Peter carried Devon carefully into her new room, made sure the baby monitor was working correctly, and then he and Cynthia each took fifteen minutes for themselves.
Peter allowed himself a quick check of voicemail, to be sure that his various seconds-in-command were managing to run his little airlines without causing any catastrophes. Everything was going smoothly. One incident with a pilot trying to fly with fewer than eight hours sleep in between cross-continent flights, but that was it.
Cynthia placed a telephone call to Augusta, to follow up on the cursory call she had made just a few hours after Devon’s birth. To her parents. Ostensibly to let them know that she and the baby were still healthy and happy and safe, but really to gloat. To confirm, once again, that choosing to go to Dartmouth, so far away from her home and her family, had been the right move after high school. That moving to New York without a steady boyfriend after college had not been foolish. That getting involved with an older man had been the best decision of her life. That Peter Hall had turned out to be not only unerringly faithful – this was her family’s primary concern about rich New York men – but also interested, really and truly interested in having children.
More interested than she was comfortable discussing over the phone with her own mother, frankly.
And look, here was the proof. Alive and healthy and twelve pounds, three ounces. Devon Clark Hall, living evidence of their success.
When they were both done with their calls, Devon had needed to be changed and nursed and put back to bed, but they worked together on this as best they could, re-applying the Vaseline dressing around her umbilical cord stump with inexpert fingers that came away trailing extra tendrils of gauze. Mercifully, Devon went back to sleep. They knew they had another hour, maybe, to themselves. After which, Ms. Greenland had informed them, they might have very little time to themselves for a while.
For the next sixteen years or so.
4
Now, sixteen years later, they were all back in the hospital together. There was a sharp knock on the door, and both Devon and her mother jumped.
Without waiting for a response, a tall man neither of them had ever seen came striding into the room. He was wearing a dark, neatly tailored suit, and he was carrying a slim briefcase. Cynthia began shaking her head. “You have the wrong room, we didn’t – ”
“Mrs. Peter Hall,” the man said. Not a question, but a confirmation.
Cynthia nodded cautiously.
“And this is your daughter, or an immediate member of your family?”
“Yes, but who – ?”
“I am here to serve you with this package, at your husband’s request.”
Cynthia Hall glanced at Peter. He was still lying immobile in the bed before them, his face partially obscured by the layers and layers of bandages around his head. “At his request?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t think he – ”
“This is a non compos mentis prerogative,” the man said, placing his briefcase flat on Peter’s bedside table. He flicked the latches on the briefcase and opened the top. There was a pile of papers and folders inside, and he took a large envelope off the top of the pile. “In the event of your husband’s incapacitation or death, we have been instructed to deliver this to you,” the man said.
“He’s not dead,” Cynthia said, trying to keep her voice steady. She gestured at Peter. “Surely you can see that.”
The man’s neutral expression did not change. “As I understand it, he is in a coma, or something like it. This satisfies the legal definition of non compos mentis that was specified by your husband at the time he made these arrangements.” He held the manila envelope out to her, and at first Devon thought her mother would simply refuse to take it. She sat back in her chair, away from the man’s long reach, but then the futility of this behavior seemed to occur to her. She reluctantly reached out to take the manila package. The lawyer turned back to the bedside table and closed his briefcase with a snap. He stood before them, bowed stiffly, and then turned and left the room without another word.
Cynthia began flapping the manila envelope like a paper fan, as though reassuring herself with it’s flimsiness. “There can’t be much inside,” she said, more to herself than to Devon. Then she looked once at Peter. “What’s this, now?” she said gruffly. Devon could see sweat running down the side of her mother’s face. She wanted to take her by the shoulders, wanted to tell her that they could open the large envelope together, later, when her mother had had a chance to rest. Or they could simply wait for her father to wake up – which he would – so that they wouldn’t have to open this envelope at all.
But Cynthia Hall had made her choice.
She opened the little metal clasp at the top of the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper inside. Devon could see handwriting there, in something that looked like her father’s graceful script.
Cynthia read the message to herself, her lips moving silently. She nodded, and read the message again.
And then her eyes rolled back into her head, and she slumped out of her chair and onto the floor.
“Mom!”
Devon sprang from her chair and bent over her mother. She grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed, as though Cynthia might start to disintegrate if she were not properly held. She was sure there was something she was supposed to be doing at this moment – CPR? Put a spoon in her mouth? – but Devon’s basic logic circuits seemed to be misfiring. She hoped her mother was still breathing, and that her heart was still beating. And then she realized, after what seemed an eternity of deep thought, that she could check these vital signs perfectly well on her own. She leaned forward and put two fingers on her mother’s neck. Then she bent her ear to her mother’s mouth, and listened.
Heart beating, yes. And breathing, yes.
Devon took a breath, and realized as she did so that she herself had not been breathing. Her head cleared instantly, and she looked around the hospital room. There was a red button just above her father’s bed. Devon released her mother’s shoulders, leapt across the room, and slammed her fist into the button. It lit up and made a satisfyingly urgent buzzing noise, though Devon would have been happy with something twice as loud.
“We need help in here!” she yelled.
Then, without warning, there was another voice in the room. A low, hesitant voice. “Does everything have to be quite so noisy?” Peter Hall asked.
Devon spun to face her father, not daring to believe she had just heard him speak. “Dad?”
He tried turning toward her, but then his eyes opened very, very wide, and he let out a single, muted note of surprise and pain. “Goodness,” he said, returning his head to its original position. He blinked several times, like someone who has been caught in the beam of a bright light. “Apparently, rule number one around here is that I should not move my head.” he said. “I assume I was in an accident of some kind. Is everybody else okay?”
Devon stared at him wordlessly as the panic button above her father’s head continued to flash and wail. She looked down at her mother, who was still unconscious beside the bed. Peter followed his daughter’s gaze – without moving his head this time – and saw Cynthia there.
“What happened to your mother?”
At that moment a doctor rushed in, summoned by the red button, and he walked quickly to Peter’s bed, assessing the situation with his sharp eyes.
“Not him,” Devon said. She beckoned to the man, bringing him to the other side of the bed. She pointed at the floor, at her mother. “Her. I think she fainted, but I don’t know. She’s been under a lot of stress.”
The doctor nodded, and he knelt down by Devon’s mother. He checked her pulse and airway, as Devon had, and then did something that Devon hadn’t anticipated: he rubbed Cynthia’s arm. As though comforting her. “Okay, Dear,” the doctor said. “You can wake up now.”
Devon’s mother opened her eyes. She tried to sit up, but the doctor held her down firmly. “Not so fast,” he said, and gave her a li
ttle smile.
Devon almost laughed out loud. Four years of medical school, four more years of residency and clinic work, and this is the technique? The arm-rub? I’m reading all the wrong books.
“Is she okay?” Peter Hall called out.
Cynthia and the doctor both looked surprised.
“Mr. Hall?” called the doctor.
“Honey?” said Cynthia.
“Hi, everybody,” Peter said, amusement in his voice. “I’m glad to be impressing so many people today, but I’d sure appreciate it if someone would tell me what happened.” He smacked his lips together experimentally. “I’m pretty hungry. And thirsty. And my head feels like it got caught inside a trash compactor. Did I get hit by a bus?”
Still on the floor beneath him, Cynthia Hall burst into tears. “Oh, Peter,” she said, and began sitting up. The doctor was still holding her down, but he seemed to realize that this particular patient was no longer in danger of fainting. Cynthia rose all the way to her feet, and she reached out to put a hand gingerly on her husband’s leg. She was still crying.
Peter looked at her sympathetically. “I’m fine, Cynthia,” he said. “Honey, I’m going to be just fine. I feel a little groggy, but everything’s going to be okay.” He put a hand up slowly, reaching out for her.
His wife nodded and took his hand. Then she looked down at the floor and continued sobbing. “Oh, Peter,” she said again. “I can’t believe… all this time…” she trailed off and dissolved into a fresh bout of tears.
Now Peter looked concerned. “Cynthia? Look at me. I’m really going to be fine. Trust me.”
Cynthia looked up, and she took a breath to steady herself. “Okay,” she said finally, and squeezed his hand.
Devon watched the two of them for another moment, and then she went to her father’s side. She had never felt happier in her life, and she could feel tears streaming down her own cheeks. He was going to be all right. Her mother, too. Whatever had been in that manila package, the one from the lawyer… it didn’t matter. The package was down on the floor where her mother had dropped it, and Devon kicked it under the bed.
Austin’s First Move
1
As far as the Hall family was concerned, everything was on its way back to normal. The manila envelope had been swept under the rug – or under the bed, in this case – and it might never have been mentioned again if it hadn’t been for the thing with Pauline. And then the bigger thing with Barnes, which really laid everything bare. But all of that was still to come. Still weeks in the future, according to the Grand Scheme of Events. And so for the moment there was only rejoicing. Devon and her mother explained to Peter what had happened, which was a surreal experience because he had absolutely no memory of the event (or several hours leading up to the event), so they were telling him about things he himself had done. They delighted in telling him, again and again, how he had rescued the Dunn baby by the barest of margins. How everyone had thought they were both maybe dead. How Peter had appeared at the entrance to the Beach Club with Frankie unharmed, and how no one could believe it.
They told him the story to pass the hours. And the days. While he was eating, and then getting back on his feet, and then, finally, removing layer after layer of bandages. Simply because they could. Because he was awake now, so it was no longer a story with a terrible ending. It was an exciting story. A triumphant story.
Peter smiled at the telling every time. “I wish I could remember it,” he said. He shook his head slowly. Gingerly. “Sounds like an exciting day, except for the last part.”
The doctor was in the room with them now, taking notes on a chart clamped into his clipboard, and he agreed. “The last part was not good,” he said. “A few more pounds of pressure, and your skull would have given way completely.”
“Austin caught you,” Devon added, completing the story for the hundredth time. “At the last second he caught you. And here you are. Good as new.”
The doctor nodded, not quite sharing the good cheer. His intimate knowledge of what might have happened – of having seen, with his own eyes, how close Mr. Hall’s skull had been to simply shattering inward like a windshield with a brick thrown through it – kept him grounded. “That boy probably saved your life,” the doctor said quietly.
There was a brief silence in the room at this, and then Peter carried on: “Wonderful. So, next question. Tell me again how long I’ve been in here. What’s the date?”
“You were fully out for a week,” Cynthia said.
“And it’s June 27th today,” the doctor said. “Friday. You’ve been in the hospital for twelve days so far. Two more and we’ll discharge you. We can do the rest with follow-up visits.”
Peter’s eyes widened in mock surprise, and he looked at Devon. “June 27th!” he said to her, as if they had all forgotten something essential. “What about the tournament?”
Devon laughed. The idea that she would leave the hospital for the sake of a tennis tournament at the Meadow Club was ridiculous. Which her father knew, of course. But this was his idea of resuming his parenting duties. “I’ve been a little busy,” she pointed out. “Father in a coma. Edge of death. Whatnot.”
Her father was having none of it. “I’ve been awake for four days!” he cried, throwing his hands up. “You didn’t have to be here the whole time!”
Devon did her best to play along. “I tried to get away, but then I realized all my tennis clothes were dirty.”
“Okay,” Peter said, sounding placated. But then he put up a finger. “You still have to go watch the finals,” he said. “James and Barnes?”
Devon shrugged. “I assume. Who else has a chance?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I think.”
“Fine. So you should go. Your mother and I – ” He pulled Cynthia closer to the bed and began stroking her back. “ – have a lot of catching up to do.”
Devon rolled her eyes in disbelief. This was something that both her parents thought was fair game, but she could never get used to it: talking about their sex lives in front of people. Even their own daughter.
“Dad. For crying out loud. You’ve got a metal plate in your head.”
The doctor glanced up from his clipboard, a serious expression on his face. “She’s right,” he said sternly. “No sexual activity for at least a month. A surge in blood pressure could kill you.”
“What about heavy canoodling?” Peter said, and patted his wife’s butt.
The doctor shrugged and returned his attention demurely to his clipboard. “Suit yourself,” he said. “Just keep your heart rate down.”
Peter looked back triumphantly at his daughter, who shook her head and puffed out her cheeks. “Fine,” she said. “I’m getting out of here. I’ll see you two tomorrow.” She picked up her backpack and gave each of them a kiss. “Dad, go easy,” she added.
Cynthia gave her a smile. “Go back to your friends. Back to your summer.”
Devon walked out the door, and the two of them watched her go. When she had left, the doctor looked up at them again. He gave them a questioning look.
Peter shrugged. “Right. So, we kicked her out. She shouldn’t be spending her time in a hospital, that’s all.”
The doctor nodded. True enough.
“Besides,” Peter said, giving his wife’s arm a little squeeze, “I really could use some canoodling. Whatever that means. I’ll take anything I can get.”
Cynthia giggled, sounding far younger than her forty-seven years. The doctor shook his head silently, and he went on making his notes.
2
The Meadow Club, like the Beach Club, was both a fixture and an integral part of summer life in Southampton. As the name implied, the Meadow Club featured sports that were best enjoyed on grass: croquet, soccer, and, of course, tennis. In a real estate market where an undeveloped, 1.5-acre lot could sell for over 2 million dollars, the Meadow Club occupied nearly 35 acres at the heart of residential Southampton, with its entrance at the intersection of First Ne
ck Lane and Dune Road. Near the entrance and to the right, there were two full-size croquet fields with permanent iron wickets, and one international-size soccer field that also served as a meeting place for the afternoon sports group for children up to the age of thirteen, where not only soccer but baseball and lacrosse and football and Frisbee and capture the flag and every other conceivable sport was played. Those using the soccer and croquet fields – generally the very young and the very old – reported only the best care and attention paid to their respective playing surfaces.
But nothing approached the level of care taken with the tennis courts.
The Meadow Club maintained and operated 42 regulation-size grass tennis courts from May 1st through September 30th of each year. As anyone who watched the inexorable deterioration of Wimbledon’s Centre Court during the championships in June could attest, keeping a grass court in top playing condition was an extraordinarily difficult job. A single court required trimming once every three days with a specially made Toro Greensmaster Mower, followed by a roll-down using half-ton rollers to press the sod down tight. The rollers themselves had to be pulled by a custom, wide-wheeled tractor that did not create ridges in the grass. The net posts, which were under the constant strain of a ratchet-wound, twisted-steel cord that suspended the net, had to be driven at least three feet into the ground so that they did not simply rip free from the dirt every time a ball hit the cord (or the net). The lines of the court had to be painted and repainted frequently, not only because players’ shoes rubbed the paint straight off the grass with every step, but because the very grass on which the lines had been painted was shorn off every two to three days by the enormous Toro mowers.
Finally, the court itself had to be moved once a week, literally shifted by at least five feet both backward and to the left (or vice/versa); the lines, posts, net, and center tape all had to be relocated so that the areas of grass in the most heavily pounded regions of the court would not simply wear down to dirt. It was this wearing down that could most easily be seen on Centre Court at Wimbledon every year. By the time the finals were played, the base lines and center “T” spots on either side were nothing but areas of brown dust with lines painted on top, and players were prone to slipping.
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