Come on, Maya. It’s almost a prayer. You can do it.

  And today she does, running her opponent all over the court with long, wicked ground strokes. When she’s tired the girl out, Maya feints slightly, then smashes a crosscourt backhand that sails right past her opponent.

  Maya’s arm and racket go up in victory. Her smile of joy lights up her face. Then the two girls are reaching over the net. Shaking hands. We all jump up in excitement and applaud as Maya strides happily off the court.

  We hug one another and jabber about Maya’s best shots, the aces early in the last game, her gorgeous ground strokes, the crosscourt winner, how happy she looks. We’re heading down the bleachers to say all those things to her in person when a man steps out from beneath a shade tree and approaches Maya and her coach, Kyle Anderson. They shake hands. They’re too far away to overhear their conversation, but the man is clearly congratulating Maya. Kyle is practically bowing and scraping, as if the man were royalty. That man is Rich Hanson.

  I step up my pace and get down there in time to hear Hanson ask Maya, “Does Serena know you stole her backhand?”

  Maya grins at the compliment.

  “Not everyone can pull that off. Going straight back without the loop. You hit early and on the rise, just like she does. It’s a beautiful thing.” He shakes his head. “Pretty sure she didn’t have that do
wn at . . . how old are you?” Rich asks.

  “Thirteen.”

  “My Jazmine had that shot down early, too. Gotta coil the shoulders—get that extra torque,” my father says knowledgeably. He is, after all, the person who taught us that backhand.

  Still grinning, Maya looks me in the eye with a warmth I haven’t seen in a while. “My mom’s been an even bigger inspiration than Serena Williams. She’s the real reason I love this game. Even if I don’t always show it, I want to be a champion one day.”

  My eyes blur with tears, and I wrap my arms around my daughter. Not caring whether I embarrass her or not, I crush her to my chest.

  “Do you know who this is?” Kyle asks, motioning toward Rich.

  “Afraid so,” I reply. “Mom, Dad, Thea, Jamal—this is Rich Hanson. He recently joined our firm.”

  “But he’s . . . he’s big-time,” Anderson says.

  My jaw locks, which is the only thing that keeps me from saying things I know I shouldn’t.

  “Not any bigger than Jazmine,” Rich says with a surprising flash of irritation at Maya’s coach. “Especially not since she announced her client’s new endorsement deal with Sony PlayStation. It set all kinds of records.” He bows to me and does a roll of the hand in that “your wish is my command” way, and somehow manages to pull it off without appearing silly or insincere.

  “Gee, Mom. That’s cool.”

  “Well done, Jazz.” Jamal ruffles my hair as if I’m still the child I was when he first started dating my sister.

  “That is for sure,” Thea adds, eyeing Rich suspiciously.

  “That’s our Jazmine for you,” my father says. “All do and no brag. Most people got it the other way around.”

  “Too true,” Rich says to my father. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.” His respect seems genuine, no bullshit attached. The only question I have is what he’s up to.

  “Well, we have to get going,” Thea says. “You coming with us or staying with your mom, Maya?”

  “We’re going to the bookstore to learn how to do online dating,” Maya announces, choosing this moment to forgo her normal surly silence.

  “It’s tied to a book that’s been suggested for book club,” I say way too defensively. “Some of us are just going there to . . . support others.”

  “But you said there was going to be a photographer there to shoot profile photos and all,” Maya exclaims.

  I close my eyes and huff out a breath of what I’d like to believe is something other than embarrassment.

  “Listen, I’m sorry to intrude on your Saturday,” Rich says to everyone, “but I could really use Jazmine’s input on something.”

  “Now?” I ask. “A little warning would have been helpful.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says as my family looks on. “But I’ve been trying to reach Craig, who manages this complex for the current owners, all week. I only heard back from him about an hour ago, and he’s leaving town again tomorrow. I’m meeting him at one thirty. I figured I’d have to fill you in later, but when I saw you were already here . . . I thought you might want to take the meeting with me.”

  “Of course I would. But I have plans.”

  “Yes, I heard.” Rich bites back a grin. “But we’re only talking an hour or so. Maybe you could fit it in before you go pose for those photos?”

  I roll my eyes. But I am hardly going to engage here and now, and I am definitely not going to argue the relative merits of online dating. Especially not when Thea is wearing that little frown she gets when something is off but she’s not sure what it is.

  “Jazmine does not need to go online to find a man.” Thea spears Rich with a challenging look. “Not when the man she’s already dating is absolutely perfect for her.”

  “Thanks, Thee. But I really don’t think Rich cares who I’m dating.” I glance down at my watch, mulling how to make it all work. “We don’t have to be at the bookstore until three. I assumed we’d all go to lunch first, but . . .” I sigh again, though I couldn’t say exactly why. “Would you mind taking Maya out to celebrate her win, then dropping her off at Between the Covers?”

  “Cool! Can we go to Flower Child?” Maya asks, not at all bothered by the idea of my absence. “It’s not too far from the bookstore.”

  Rich smiles his thanks and says his goodbyes to my family. “Congratulations again, Maya. That was a truly impressive victory. You, too, Kyle.”

  “Thanks.” Kyle Anderson reaches out to shake Rich’s hand. “Great to meet you, sir,” he says with a level of enthusiasm he’s never showered on me.

  We stand and watch my family disappear into the parking lot. I am annoyed at the late notice, the change in my plans, and all kinds of other things I can’t really articulate. I do what I learned to do long ago when I stepped onto a tennis court for a match. I shove all the noise out of my head and focus on what I have to do right now. In this moment. “All right, why don’t you tell me what the purpose of the meeting with Craig is?”

  “You know Craig?”

  I give him a look that says I know he knows I know Craig and that I also know his being here in time to see at least part of Maya’s match was no accident.

  “Okay,” he concedes. “What do you think of this complex as a base for a StarSports Academy?”

  I glance around, trying to hide my surprise that this has gone this far without my involvement. “I guess it could work, but don’t you think we should sit down with Larry before we start looking at facilities and talking to people?”

  “We’ll sit down with him soon enough. He knows I’m here, and he’s made moving forward contingent on your involvement,” Rich says.

  “And if I choose not to be involved or don’t think it’s a good idea? What then?”

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I figured it was worth taking a look when the opportunity presented itself and talking it through afterward.”

  Hanson is trying to treat this like it’s no big deal. That he just happened to come when I was already here. As if there’s no urgency. Only I can feel that there is.

  “What’s the rush?”

  He opens his mouth, but I’m looking into his hazel eyes and I see them shift. They go just a little cloudy.

  “No. No lying or bullshitting or fudging or whatever you want to call it,” I say. “You give me a straight answer or I’m out of here and on my way to lunch with my family.”

  It’s Hanson’s turn to sigh. He does it loudly enough that it could qualify as swearing.

  “I heard that IMG is looking at expanding into Georgia, and if that goes well, possibly into the Carolinas.”

  IMG sports academy in Bradenton, Florida, began in the late ’70s as Bollettieri Tennis Academy. It’s grown into a behemoth sports training destination for athletes who play baseball, basketball, football, golf, lacrosse, soccer, tennis, and track and field. It’s spread over six hundred acres and even includes a preparatory boarding school for students in K–12.

  The academy makes tons of money and creates an important pipeline of athletic talent that keeps their sports agents at the top of the heap. They’ve staked out Florida as their own. Letting them get a toehold here in our own backyard would not be in StarSports Advisors best interests.

  “Okay, I get it,” I say. “But we have to be careful not to get pushed into something just to keep them from having it.”

  He smiles. “Well said. Pretty good piece of dating advice, too. You might want to remember that when you’re putting together your online dating profile and all that.”

  I ignore this. “Assuming we wanted to build something, we’d have to really think it through. Proceed with caution. Take care not to overextend. Stick to two, maybe three sports we have expertise in.

  “What?”

  His eyes are riveted on my face. A small, pleased smile plays on his lips.

  “What’s
wrong?” I’ve never seen him look this way before.

  “Not a thing,” he replies, as if he’s almost surprised at what he’s saying. “You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, Miller. But I knew you’d get this. I frickin’ knew you’d understand.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Judith

  When I arrive at Between the Covers for Meena’s Online Dating 101, the children’s story time is just breaking up. I linger for a few minutes to watch the little ones and their parents, swamped by my own memories of those early years with Ethan and Ansley, which felt like they would last forever and then somehow flew by.

  This is our first gathering since last Friday’s drunken confessions, and I steal a glance at Sara, afraid to see censure of my story or a flash of discomfort over her own, but she smiles and waves from behind the counter, where she’s ringing up a large stack of children’s books. Nearby, a young mother attempts to pry a small, squawking, cherub-faced toddler out of Dorothy’s arms.

  “Wanna stay wit Dot-Dot!”

  I expect a flush of annoyance from Sara’s mother-in-law, who made it clear she wasn’t okay with one “Dot,” let alone two, but her face and tone are surprisingly gentle as she helps transfer the little girl to her mother with promises of a special surprise next time. The smile she sends me is unencumbered. Methinks some people are a lot softer on the inside than they’ve led others to believe.

  Annell hugs me hello and points me toward the carriage house without the slightest hint of embarrassment or regret, and I relax further. “Meena and her photographer are already here, and Carlotta’s setting up a whole makeup and wardrobe section. Refreshments are out. As soon as we get everybody rung up here, we’ll head back so we can get started.”

  It’s a gorgeous day, and with the French doors thrown open, the carriage house smells as fragrant as the garden outside. There’s a table with wine and nibbles. Meena is huddled with a young woman who has chin-length blond hair and oversize bright-pink glasses. Several cameras hang from straps around her neck.